Everyone knows Seungcheol flirts his way through life. You’ve brushed him off so many times it's practically routine. He never pushes, so you've always taken it as harmless fun -- until something shifts, and you realise he's not as simple as you've convinced yourself he is.
⇢ pairing: choi seungcheol x f!reader
⇢ genre: fluff, angst, idiots to lovers
⇢ wc: approx. 10k
⇢ warnings: daycare worker reader, firefighter!cheol, alcohol consumption, mentions of fire, miscommunication, reader is a little mean 😭
⇢ a/n: this is well WELL overdue because of. many reasons. so thank you so so soo much to the hosts of this collab for being so kind and understanding w extensions. it’s been a loooong time since ive been able to write but im so glad this is finally going out into the world 💗
⇢ as part of the carat’s ridge collab hosted by @imnotshua @starlightkyeom @100vern
YOU’VE WORKED AT Little Pines for just under three years now, long enough that you don't flinch anymore when a four-year-old screams directly into your ear for reasons that will never be explained to you, long enough that you've got a favourite chair in the break room and a mug that says WORLD'S OKAYEST TEACHER that your coworker Jiwon got you as a joke two Christmases ago and that you now use every single day out of spite.
“You're doing the thing again,” Jiwon says, not looking up from where she's cutting a stack of construction paper into slightly uneven ovals that will eventually become, God willing, eggs.
“What thing?”
“You've been staring at the door since 7:40. It's currently 8:05. Taehyun's mom's going to walk through it any minute now and you're going to jump like she caught you doing something illegal.”
“I wasn't staring at the door.” You absolutely were staring at the door.
“Okay.“ Jiwon holds up an oval that's more of a rhombus. “Do these look like chicken eggs to you?”
“They look like abstract art.”
She sticks her tongue out at you. “Okay, well, they're chicken eggs.”
Across the room, Soyeon — who technically works the front desk and has no real business in the classroom during the day, but wanders in anyway whenever she's got a free ten minutes — is refereeing a dispute over a single yellow crayon that has somehow become the most coveted object in the building. Two kids stand on either side of her, red-faced and furious, both absolutely certain of their claim.
“I had it first.”
“I had it first first.”
“There's no such thing as first first,” Soyeon says, with the weary patience of someone who's negotiated with cranky four year olds before breakfast and will again after lunch. “There are, however, eleven other yellow crayons in that bin. I checked.”
Neither kid finds this persuasive. You've learned, over three years, that most classroom diplomacy comes down to waiting people out rather than winning any actual argument, and sure enough, within ninety seconds both of them have abandoned the crayon entirely in favor of a much more interesting pile of dolls in the corner. Soyeon catches your eye over their heads and mouths good luck, and you give her a thumbs up you don't entirely feel yet as she disappears back to the office.
The door opens. It's Taehyun's mother, harried and talking rapidly about a meeting she's clearly already late for, depositing her son and his bag and a granola bar all in one motion before disappearing again in a cloud of strong perfume. Taehyun toddles toward the block corner without acknowledging either of you, which is, frankly, the daycare equivalent of a warm greeting.
You've got four kids in by 8:15, seven by 8:30, and by nine the whole room has that low hum of chaos that means the day's properly begun — someone building a tower, someone destroying a tower, someone crying about the tower's destruction with a passion. Chaewon, three going on forty, sits very seriously at the reading corner turning the pages of a picture book upside down and narrating it with complete confidence.
“That's not what it says,” you tell her, crouching down.
“I know,“ Chaewon says. “I made it better.”
You don't have a response to that, so you let her keep going.
By ten you've got the whole room moving through the usual currents — circle time, then centres, then the slow inevitable descent into midday crankiness over minor grievances that means it's almost snack time. You hand out orange slices and listen to a passionate, incoherent argument between two five-year-olds about whether dogs could, in principle, become doctors, a debate that resolves itself only when someone knocks over the entire bin of blocks and both parties get called away to help clean it up, already having forgotten what they were arguing about in the first place.
This is the shape of your days, mostly. Small disasters, smaller triumphs, a lot of glitter you'll find in your hair for a week afterward. You do like it — the specific way you like something you didn't expect to love. You'd taken the job out of necessity two summers after a psychology degree that hadn't led anywhere near where you'd planned it would; you'd pictured a clinic, or a research post, or at the very least something with your name on a door, not a room full of glue sticks and orange peels. But somewhere in the middle of your first year you'd looked up from tying somebody's shoe and realised you weren't counting down to anything anymore. You like the kids, you like listening to their absolutely nonsensical debates, and okay, maybe the tantrums aren’t exactly a plus, but when they hand you a badly coloured apple or give the sweetest compliments about your outfit on any given day, your whole heart melts. You think about it sometimes — grad school, or moving away, but never with any real intensity. It could happen, someday, but for now, you’re happy exactly where you are.
Sunday dinner at your mom's is a fixed institution, always at the same table, same mismatched chairs, same argument, most weeks, about whether the good tablecloth is really necessary for a meal that will inevitably involve your younger sister spilling something on it. Agreeing to dinner once a week was one of your mother’s few stipulations when you decided to move out. And now Yuna's twenty-two and home for the summer between the end of her graphic design degree in another city and the beginning of whatever comes next, and she's currently interrogating you about your love life with the particular shamelessness only a younger sibling can manage.
“So nothing's happening with anyone,” she says, not a question.
You roll your eyes. “Correct.”
“Nothing at all. Zero activity.”
“I have a very rich inner life, Yuna, it doesn't all have to be romantic. Hobbies. Friends.”
“I didn't ask about your inner life, I asked if you're seeing anyone.“ Yuna reaches across the table for the rice without asking, which your mother allows only from her, a fact that has been a point of argument for roughly twenty years. “You have like, two friends anyway.”
Unfortunately, your younger sister is entirely correct.
“I saw that lovely Choi boy last week, actually,” your mom says, entirely too casual about it, spooning more food onto your plate — which is her way of forcing you to stay in your seat. “He asked how you were doing. Very polite about it. He's always been polite, hasn’t he?”
You scoff. “He's flirting with the whole town, Mom, that's just what he does.”
“Mm,“ your mother says, which is not agreement, and also not disagreement, and is in fact the single most infuriating sound a mother can make. “He's been doing it a long time, though, hasn't he? Since you two were teenagers.”
“He asked her to proooom,” Yuna chips in, sing-song, and you promptly kick her under the table. “Ow! Mom!”
“That doesn't mean anything,” you say, over Yuna’s complaint.
“I didn't say it meant anything.” Your mother says it lightly, the way she says most things she actually means incredibly pointedly, a skill you're fairly sure you inherited directly from her and have spent years turning against her at this exact table. “I just think it's interesting that a man can ask about a woman for ten years and it doesn't mean anything, and a woman can turn him down for ten years and that doesn't mean anything either. Sounds like a lot of nothing happening for a very long time.”
“Can we talk about literally anything else,” you groan, rubbing a hand over your eyes. “In fact! We can talk about how Yuna still hasn't found a job,” you offer, and Yuna kicks you back under the table hard enough that you yelp, and your mother laughs, and the conversation moves on, mercifully, to safer ground — Yuna's job search, the neighbour's renovation, whether it's finally time to replace the good tablecloth — but you catch your mom looking at you once more over the course of the meal with an expression you don't examine too closely.
Here's the truth of it, if you're being honest, which you try not to be too often on this particular subject: Seungcheol's been flirting with you since roughly the ninth grade, in the low-grade, no-stakes way he’s never grown out of. But he also flirts with the guy at the post office. He flirts with Ms. Oh, who's sixty-one and unmarried and thinks he's a delight. He flirts with the bartender at the one good bar in town, who's engaged and finds it hilarious. It's not a thing you take personally, mostly, because it so clearly isn't personal — it's just the way it is with him, constant.
Except it's always felt a little more personal directed at you, and you've spent a lot of energy over the years making sure it never gets anywhere near landing.
You remember the prom thing specifically, with a clarity that time hasn't done much to soften — him leaning against your locker two weeks before, hands in his pockets, asking with a shrug that was trying so hard to look like it didn't matter, and you turning him down before he'd even finished the sentence, because Kim Daeun had told you the week before that he'd asked three other girls the exact same way, and you weren't about to be a fourth. You'd found out later that wasn't true, that you'd actually been the only one he'd asked, but by then the pattern was already set, the reflex already built, and reflexes, you've learned, are a lot harder to unlearn than they are to learn in the first place. He hadn't argued, hadn't sulked, had just said “your loss” and grinned and gone off to ask someone else's opinion on which tie to wear instead, and you remember watching him walk away and feeling, underneath the relief, something that took you another decade to correctly identify as disappointment.
There was something else, too, that came later, and you think about it more than you'd like to admit, because by then you weren't the same girl who'd turned him down at a locker. You were two years into a psychology degree, home for a fortnight over the winter break, feeling like a slightly different person in your own hometown, the way you always did those first few days back, still half in seminar-mode, still analysing everything, including, apparently, yourself. You'd been walking back from your mum's when the sky opened properly, no warning, the kind of rain that soaks through in under a minute, and a car had pulled up alongside you with its window already rolling down before you'd even registered whose it was. Seungcheol in his brother's beat-up sedan, hair already damp from getting out to jog around and open the passenger door for you before you could say anything.
“Get in,” he'd said, entirely reasonable, entirely obvious, and you'd stood there on the curb, drenched, freezing, genuinely unable to think of a single sensible reason to say no, and said no anyway. You'd told him you didn't mind the walk, which was a lie so transparent you'd half expected him to call it, and he hadn't, had just looked at you for a second too long, rain running down from his long fringe onto his cheeks, before he'd said, “Alright,” and driven off slowly.
You'd spent the rest of that walk soaked through and furious with yourself in a way you didn't have language for yet, turning it over with the same detached, clinical curiosity you were being trained to turn on everything else that year — why did you say no, what did you think accepting would cost you — and never quite landing on an answer you liked. You remember thinking, absurdly, that you'd learned more about avoidant attachment that semester than you'd ever wanted to know, and that none of it had stopped you doing exactly what the textbook said you would.
You remember the coffee, more recently, and the movie, and the wedding — Soonyoung's cousin's wedding, the one he'd asked you to as a plus-one with an actual paper invitation he'd apparently gone to the trouble of getting an extra copy of, which you'd found both sweet and alarming in equal measure and you had turned down within about four seconds of seeing it, before you could think too hard about why your hands had gone a little unsteady holding it.
You expect it now. Seungcheol borderline flirts every time he sees you; occasionally he pushes his luck and asks you out, with enough time in between that you can’t call him insistent.
Each time, you refuse it with the specific lightness of someone slamming a door gently enough that it doesn't look like she's slamming it. And each time he's taken it exactly the way he takes everything — with a grin, a shrug, a “your loss” tossed over his shoulder as he walks away completely unbothered, already on to the next joke, the next call, the next whatever.
So you do the same — you don't examine it. You put it in the same drawer where you keep most things you don't want to look at directly, close it, and go back to your life.
The same week you have that pointed dinner with your mom, you see him at the grocery store — or rather, he sees you. It's a Wednesday, nothing special about it, and you're standing in the cereal aisle trying to decide whether you actually need a box of the good granola or whether that's just a symptom of grocery shopping hungry, when a voice behind you says, “You're gonna want the other kind.”
You close your eyes and take a deep breath, not even bothering to turn around. “I didn’t ask you, Seungcheol.”
“You didn't have to. You've been standing there for a full minute looking at that box.” Seungcheol's got a basket hooked over one arm, and the basket, when you glance at it, contains a box of protein bars, a carton of orange juice (with pulp, which, ew), and a single lime, which tells you absolutely nothing about what he's planning to cook tonight. “The one with the honey clusters. Trust me.”
“I don't take grocery advice from a man whose entire cart is a lime and protein bars.”
“It's a basket, not a cart, and I resent the implication that I don’t know how to grocery shop.” He leans against the shelf, unbothered, like he's got nowhere else to be — which, this being a Wednesday evening and him apparently off shift, he probably doesn't. “You still owe me an answer on Seokmin’s barbecue thing, by the way.”
“That was two years ago, Seungcheol.”
“I have a long memory.”
“You have a selective memory. You don't remember owing Soonyoung forty dollars, but you remember a barbecue invitation from two summers ago.”
“Different category of memory. One's debt. The other's an open wound.” He says it with a hand pressed dramatically to his chest, grinning, and you roll your eyes and put the honey clusters in your cart anyway, which he looks entirely too pleased about.
“Don't,” you say.
“Didn't say anything.”
“You were about to.”
“I was going to say I'm always right about cereal, but sure, put words in my mouth.“ He falls into step beside you as you push toward the dairy section, not because he needs anything there, you're fairly sure, but because this is also just how it goes, has gone, for as long as you can remember: running into each other in the produce aisle or outside the post office or at the one gas station, falling into the same easy rhythm you've had since you were teenagers — like the conversation never really stops, just pauses between sightings. “How's the daycare? Still winning?”
“Every day's a battle, but yes.”
“You could come to Seokmin’s barbecue this year. Renewing my invitation.”
“I'll think about it,” you say, which is what you always say, and he laughs like he already knows what that means, because he does, because you've been having some version of this exact exchange for the better part of a decade — him asking, lightly, for something, you deflecting, lightly, in return. Neither of you ever quite landing anywhere, both of you apparently fine with that. You part ways at the register, him with his lime and his orange juice and his protein bars, you with a cart full of things that will mostly go uneaten, and you don't think about it again until you're halfway through unpacking your groceries at home and realise you're smiling for no reason you can name.
It isn't all banter, though, and it would be doing the whole thing a disservice to pretend it is. There's a version of you two that has nothing to do with the game at all, that surfaces every so often, and you think about one particular evening more than you'd probably admit to anyone, including yourself.
You'd run into him at the diner on the edge of town, the one that's open too late and serves coffee that's either too strong or too watery. He'd been alone in a booth looking like a man who'd had a longer day than usual, sleeves shoved up, staring at a mug he wasn't drinking from. You'd almost kept walking.
“You look like you got hit by that truck of yours,”you'd said, sliding into the booth across from him without being invited, and his look of surprise when he saw you mirrored exactly how you’d felt at your own actions.
“Feels about right.” He hadn't tried to make a joke of it, which was how you knew it was serious. Seungcheol without a joke ready was rare. “There was a house fire. We got everyone out,” he adds quickly, “It’s just — the house. It’s fucked up. Like, it was a couple and their kids, and their dog, and they were — you know. Gutted. Crying and shit. The kids, especially.”
You hadn't said anything clever, because there wasn't anything clever to say, and you'd known enough not to try, from years of watching adults fumble around children in crisis and from a psychology degree that had, in fact, occasionally been useful.
“You did everything you could,” you'd said eventually, quiet, as he rubbed his hands over his eyes. “I know that's going to sound like nothing to you right now, but it’s true.”
He'd looked up at you properly then, something unguarded in his face that had nothing to do with flirting, nothing to do with the bit — just a kind of tired gratitude that made you want to reach across the table and grab his hand. “They teach you that in your psych degree or what?” he'd asked, attempting for a smile.
You mirror the smile, with a small shrug of your own. “Turns out it's good for something besides making me insufferable at dinner parties.”
That had got a real laugh out of him, short and surprised, and the two of you had sat there for another hour talking about nothing that mattered and everything that did — his brother, your sister,the particular dread of watching a four-year-old take a deep breath right before they’re about to scream the place down. He'd asked you, at one point, about college and your degree — he’d never been to college, of course, and he’d listened to the whole thing like it was the most interesting thing anyone had said to him all week.
You remember thinking, driving home that night, that you liked him best like this, unshowy, unarmoured, asking real questions and actually waiting for the answers — and you remember being immediately furious with yourself for thinking it, and filing the whole evening away in the same drawer as everything else.
Minji's been your friend since third grade, and she's the one person you still talk to who's known you both — you and Seungcheol — long enough to have a real opinion on the whole situation, which she airs freely and often. Today it's as she’s doing her nails, a shade of red she's had you hold the bottle for while she does the other hand, sitting cross-legged on her grandmother's back porch with two iced coffees sweating rings onto the railing between you.
“I saw Seungcheol at the gas station Tuesday,” Minji says without preamble, not looking up from her hand. “He asked if I'd talked to you lately. Very smooth about it. Very casual.“
“He's like that with—”
“If you say 'he's like that with everyone' I'm going to put this nail polish in your hair.“ She caps the bottle, finally looks at you, and there's none of your mother's careful lightness in it, just Minji's usual bluntness, worn soft by nearly twenty years of friendship. “I've watched this specific bit for ten years. I watched it in high school, I watched it through your entire early twenties,and at some point, as your best friend, I have to ask: what exactly are you so afraid of?”
You don’t answer straight away, dropping your gaze to the coffee. You take a sip, fiddle with the straw between your teeth before you sigh, tilt your head back towards the clouds. “He’s not serious. It’s like a game to him.”
“Did someone tell you that or are you just making up your own conclusions?” She arches a perfectly shaped brow. “It’s been years, ___.”
“Yeah, years of playful flirting. There’s literally nothing serious behind it — I turn him down and he laughs, Minji. It’s a joke. We both know it’s a joke.”
“Do you? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like he’s been stuck on you since high school, and you’re too scared of yourself to even give him a chance.”
She always knows how to hit where it hurts, exactly when you need to be hit. Your mouth opens for a second, and then closes as you flounder for something to say. “He’s not stuck on me,” you say finally. “Seriously. We’ve both dated other people, in high school and after.”
“Don’t be purposefully obtuse, you know what I mean. He likes you.”
“Well, he’s never actually said that!”
“Purposefully. Obtuse.” She pokes your forehead after each word. “What are you protecting yourself from here?”
You close your mouth, silenced and sulking about it.
“Because it's not him,” she continues. “He'd catch you. He's been standing there with his arms out for a decade.”
“It's not that simple.”
“It's exactly that simple, you've just made it complicated on purpose because complicated is easier to dismiss than simple.“ She blows on her nails. “He likes you. You like him. It’s the simplest fucking thing ever.”
You don’t say anything, just scowl and sip your coffee. Your best friend is harsh on the best of days, and usually you like it — today, she’s said everything you don’t want to hear.
“Anyway. How's Chaewon? Is she still doing her pirate princess story?”
“She's added a supervillain.”
“Of course she has.” Minji grins, and the conversation slides, mercifully, sideways — into Minji's own things, a promotion she's up for, a guy she's seeing who she's not sure about — and you're grateful for it, for the reminder that your life has edges that don't touch Seungcheol at all, whole rooms of it that are just yours, just Minji's, just the ordinary unremarkable texture of having a friend since you were eight years old. But underneath the rest of the afternoon, everything Minji said keeps surfacing, quiet and insistently plaguing your thoughts.
It's a Tuesday, unremarkable in every way, when Ms. Oh — who owns and runs Little Pines — gathers the staff in the break room after the kids have gone home to go over the calendar for the next month.
“Also,“ she says, near the end, flipping a laminated sheet, “Fire Safety Day's the fourteenth. The station's sending a few of the firemen out to do the usual — stop, drop, roll, let the kids sit in the truck, the whole bit.”
“Cute,“ Soyeon says, refilling her coffee. “The kids’ll love it.”
“Who's coming?” Jiwon asks, because Jiwon asks things you'd rather she didn't, and you’re pretty sure she has a crush on one of Seungcheol’s coworkers, Wonwoo.
“Didn't say. Whoever's on rotation, I'd assume.” Ms. Oh moves on to the field trip permission slips, and you let out a breath you hadn't noticed you were holding, and tell yourself, very firmly, that it doesn't matter who's coming. It's a fire station. There are, by your count, eleven firefighters in this town. The odds are fine. The odds are completely fine.
You avoid thinking about Choi Seungcheol for the rest of the day. Which is to say, you think about him constantly for the rest of the day.
The morning of the fourteenth arrives, and the kids are beyond excited. They’ve talking about it for a week — Chaewon's drawn what she insists is a fire truck and what everyone else agrees looks more like a very angry snail, and Taehyun's informed you three separate times, with the grave authority of a man delivering breaking news, that firemen have “actual axes.” You've got the kids lined up in the yard by ten, sunscreen reapplied, hats on, when the truck rolls up the gravel drive with the low satisfying rumble that makes every single child under the age of six lose their entire mind at once.
You see him before the truck's even fully stopped. Of course you do. He's hanging half out of the passenger side before it brakes, waving at the kids (who are adorably excited), and something in your chest does the thing it always does — a small, private, entirely inconvenient drop, like missing a stair in the dark.
Choi Seungcheol climbs down in his full gear, helmet under one arm, and crouches immediately to be at eye level with a cluster of four- and five-year-olds who are looking at him like he's personally invented fire trucks. “Who wants to sit in the driver's seat?” he sings, and the resulting scream from twelve small children could probably be heard three towns over.
He's good at this. You'll give him that, freely, the way you give him most things freely except the one thing he actually asks for. He crouches and jokes and lets Chaewon try on his helmet, which swallows her entire head, and gets down on the ground to show a rapt little semicircle of children how the hose attaches, and doesn't once break character even when Taehyun asks him, with total sincerity, whether he's ever fought a dragon. (“Couple times,” Seungcheol says. “Rough guys, dragons. Mostly it's the smoke.”)
The other two firefighters who've come with him, an older woman named Yerin and Soonyoung, who you’d also gone to high school with, do their parts fine, competent and pleasant and funny, but the kids gravitate to Seungcheol easily and instinctively.
You've managed, for a solid twenty minutes, to stay on the opposite side of the gaggle of kids, ostensibly ensuring Beomgyu keeps his hat on. It doesn't last. Around the time the kids are being herded toward the truck to take turns sitting behind the wheel, he peels off from the group and ambles over, helmet tucked under his arm, looking entirely too good for someone who's just spent twenty minutes being climbed on by preschoolers.
“You've got glitter on your face,” he says, by way of hello.
“I always have glitter on my face. It's basically work uniform at this point.”
“It's a good look on you.” He says it easily, the same way he says everything, but his eyes do a quick pass over you before landing back on your face with that brief dimpled smile, and you hate — hate — the small flicker of warmth that swells in your stomach.
“You didn't have to come,” you say, which isn't true, since he clearly did have to come, it's his job, but it's the fastest thing you can think to say that isn't I hoped you wouldn't and also knew you would.
“Somebody's gotta protect this town's youth from the dangers of unattended candles,“ he says solemnly. “It's a calling.“
“Right. Noble.” You pause. “They’re four, by the way.”
“Extremely noble. You should be nicer to me. I'm basically a public servant.”
“I'm always nice to you.”
“You're the meanest person I know,“ he says, delighted, “and I mean that as a compliment to your commitment.”
“Anyway,” he says, looking over to the truck. “The kids are gonna want to come to the station. We usually do that — let them see where the trucks live and everything. I can set it up with your boss if that's alright with you.”
“Sure,” you say, half-listening, half-watching the kids. You’re pretty sure Beomgyu and Yeonjun are going to trip, chasing each other like that. “Whatever's easiest.”
“You'll come too, right? Chaperone duty?”
“That's generally how field trips work, yes.”
“Good.” He says it satisfied, like it matters, and for just a second something honest surfaces under the joking — you catch it before he tucks it away again, the way you sometimes do, a flash of something steadier than the bit usually allows.
And then, before you can examine that, Chaewon comes sprinting over demanding to know if the truck can go faster than a police car, and he's gone again, crouched down explaining horsepower to a three-year-old with the same total sincerity he used on the dragon question, and you stand there for a second longer than you mean to, watching him, before you make yourself go help Yerin with the hose demonstration instead.
By the time the truck pulls away an hour later, every single kid in the yard is talking about the fire station visit like it's the moon landing. You've got a feeling you won't hear the end of it for a while.
You don't hear the end of it for a while.
For the better part of two weeks, the fire station visit's the single principle of every conversation the four-year-olds have. Taehyun draws the truck again, several times, with increasing and alarming detail about the axes. Chaewon stages an elaborate reenactment during free play in which she plays “the fireman” and assigns you the role of “the person who has to be saved,” which you accept with as much dignity as you can muster while lying on the carpet pretending to be unconscious as a group of kids tug at your legs. Jiwon, of course, finds the whole thing extremely funny.
The days have a way of absorbing whatever's going on with you and continuing regardless, which is, most of the time, a mercy. Circle time happens. Snack time happens. A minor crisis occurs when it's discovered that the class hamster, Mr. Biscuit, has gotten loose sometime overnight, and he's eventually located, after forty tense minutes and one very dramatic search party. Chaewon had refused to take part in said search party, and had instead spent the entire time in the reading corner, insisting Mr. Biscuit would “come back when he was ready,” which, infuriatingly, turns out to be correct.
You also go back to your evenings, which have nothing to do with any of it — a phone call with Yuna where she vents about her job search, an afternoon spent helping Minji repaint her spare room, a Sunday at your mom's where the subject of Seungcheol does not come up even once, a small mercy you're grateful for and slightly suspicious of. Life, in other words, keeps being a whole life, most of which has nothing to do with him at all, which is the thing you keep having to remind yourself of whenever it starts to feel otherwise.
Friday nights, when you're not too wrecked from the week, you go to the bar with Minji and Jimin and a few other friends, because it's the only bar in town worth it. It's not a big fancy place, with its low light, jukebox, and pool table with a wobble in one of the left legs, but it’s the only place to go, really, unless you want to make the drive into the city.
Minji drags you along after a week of promotion nerves and you go willingly enough. The place is familiar enough to be comfortable even after the tiring week you’ve had, but you’re not really looking to drink too much tonight.
You've had a few sips of a cocktail by the time the door opens and a loud group of off-duty firefighters spills in, mid-laugh, and naturally, Seungcheol's in the middle of it. He’s saying something that's got Soonyoung doubled over, and you feel the familiar lurch of oh, here we go before you've even fully processed that he's clocked you across the room.
“Oh, this'll be good,” Minji murmurs into her drink, and you kick her under the table, which only makes her grin wider.
You run into him often, at this bar, so seeing him isn’t really a surprise in itself. He grins at you as he and his friends make their way first to the pool table, and you return the gesture with an awkward nod, and somehow almost drop your drink in the process.
It’s maybe forty five minutes later that he actually comes over to you. He always does, at least once when you run into each other like this, always comes to say hi, which usually leads into some kind of line.
He waves Dohyun, the bartender, over and orders a whiskey on the rocks, and for a while you just talk, as the ice in his drink melts. Easy, unimportant things, the kind of conversation that happens naturally between two people who've known each other long enough that silence isn't awkward, just comfortable. He tells you about a call they had that week, a cat stuck in a drainpipe that took forty-five minutes and drew a crowd. You tell him about Chaewon's ongoing crusade against the concept of naptime, which makes him laugh so hard he has to put his drink down, not that he’s drank much of it. Somewhere in there Minji peels off to go play pool with Jiwon and Soonyoung, throwing you one loaded look over her shoulder on the way that you very deliberately ignore.
Somehow, the two of you have drifted from the bar itself to a booth in the back corner, and Jiwon's gone home with a wave you barely registered, and Minji's deep in a game of pool she's losing badly and loudly to Soonyoung, and you're sitting closer to him than you were an hour ago without being able to say exactly when that happened. He's telling you something about his brother’s wedding, some story about a groomsman and a dropped ring you're only half following because you've gotten distracted by the way he laughs at his own joke before he even finishes it, the way his hand's landed, at some point, loosely on the back of the booth behind your shoulders, close enough that you can feel the warmth of it without him actually touching you.
“You're not listening,” he says, not offended, just observing.
“I'm listening.”
“What'd I just say?”
“Something about a ring.“
“Close enough.“ He's looking at you in a way that feels different from the usual — like he's forgotten, for a second, to be charming about it. “You've got that look.“
“What look?”
“You’re totally zoning out. That look.”
You snort, aiming for humour. “I'm always zoning out around you.“
“I know,” he says, and there's something in his voice, something almost fond and almost sad at once, so much that it makes your levity fall flat and for a moment neither of you says anything at all. Then he smiles, “You always zone out anyway, though. I remember from school.”
“Please.”
“It’s true! I remember it happening in history class and Miss Lee had to snap her fingers in front of your face!”
Heat crawls up your face. “Oh my God, I can’t believe you remember that! That was in my first week, too, I nearly cried.”
“I remember,” he smiles. “Everyone was talking about the new girl who just moved to town and that was the first time I saw you.”
It's strange, the way ten years can gather themselves into a single quiet second like that — all of it sitting there in the space between his face and yours, close enough now that you can count his eyelashes if you wanted to, which you don't let yourself do, except you do anyway. You think, distantly, of Minji on the porch — he's been standing there with his arms out for a decade — and your mother at the dinner table — sounds like a lot of nothing happening for a very long time — and something in you that's held itself very carefully closed for a very long time simply, without your permission, stops holding.
He leans in, slow enough that you have every opportunity to move. You don't take it.
The kiss, when it happens, isn't clumsy at all, not at first — it's slow, almost unbearably so, like he's been waiting so long for it he's decided to actually take his time now that he's got it, one hand coming up to your jaw so lightly it's almost a question, and you answer it by leaning further in, by letting your hand find the front of his shirt and hold on, and you kiss him back like you mean it, because you do. Then his other hand finds your waist and yours finds the back of his neck and the two of you shift closer in the booth and it turns into something hungrier, less careful.
Somewhere in the bar, distantly, you hear Minji whoop, and you don't even have it in you to be embarrassed.
Then your brain catches up with the rest of you, the way it always eventually does, and you pull back, breathing hard like you've run somewhere. Seungcheol looks a little wrecked, the same way you feel, his hair mussed and his lips a little swollen, and you guess you must look something similar.
“I—” you start, and don't finish, because you don't actually know what comes next.
“Hey,” he says, low, steady, not moving away, his thumb still resting at your jaw like he’s catching up to the fact that you're pulling out of it. “It's okay, just — ”
“I shouldn't have — ” You're already reaching for your bag, your keys, anything to hold onto that isn't him. “I think I had too much to drink.“
“You didn’t even finish your cocktail,” he says, and he's not smiling now, which is somehow worse than if he had been. “Can we just — talk for a second? I've been wanting to say something for a while, and I know the timing's not— ”
“Cheol, I’m sorry — I — I really think I should go,” you’re fumbling with your bag and your words at the same time.
“I'm not trying to freak you out.” He says it gently, both hands visible now, like he's talking someone down off a ledge, which, you suppose, isn't entirely inaccurate. And his voice speeds up a little, because you’re still gathering your things and avoiding his gaze and it’s his turn to trip over his words: “I just — I like you. Like, actually. I know it's always been the bit, with us, and that's fine, that's — I get why. But I'm not messing around right now. I want you to know that. Can we just talk for a se—?” And he cuts himself off, because you’re standing up.
It's the most honest he's ever been with you, stripped clean of the performance, and it terrifies you in a way you don't have language for at eleven-thirty on a Friday with your pulse still loud in your ears. “Please,” he says, softly, so softly, and his hand brushes against yours, feather-soft. You make the mistake of looking, and he’s gazing up at you from the booth, his eyes pleading and brown and warm and serious.
“I have work in the morning,“ you say, which is a lie, and you both know it's a lie, it’s a fuckin Saturday, but he lets you have it anyway, some tired resignation moving through his face.
“Okay,” he says quietly. “Okay. Get home safe.”
Minji catches you by the door, pool cue still in hand, all the teasing gone out of her face the second she sees yours. “Hey,” she says, softer than you've heard her all night. “You good?”
“I don't know,” you say honestly, and she doesn't push, just squeezes your arm once and tells you she'll call a cab for both of you, and you let her, grateful, not for the first time, that she's known you long enough to know exactly when not to push.
You don't remember much of the ride home. Your hands are shaking slightly as you find your keys at your own front door, and you don't look back toward the bar even once, and you lie awake for a long time afterward turning the whole thing over and over in your head like a stone you can't put down, unable to decide which part scares you more — that he said it, or that some traitorous, long-buried part of you wanted to say something back.
You don't see him again for eleven days, which you know because you count, which you're furious with yourself for doing.
Life continues in the meantime, because it does that, indifferent to the small personal catastrophes you're nursing. There are snacks to portion out and scraped knees to bandage and an entire day on the letter Q that takes far longer than it has any right to. Chaewon's fireman reenactments continue unabated, blessedly innocent of the fact that you now flinch slightly every time she mentions the word. Jiwon notices you're off but, for once, has the mercy not to push, which you appreciate more than you tell her.
Sunday dinner happens in the middle of the eleven days, and you spend most of it pushing rice around your plate while your mother and Yuna talk around you, until your mother, halfway through clearing the table, pauses behind your chair and rests a hand briefly on your shoulder. Not asking anything, just letting you know she's noticed, which somehow makes it harder to hold together than if she'd asked directly. Minji calls twice and you let both calls go to voicemail, not because you don't want to talk to her but because you know exactly what she'll say, and you're not ready yet to hear it out loud, even though some louder part of you already knows she'd be right.
The field trip to the fire station is scheduled for the Thursday of that second week, and you've spent a genuinely humiliating amount of effort trying to get out of it. You ask Jiwon, with what you hope is believable casualness, if there’s any possible way Ms Oh would let you skip it and take a parent chaperone instead. She looks at you like you've suggested trading a kidney.
“Absolutely not. Do you know Ms Oh? No. You're going.”
You haven't been able to think of a version of the truth small enough to hand her, so you let it drop, and here you are on Thursday morning, herding twelve overexcited kids onto a rented minibus with the specific dread of someone walking toward a conversation she's been dodging for a week and a half.
The station's a squat brick building on the edge of downtown, garage doors up, two trucks gleaming in the shade, and the kids lose their minds the second the bus door opens. You busy yourself with headcounts and hand-holding, buying yourself as much time as you reasonably can before you have to actually look at him.
When you do, it isn't what you expect, and somehow that's worse.
Seungcheol is polite. That's the word for it, the only word, and it lands like a slap precisely because it's so foreign coming from him. He greets the kids with the same warmth as before — you'll give him that, he never once lets it touch them — crouching down, letting them climb the truck, patiently explaining the same things he explained a month ago in the daycare yard.
There's one second, early on, when he glances up and catches your eye across the garage and something almost warm flickers there on instinct, old habit, ten years of muscle memory — before he seems to remember, visibly, and shuts it down, his face resetting into something careful before he looks away again. You watch it happen and wish, immediately, that you hadn't seen it. But mostly, for the rest of the hour, there's none of the usual spark in his eyes when they pass over you, none of the teasing, none of the warmth that's always, always been there even when you were actively trying to shut it down. He nods at you once, says “morning,“ in a tone you've never heard him use on you before and then turns his attention fully to the kids and doesn't look at you again for the better part of an hour.
It should be a relief. Instead, it fucking stings.
Yerin gives the group tour of the trucks. Soonyoung lets three kids at a time try on a real helmet. Seungcheol does his part competently, kindly, and entirely at arm's length from you, and when the visit wraps up and the kids are being herded back toward the bus in a loose, sunscreen-smelling parade, you find yourself hanging back at the garage door while Jiwon does the headcount, because you can't make yourself walk away without saying something, even though you have no idea what the something is.
“Hey,” you say, inadequately.
He's coiling a length of hose that doesn't especially need coiling. “Hey,” he says, not looking up. “Kids have a good time?”
“They loved it. You're good with them.”
“Yeah, well.” He sets the hose down, finally looks at you, and his face is doing the thing it's been doing all morning — pleasant and closed-off.
“Seungcheol—”
“You should get back to the bus,” he says, not unkindly, which somehow makes it land harder than if he'd been sharp about it. “Don't want to lose a kid on my watch.”
It's a joke, technically, the shape of one, but it comes out flat, missing the thing that always makes his jokes land — that easy, unbothered warmth. You realise, standing there in the wide mouth of the garage with the smell of diesel and rubber hose around you, that you've finally managed it.
“Okay,” you say, because you can't think of anything else, and you turn and walk back to the bus, and don't let yourself look back at the garage until you're sure the kids can't see your face. You spend the entire drive back with a thick lump in your throat and something burning behind your eyes.
You don't sleep well that night, or the two after it. Your brain keeps circling back to the same three minutes in a garage no matter what you try to distract it with. You go through the motions of your days competently enough — nobody at Little Pines seems to notice anything beyond your slightly quieter mood, which you blame on being tired — but underneath the surface you're doing the thing you've always been careful never to do where he's concerned: you're actually thinking about it.
You skip Friday at the bar that week, and the one after, telling Jiwon and Soyeon you're just tired, which is half true. Minji shows up at your apartment uninvited the same night with a bag of takeout and an expression that says she's done waiting for you to call her back, and you let her in because you don't have it in you to pretend anymore, not to her.
“Okay,” Minji says, setting the containers out on your coffee table like she's settling in for a long negotiation, which, you suspect, she is. “Talk. All of it. I already know something happened at the bar, I was there for the whoop-worthy part, I just don't know the rest.”
So you tell her. All of it — the kiss, what he said after, the eleven days, the garage, the way his face had gone so carefully closed you almost hadn't recognised him. Minji listens without interrupting, which for Minji is its own kind of remarkable, and when you finally run out of words she doesn't say I told you so, which you'd braced for, and which you almost wish she had, because instead she just looks at you, steady and a little sad on your behalf, and says, “You know what you have to do.”
“I know what I have to do.”
“So why haven't you done it yet.”
“Because I've never actually done this before,” you admit, and it's the truest thing you've said out loud in two weeks. “Turning him down, that I know how to do. That's years of practice. I don't know how to do the other thing.“
“Nobody knows how to do the other thing,” Minji says, not unkindly. “You just do it anyway.”
You think about the ten years of it, after she leaves, sitting alone with the takeout containers cooling on your table — the prom, the rain, the coffee you never got, the wedding you didn't go to as anyone's plus-one, every single time you took the easy warm shape of his affection and handed it back to him like something you couldn't use.
You think about how none of it ever once made him flinch, how you told yourself that meant it didn't matter to him, when really (you can see it now, uncomfortably clearly) it probably meant the opposite. It meant he’d turned the flirting into a joke on purpose, so a no from you never actually cost him anything. But then — keeping it up, over and over, for years, because some idiotic, hopeful part of him had apparently decided you were worth that particular patience.
And you'd spent that same decade telling yourself it was nothing more than a bit, because the alternative — that it wasn't nothing, that it never had been, and that you might actually want it back — was a door you weren't ready to open.
By Sunday you’ve waded into your thoughts deep enough that you can't ignore it anymore. You sit on your kitchen counter with a cup of tea you're not drinking and you make yourself actually look at the thing you've kept in the drawer for ten years, and what you find, when you finally look, isn't complicated at all. It never was. You'd just been very good at making it look that way.
It occurs to you, sitting there with your tea going cold, that obviously, you’ve dated other people since the ninth grade, even been serious with one or two, and none of them ever tied you up in knots the way this has.
It’s not that they mattered less. It’s that none of them were Choi Seungcheol, who’d been the easiest person in your entire year to like, who’d had half the school a little bit in love with him since he was fifteen, and you’d been so sure back then that a boy like that leaning against your locker was a joke because the alternative — that he meant it, about you, specifically — just didn’t make sense.
It had been simpler, safer, to decide it was just Seungcheol being Seungcheol, the same warmth he handed out to the woman at the post office and the bartender at and anyone else unlucky enough to be standing in front of him, and to file yourself in with all of them instead of letting yourself be the one exception.
You call Jiwon, because you've run out of ways to have the conversation only with yourself, and because Minji's already said her piece and you want, this once, a second voice saying the same thing back to you before you trust it.
“Okay,” Jiwon says, once you've gotten through the whole thing, sitting cross-legged on your kitchen floor with your phone on speaker and a second cup of tea gone cold beside you. “So let me get this straight. You've liked him since — what, ninth grade?”
“I didn't say I liked him since ninth grade.”
“You basically said that.”
“I said I'd been turning him down since ninth grade, that's a different thing. I think it started as something silly. I haven’t been, you know, pining around for him for a decade straight, and neither has he.”
You can hear her moving around her own kitchen, a cupboard opening and closing. “Yeah, well. It seems like he’s been waiting for a chance for a decade, though.”
You don’t have anything to say to that. Jiwon continues anyway, so you don’t have a chance. “I genuinely thought you two just had a bit going. A little routine. I didn't realise that it was unresolved feelings the entire time, and I consider myself a fairly perceptive person, so, congratulations, you've out-repressed even me.”
“That's not a compliment.”
“It's not not a compliment.” A pause. “You're going to go find him, right? Not just think about it for another week.”
Your nose scrunches. “I might.”
“Don't. Go tonight. Or tomorrow. Just — don't let this be a thing you circle for another decade, you've circled it long enough.”
You laugh, the first real laugh you've managed in days, and it loosens something in your chest that's been sitting there, tight and small, since the fire station garage. “Tomorrow,” you say. “I'll go tomorrow.”
“Good. And tell me everything after. I mean everything.”
“I'm not going to tell you everything.“
“You're going to tell me everything,” Jiwon says, with total confidence, and hangs up before you can argue, which, you have to admit, is probably the correct read of the situation.
You find him on Tuesday evening, off shift, at the little park two streets from the station where you know — because everyone in a town this size knows everyone's habits eventually, whether they mean to or not — he sometimes goes to shoot free throws alone on the cracked half-court when he's got something on his mind.
Your hands are unsteady the whole drive over, and twice you nearly turn around, and both times you think of Minji on your couch, of your mother's hand on your shoulder, of Jiwon's voice on the phone, and you keep driving.
He sees you before you reach the fence, ball tucked under one arm, and for a second his face does something complicated — surprise, then that same careful, contained politeness from the fire station, sliding down over it like a shade.
“Hey,“ he says. “Everything okay? Kids alright?”
“The kids are fine. I'm not here about the kids.” Your voice sounds horribly strained. If he notices, he doesn’t comment, just waits, bouncing the ball once against the cracked asphalt like he needs something to do with his hands.
“I've been an idiot,“ you say, which isn't how you'd planned to start, but it's true, at least. “For, honestly, a really long time. I don't know how to say the rest of it in a way that doesn't sound like I practised it in my car on the way here, so I'm just going to tell you I practised it in my car on the way here and say it anyway.“
That gets the smallest flicker of something across his face — not quite a smile, but the ghost of one.
“I think I started off thinking you were teasing me, back in school. I thought it was a joke when you asked me to prom. And then after that I just needed you to be joking, because to me it didn’t make sense for you to be serious. And because the alternative meant I had to admit I wanted it too, and I didn't know what to do with that, so I kept handing it back to you instead.”
He sets the ball down against his hip, quiet, still watching you with an expression you can't fully read.
“And at the bar,” you say, “I panicked because I think I realised you meant it, and I realised I did too, and then, I don’t know, I just totally freaked. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t take you seriously and I kept brushing you off and I was mean when you didn’t deserve it, and I’m really, really sorry.”
He's quiet for a moment, turning the ball slowly in his hands, and when he speaks again some of the careful politeness has gone out of his voice, replaced by something rawer, more tired. “I wouldn’t have asked you if I didn’t mean it. It was just — in high school, yeah, I had a crush on you. And then after, there would be whole stretches where I wouldn’t even think about it. I mean, you went to college and I went to the academy, and — then you’d show up again and, I don’t know. Especially when you moved back.” He pauses — the ball slips out of his hands, and you both watch it bounce to a stop. “You were always worth asking,” he says, finally. “I wanted the chance again, every time, even if you wouldn’t take me seriously.”
“I'm really sorry,” you say, and you mean it.
“Okay,” he says, soft, and something in his shoulders loosens. “Practised in your car,” he repeats, and there — there it is, the corner of his lips turning up, small and a little disbelieving, like he isn't sure yet whether to trust it.
“Don't gloat.”
“I'm not gloating. I'm saving this for later. I'm going to bring it up constantly.”
“There he is,” you say, and your own eyes are stinging in a way you choose to blame on the wind, and he crosses the distance between you, slower than at the bar, giving you every chance to step back, and you don't, and this time when he kisses you, there's nothing careless in it at all.
an: i did not intend for this to be so complicated i rewrote this three times with different plots and editing took way way longer than intended. idk. it’s nearly 4am and i need to sleep.
Title :: Future nostalgia
Classification :: Time Travel AU • Domestic Fluff
Summary :: A little boy arrives at Hogwarts claiming you and Professor Jeon Wonwoo are his parents, turning your lives upside down.
Word Count :: 11k words
series masterlist ✦ svt masterlist
Genre: Hogwarts AU • Domestic Fluff • Time Travel • Parenthood
Trigger Warnings: Child in distress (temporary separation from parents) •Memory alteration/partial memory loss • Mention of pregnancy
A/N: Fic's a little cliche, but I wholeheartedly believe in Soft!Dad Jeon Wonwoo. Give me your kids wonu ;p what who said that huh
I actually have no idea how kids are...
The rain had been falling since the afternoon, turning the castle windows into rivers and made the corridors smell of wet stone. You had stayed later than usual in the greenhouses, repotting a stubborn batch of mandrakes for the second-years who would be arriving in a few weeks, and by the time you climbed back up to the staff quarters your boots were soaked through and your cardigan smelled like fertilizer.
You almost didn't hear it, a small sound, like a hiccup, half swallowed by the storm.
You stopped in the corridor outside the professors' wing, wand raised, and found a child tucked against the cold stone wall. He couldn't have been older than five or six, curled into himself with his knees drawn to his chest, dark unruly hair plastered to his forehead, his clothes damp at the shoulders and his cheeks pink from the cold. He was fast asleep despite all of it.
"Oh, dear."
You crouched beside him, carefully brushing the wet fringe away from his forehead. When he didn't stir, your first instinct was to get him warm.
Slipping your cardigan from your shoulders, you wrapped it around the tiny frame before gently lifting him into your arms. He was surprisingly light, his small pruned hands clutching at the fabric as he slept.
You hurried straight to Professor McGonagall's office.
She opened the door before you had even knocked twice. Her eyebrows lifted at the sight of the sleeping child bundled against you.
"I found him outside the professors' quarters," you explained. "He was freezing."
McGonagall's expression immediately hardened into business.
"Bring him inside."
A fire crackled in the grate as you settled the boy onto the sofa, rubbing gentle circles over his back in an attempt to warm him. McGonagall cast several warming charms over the room before turning to Filch, who had appeared in response to the commotion.
"Mr. Filch," she said briskly. "Gather available staff. Immediately."
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
It didn't take long. Within a few minutes, half the staff room had gathered, which was really only about nine people. McGonagall stood at the head of the room in her tartan dressing gown, looking like she would very much like to be back in bed. Flitwick hovered by the fireplace. Hagrid took up an entire corner simply by existing.
You looked down at the boy again, and something about him nagged at you. The straight dark hair, the soft feline shape of his eyes, even the slight downturn of his mouth in sleep, all of it reminding you vaguely of someone you passed in the corridors without really seeing. Before you could chase the thought further, he stirred. His nose scrunched, his fists rubbed sleepily at his eyes, and he blinked up at the unfamiliar room.
"Sweetheart, are you o—"
You never finished the question. He launched himself at you, small arms winding around your neck with startling strength, nearly knocking you backward as he buried his face against your shoulder. You went rigid with shock, hands hovering uselessly over his back, before instinct took over and you held him.
A broken sob escaped him. "Mama..." he hiccupped, the word breaking beneath another sob. "I looked everywhere for you."
Within seconds he was crying in earnest, hot snotty tears soaking into your cardigan, his fingers clutching at the fabric as though letting go would make you disappear. You looked up helplessly at McGonagall, at Flitwick, at anyone who might explain this. Nobody could, and the words you meant to say, that 'there had been some mistake', died in your throat against the completeness of his devastation. You gathered him closer instead, one hand cradling the back of his head, the other rubbing slow circles between his shoulder blades.
"Shh... it's alright," you murmured softly. "You're alright now."
When you pulled back to look at him, his cheeks were wet, his nose pink from crying and cold, and he couldn't have been older than five.
"What happened, sweetheart? Are you hurt?"
He only shook his head against your shoulder, one last shuddering sob escaping before his breathing evened into sniffles.
McGonagall stepped forward, her voice gentler than you had ever heard it. "Dear boy. What is your name?"
He loosened his grip enough to look at her, wiping his eyes on your cardigan sleeve. "I'm Woojin."
The room visibly relaxed. At least he was coherent.
"Woojin. That's a lovely name," you said.
"You named me, Mama," he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, then added, generously, in case you needed the rest, "Appa told me that."
"Do you know where your parents are, Woojin?" McGonagall asked. She was the only one composed enough to keep making sense of things.
Woojin looked around, found you first, and pointed. "Mama." Then his gaze slid past everyone else to the office door, just as another professor hurried in, wand still lit from the dark corridors, and his face lit up entirely.
Professor Jeon Wonwoo had barely crossed the threshold before the boy collided with his legs. "Appa!"
His eyes widened behind his glasses, genuine shock flashing across his usually unreadable face as he instinctively looked up at the people in the room, then back down at the child attached to him.
"Mama found me," Woojin said into his trousers, voice thick with tears, "but I was so scared," his hands tightening in the fabric as if to reassure himself Wonwoo was really there.
"I—" Wonwoo started, and had nothing to follow it with. His hand hovered a moment before settling gently on the boy's back. "I've got you."
McGonagall's eyes moved from the child, to Wonwoo, to you, and back again. The only sound left in the room was Woojin's sniffling. She removed her spectacles, pinched the bridge of her nose, and exhaled slowly.
"My office. Now. We have quite a bit to discuss."
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
"Home," Flitwick pressed gently, kneeling to Woojin's eye level, though they were nearly the same height already. "Can you tell us where home is, dear?"
The boy gave him a look that suggested this was a very silly question. "Hogwarts," he said. "Obviously."
"And your parents teach here? At Hogwarts?"
The little boy nodded as an answer.
McGonagall let the silence settle for a moment, studying the little boy who had long since abandoned any attempt at sitting properly. Woojin had curled into your side, one cheek resting against your shoulder while his small fingers remained stubbornly hooked around Wonwoo's sleeve, as though he needed to reassure himself that the two of you were still there. Whatever fear had reduced him to tears earlier seemed to have eased now that he was between the people he believed were his parents.
"Woojin," she said at last, her voice gentler than ever, "can you tell us a little about your parents?"
The effect was immediate. His face brightened so completely that it chased away the last traces of tears, and he twisted around to beam at Wonwoo with open admiration. "My appa's the best wizard ever," he said, stretching his arms wide. "Appa teaches defence and all the big kids like him." He giggled to himself before adding in a conspiratorial whisper, "Some people think he's scary, but they're just being silly. Appa's not scary."
A ripple of restrained amusement passed through the room, though Wonwoo looked as though he wished the stone floor might kindly open beneath him.
"Appa used to be a Auror" Woojin's hands flew up to illustrate every word. "He caught lots of bad people and fought bad monsters." He glanced proudly at Wonwoo again. "Mama says he's the bravest." He nodded, satisfied he remembered it right, and declared, "I'm gonna be bravest like him when I'm big."
You felt the weight of every professor's gaze drift toward Wonwoo, whose composure faltered just enough that his eyes lifted, almost involuntarily, to meet yours.
McGonagall let the silence pass before turning her attention back to the child. "And your mother?"
Woojin smiled just as brightly. Without hesitation, he leaned back against you until his head rested comfortably beneath your chin, as though he had occupied that spot a hundred times before. "Mama teaches Herbology," he said happily. "I go to the greenhouses with her sometimes and I help" He puffed out his chest with quiet pride. "I can water the plants all by myself now." Then he sighed dramatically. "But I'm still not allowed near the bitey ones. Mama says I'm too little."
Hagrid let out a booming laugh.
"Yer mum's got the right idea. Best keep away from the chompy ones till yeh're bigger."
A few quiet chuckles escaped around the office despite the increasingly impossible nature of the conversation.
Professor Flitwick smiled warmly, "Do you like living at Hogwarts, Woojin?"
"Mhm!" Woojin nodded enthusiastically, his feet swinging beneath the sofa. "I see Mama every day. And Appa." He began counting on his fingers. “Sometimes Appa takes me to the library, and..." His eyes suddenly found McGonagall again. "You always give me biscuits."
For the first time that evening, McGonagall looked genuinely surprised. "I do?"
He nodded so enthusiastically his fringe bounced. "The round buttery ones. You keep them in a tin," His voice dropped into another confidential whisper. "You say not to tell anyone, 'cause then everyone will want your biscuits."
The corners of McGonagall's mouth twitched despite herself. "I see."
Her gaze lingered on the three of you before she rose, smoothing her dressing gown. "I believe it would be prudent to contact the Ministry."
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
By the time the initial shock had settled, it was well past midnight. The Ministry had been contacted, preliminary statements had been taken, and despite an office full of brilliant witches and wizards, no one seemed any closer to understanding how a little boy claiming to be your son had appeared outside the professors' quarters.
Woojin, meanwhile, had reached the end of a very long day. His head kept drooping against your side before jerking upright again, only to repeat itself moments later.
McGonagall noticed it too. "I believe that is enough for one evening," she said, closing the folder before her with quiet finality. "The rest can wait until morning." Her gaze softened as it settled on Woojin.
"The poor boy needs sleep."
The question that remained was where, exactly, he was meant to sleep. He couldn't spend the night in an empty classroom, and neither of you thought he should be alone. Instinctively, both of you looked down the corridor beyond McGonagall's office.
Two doors.
Professor Jeon's quarters.
Professor Lee's quarters.
McGonagall rose from behind her desk and crossed the room, crouching carefully until she was level with the boy.
"Come along, dear," she said kindly. "Why don't you spend the night in my quarters? I've a spare room, and we'll have a proper breakfast in the morning, along with the biscuits you like."
Woojin only shuffled closer, wedging himself between you and Wonwoo, refusing to let go of your sleeve. "No," he said, quiet and almost frightened. "I wanna stay with Mama and Appa."
McGonagall didn't seem offended in the least. If anything, her expression only softened further. "I see," she said, and looked between the three of you. "Well. That does complicate matters somewhat."
For the first time that evening the reality of it settled over you differently. You barely knew Professor Jeon. Outside departmental meetings and the occasional polite exchange in the Great Hall, the two of you had scarcely spoken in the two years you had both worked at Hogwarts. He kept to himself, and you had long since accepted that as simply the way he was. And now the two of you were discussing sleeping arrangements for a child who believed he was your son.
"Professor Jeon," you started, awkward. "You've still got to deal with the Ministry tonight, don't you?"
"I'll need to make a few reports and statements," he agreed.
"I'll take him tonight," you said, glancing down at Woojin, who was fighting to keep his eyes open. "I've looked after children before. My younger brother practically lived in my room until he was eight."
“Are you certain?” Wonwoo studied you a moment, that thoughtful, unreadable look of his, carrying the peculiar feeling of being carefully weighed. "You have had a long evening as well”
"I'll manage."
His gaze dropped to Woojin, whose fingers had found their way around both your sleeve and his own. After a long moment he inclined his head. "Thank you." It sounded almost strange coming from him. "Professor Lee, if anything comes up..."
"I'll come and find you."
He nodded once. "I'll be awake."
The exchange lasted barely a minute, and yet, as you left McGonagall's office, you realized it was the longest conversation the two of you had ever had. Behind you, his door closed with a quiet click.
You didn't expect the night to be particularly difficult. You had practically helped raise Chris. Children, you thought, weren't entirely unfamiliar territory.
You did not, it turned out, know how this child worked, not yet
The cot took only a flick of your wand to assemble. It was small, comfortable, tucked beside your own bed.
"There we are," you said softly.
Woojin looked at it, then looked at you. Before you could persuade him otherwise, he padded straight past it, climbed into your bed, disappeared beneath your blankets and patted the mattress beside him with sleepy certainty.
"Mama."
With a quiet sigh, you extinguished the bedside lamp and slipped beneath the blankets yourself. You let him sleep beside you today. Tomorrow, surely, things would be less strange.
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
He was asleep almost before you settled beside him.
One small hand remained stubbornly fisted in the fabric of your nightshirt, refusing to let go even in sleep. Sometime in the middle of the night he shifted closer, inch by sleepy inch, until his cheek rested against your shoulder as though he'd been searching for it all along.. Then came the tiny sniffle
His brows pinched together and a soft, heartbreaking sound escaped him. A quiet, muffled sob of a child caught in the middle of a bad dream, crying without ever fully waking.
Something inside your chest gave way and you brushed your fingers gently through his dark hair, careful not to wake him.
"Hey," you whispered into the darkness. "It's alright sweetheart, you don't have to be scared."
You drew the blankets a little higher around his shoulders.
"I've got you."
Gradually, the little frown disappeared. His breathing evened out once more, warm against your shoulder.
Sleep never came quite so easily for you.
Instead, you lay awake listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing, unable to stop thinking about the woman somewhere, who had tucked this little boy into bed every night before somehow losing him.
Whoever she was...
She had to be terrified.
You hoped someone was telling her he would be alright.
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
Morning came too early. For one disoriented moment you couldn't remember why your shoulder ached, or why someone else's breathing filled the quiet of your room. Then you looked down and remembered everything at once.
Getting yourself ready was one thing. Getting Woojin ready was another entirely. You had barely managed your own cardigan before he darted away from the chair you'd been coaxing him toward for five minutes, hairbrush still useless in your hand.
"Come here, sweetheart. It'll only take a minute."
"No." He stopped just out of reach, arms folding with all the seriousness a five year old could summon. "It hurts."
"I'll be gentle."
"Appa does it better." He patted his own unruly hair. "He makes it look like his."
"I'm afraid I don't know how your Appa does it," you admitted, smiling despite yourself, which only earned an offended huff and a turned away face. With a sigh you reached instead for the toothbrush you transfigured the night before. He accepted it obediently enough, until he looked down and his expression crumbled into disbelief. "This isn't my dinosaur one. Uncle got it for me. I can't brush my teeth without it."
"You absolutely can."
By the time someone knocked, you had given up on your own appearance entirely and opened the door mid argument about whether teeth brushing was optional. Wonwoo stood in the doorway, and whatever he had meant to say caught somewhere behind his teeth. His gaze swept over you, barefoot, hair damp and half brushed, cardigan buttoned askew, as though he couldn't quite reconcile the polished colleague he knew with the woman standing in front of him, harried by an impossible five year old before eight in the morning.
"Sorry," he said after a beat. "McGonagall says the Ministry's arrived. I thought," his gaze slid past you to where Woojin was attempting to hide the toothbrush under a cushion, "..do you want some help?"
"Please," you said, with real feeling, and stepped back to let him in.
He turned out to be considerably better at negotiating with a five year old than you expected, crouching to listen with total seriousness as Woojin explained the importance of the dinosaur toothbrush. Whatever quiet bargain passed between them, worked. Within minutes Woojin had surrendered the hairbrush without complaint, sat patiently while Wonwoo worked through the tangles of his hair, and agreed the substitute toothbrush could be ‘just for today.’
"I've been trying to do that for twenty minutes," you said, watching them in mild disbelief.
"He was very reasonable," Wonwoo said.
Woojin, delighted to have both of you in one room, skipped over. "Mama slept in again," he informed Wonwoo happily, without a trace of malice. "She's always late. But I didn't wake her up. I was good." He recited it like a familiar house rule. "'Let Mama sleep. She needs it more than we do.' Appa you always say that."
"Very good," Wonwoo agreed, straight faced, and caught your eye over the boy's head. Heat crept up your neck.
"I don't always sleep in," you muttered, reaching for your bag. "At least, I don't think I do."
You thought you caught the corner of his mouth twitch and you cleared your throat before the little boy could say something even more embarrassing.
"...We should probably head down for the meeting."
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
The Ministry officials arrived right away, after reading Professor McGonagall’s letter.
They introduced themselves as members of the Department of Mysteries, though none of them elaborated on what that actually meant. Dressed in unassuming grey robes and carrying curious brass instruments that hummed softly in their hands, they transformed an unused classroom into a temporary examination room and spent the better part of the morning trying to determine exactly who—or what—Woojin was.
Woojin, for his part, found the entire experience fascinating.
Outside the classroom, you waited with your arms folded tightly across your chest, listening to the occasional burst of childish chatter through the half-open door. Professor Jeon stood beside you in companionable silence, close enough that your shoulders nearly brushed.
"They keep looking at him like he's a puzzle to solve," you murmured.
"They're trying to understand him," Wonwoo replied quietly. After a pause, he added, “If any of them are unkind to him, I intend to say something about it, regardless of rank."
You looked at him, surprised by the protectiveness in his voice.
One by one, the possibilities were eliminated.
Memory charms.
Polyjuice Potion.
Transfiguration.
Illusions.
Every test reached the same conclusion.
Finally, the lead official requested a private meeting with you, Professor Jeon, and Professor McGonagall.
"There is no indication," the witch began carefully, "that this child has been altered or fabricated through magic."
She placed two sheets of parchment on McGonagall's desk.
"We also performed a magical signature analysis, and the child's magical signature naturally carries traces of both parents."
She looked between you and Wonwoo. "Woojin's magical signature matches both of yours."
"...No," you said quietly, staring at the parchment for another long moment before shaking your head.
"There has to be some mistake." Your eyes flicked helplessly between Professor McGonagall and the woman seated across the desk. "We've never..."
The words lodged stubbornly in your throat.
Beside you, Wonwoo spoke before you could force yourself to finish.
"...We're just acquaintances."
You looked at him gratefully, and nodded.
"We work together," he said, almost absently, as though saying it aloud would somehow make the conclusion change. "We've never been anything beyond colleagues."
Silence settled over the office.
The official folded her hands neatly atop the desk.
"There is no known spell capable of forging that result," the lead official said carefully, in the privacy of McGonagall's office "As far as the Ministry can determine... this child is biologically yours."
You found yourself reading the report again, despite already knowing exactly what it said, as though the letters might have changed in the last few seconds.
Beside you, Wonwoo removed his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose before putting them back on again.
"Time," McGonagall said eventually, "is the only variable I can think of that would explain a child appearing who is, biologically, already yours, when neither of you has so much as had dinner together."
You, sitting very straight in your chair with hands folded tightly in your lap, felt something in her chest go strange and light and frightened all at once. Beside your, Wonwoo hadn't moved, but anyone could see, in the careful, controlled stillness of him, that he was thinking exactly as fast and exactly as far ahead as you were.
"We'll investigate the how," McGonagall said, not unkindly. "In the meantime, the boy has made his preferences extremely clear, and I see little value in fighting a five-year-old’s instincts when they've so far been correct about everything else. Professors Jeon and Lee, until we know otherwise, I'm placing him in your joint care."
The meeting dissolved not long after.
Outside, Woojin was exactly where you left him, on the stone bench with Hagrid, legs swinging as the gamekeeper showed him something cupped in his enormous hands. The moment he spotted you both, a wide smile appeared on his face. "Mama! Appa!" He slid down and trotted over, slipping one hand into each of yours as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
Hagrid chuckled as he rose to his feet.
"Kept 'im company while yeh lot were busy," he said. "Good little lad, this one."
"Thank you, Hagrid," Wonwoo said sincerely.
Hagrid waved it off with a smile before lumbering away, leaving the three of you standing together in the quiet corridor.
“Finished?”, Woojin asked curiously, looking up at both of you. "I'm hungry."
You exchanged a brief, helpless glance over the top of his head with Wonwoo. Neither of you had the heart to tell him that nothing was finished at all.
"Come on," you said eventually, squeezing his little hand. "Let's get some breakfast."
After everything the Ministry had just told you, trying to make sense of the impossible on empty stomachs seemed like a particularly poor idea.
Woojin started happily swinging your joined hands as the three of you started down the corridor. You'd barely made it a few steps before he stopped so abruptly that you almost walked straight into him.
"...Mama?"
You looked down. "Hm?"
He shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other, glancing briefly at Wonwoo before leaning closer to you"...I need the toilet."
There was a beat of silence.
Then, despite everything that had happened that morning, you let out a chuckle.
You caught yourself just in time, smoothing your expression before he could mistake it for teasing.
"Right," you said with all the seriousness you could manage. "That does seem rather urgent."
Beside you, Wonwoo cleared his throat, though you caught the faintest hint of amusement softening his otherwise impassive expression. It was such an ordinary problem, contrasting everything the two of you had been dealing with since the night before.
"I'll meet you in the Great Hall," he said.
"We'll be there shortly." You smiled gently at him.
The moment you took a step, Woojin immediately began tugging you along with considerably more urgency than before.
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
The Great Hall was mostly empty this early in the term, the students not due back for another week. It was, you thought, the only mercy available to you that morning.
A handful of professors had already gathered at the staff table, breakfast spread lazily before them.
At one end, Quidditch coach, Kim Mingyu was halfway through his toast, chatting idly with Wonwoo.
"So," he said around a mouthful, "I heard something interesting happened last night. They say you've got a kid now." He grinned. "Shame I missed it. Would've loved to witness the birth."
"Shut up and eat your breakfast," Wonwoo said flatly, not looking up from his coffee.
At that moment you stepped in with Woojin marching several paces ahead, waving at each professor as though he'd done it every morning of his life. Then his eyes landed on Mingyu and lit up entirely. "Uncle Gyu!" He barreled straight into him.
Mingyu froze with his toast halfway to his mouth. "Uncle?" He looked from the boy clinging to his side, to you, to Wonwoo. "Jeon. Care to explain why your alleged son thinks I'm his uncle?" But Woojin was already climbing onto him, fists in his robes, and whatever surprise Mingyu felt lasted about two seconds before dissolving into delight.
"You promised you'd take me flying," Woojin reminded him, very seriously. "Yesterday. You said."
"I did?" Mingyu blinked.
"Yesterday," Woojin reminded him very seriously. "You said."
Mingyu looked helplessly towards Wonwoo. "...Did I?" , his attention back to Woojin, who was waiting with unwavering confidence.
"Well... Clearly I'm a man of my word " He grinned. "how about after breakfast?"
Woojin gasped happily before scrambling down again. He hurried straight over to Wonwoo, climbing onto his lap without invitation and cupping his face between both tiny hands.
"Appa," he asked earnestly, "can I go?"
Then he twisted around to look at you.
"Mama?"
For a split second, you froze. Your instinct was to say yes. Then another thought occurred to you.
You had absolutely no idea whether you and Wonwoo had rules about things like this.
"Eat first," you said instead.
Woojin's smile faltered.
"But—"
"You've hardly eaten," you said gently. "Finish your breakfast, and then you can go."
You looked across him, at Wonwoo. "Do you think that's alright, Professor Jeon?" The title felt strange after "Appa" only moments earlier.
Woojin's shoulders slumped, appealing wordlessly to the other parent, but Wonwoo only said, "Mama's right," and the boy sighed and hopped down, taking an exaggerated bite of his sandwich.
Mingyu laughed. "He's definitely your son."
You chose not to ask which one of you he meant.
The moment he was done eating, Woojin was on his feet before anyone else had even pushed back their chair.
"I'm done!"
Before either of you could say another word, Mingyu had already scooped him effortlessly onto one shoulder.
"Come on then, Mini-Jeon."
Their laughter echoed across the Great Hall as the pair disappeared towards the doors together.
Which left the two of you alone at the staff table, breakfast half eaten, with a conversation neither of you had quite prepared for.
"We should talk about how this is going to work," you said.
"Yes," Wonwoo agreed.
You looked at each other, two colleagues who three days ago had rarely exchanged more than polite greetings. "Whatever happens, however he got here, however the Ministry sends him back, he's still five," you said. "He doesn't understand any of this. He's frightened. The least we can do is make sure he feels safe until it's over."
"I agree," Wonwoo said, without hesitation, resting his forearms on the table, already thinking ahead. "The students return next week. Until then, one of us can always be with him."
You nodded. "If I have no lessons, he can stay with me in the greenhouses."
"And during my free periods..." His gaze drifted towards the doors Woojin had disappeared through. "...I'll take him."
You let out a breath, some of the panic that had lived in your chest since the boy first wrapped his arms around your neck finally easing. "So we'll just figure it out."
"We will."
For now, at least, neither of you had to figure it out alone.
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
The week that followed should have been simple. But, it wasn't.
You settled into the arrangement, Woojin's mornings in the greenhouses, coloring at a little workbench while you repotted seedlings, his afternoons in the Defence classroom with Wonwoo, parchment and crayons spread while lesson plans got written around him. The handovers were brief and polite. Professor Lee. Professor Jeon. A quick word about whether he'd eaten or napped, and then one of you would return to work while the other walked away with his small hand in theirs.
It was practical and organized. Exactly what two colleagues might come up with facing an impossible situation.
It should have worked. Instead, almost without either of you noticing, Woojin began to change.
The chatter went first, the little stories that used to tumble out of him without pause, about Fang, about Uncle Gyu and flying, about Flitwick's levitating feathers, grew fewer and fewer until most meals passed in near silence. Then the smaller things. He stopped reminding you that you supposedly gave him a flower from the greenhouse every day. He stopped correcting Wonwoo when he forgot some detail his Appa should have known. By the end of the week he barely touched his food. There was no tantrum, nothing dramatic to point to, just a boy shrinking a little further into himself each day, his smiles rarer, his laughter quieter, the brightness that had burst into your life outside the professors' quarters slowly dimming.
You noticed it and so did Wonwoo. However, neither of you could figure out why.
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
The greenhouses had long since emptied one evening, the last gold light fading from the grounds, when you noticed the silence first. Usually Woojin waited on the bench outside, legs swinging, ready to show off whatever he had drawn. Tonight, he wasn't there. A tiny sniffle carried through the quiet instead. You found him curled against the doorframe, knees to his chest, small shaky sobs escaping into his sleeves.
"Woojin?"
His head lifted just as hurried footsteps rounded the corner, Wonwoo, who had come to collect him for dinner, stopping short at the sight. The two of you exchanged one panicked look before crouching together. Your hand found his shoulder. "Hey, sweetheart. What's wrong?"
That was all it took. He threw himself into your arms, shaking, and you wrapped him up while Wonwoo lowered onto one knee, palm circling slow between his shoulder blades. "What's wrong, buddy? Tell us."
It took a long moment before he could speak. "How long," he hiccupped, "are you gonna stay mad at each other?"
You blinked in surprise. "What?"
"Mama and Appa..." Another sob broke through before he could finish. "...You're mad."
"We’re not angry," you said immediately, looking helplessly towards Wonwoo before turning back to the little boy. "Sweetheart, I promise I'm not—"
"Mama liar." The words landed like a slap. He'd never called you that before.
He shook his head, tears spilling fresh. "You call Appa 'Professor.' Mama never calls Appa 'Professor.' You don't eat breakfast together. And Appa doesn't come get you after the greenhouses. You don't read me stories together. You don't say goodnight together." His voice kept dropping. "You don't even sleep in the same house."
His breath hitched high and miserable. "Did I do something? I'm sorry..."
Your heart broke clean in half. Beside you Wonwoo had gone rigid. "You didn't do anything," he said, low and fierce. "Nothing about this is your fault. You didn't make us angry."
"We're not angry with each other," you said, brushing the damp hair from his face. "Do you want to go home? Hm?"
The words hung heavily in the evening air.
Woojin's shoulders trembled as he looked desperately from one face to the other. He sniffled, slipped one small hand into yours, then reached for Wonwoo's with the other and he began walking.
You and Wonwoo exchanged one confused glance before following, letting the little boy lead you through the quiet corridors of the castle, never once hesitating, until he stopped outside a familiar door. Professor Jeon's quarters.
Only then did he look up at the two of you, still holding both your hands.
"...Home."
You went in. There didn't seem to be any other option.
Wonwoo's quarters were, nearly identical in size and shape to yours, and almost entirely bare of anything personal. There was a neat stack of books, a single armchair, a room that looked like it belonged to a man who spent as little time as possible actually living in it. Woojin stood in the middle of it, small and confused, turning in a slow circle.
"Where's my room?" he asked. "Where's my toys?"
There was nothing to show him, no room, no toys, no trace of the boy he was, only two adults trying to comfort a child for the absence of a life that hadn't been built yet.
You knelt and wiped his face with your sleeve. "Sleep for tonight. Tomorrow, I promise, we'll get you new toys. A whole room full, if you want."
He considered this gravely and nodded. "Promise?"
"Promise," Wonwoo said, and meant it in the particular, unshakeable way you were coming to learn was simply how he meant everything.
Satisfied, Woojin rubbed his eyes, yawned, and padded toward the bedroom as if he knew every step by heart, climbing beneath the blankets before either of you reached the doorway. He scooted to the center and patted the empty space on either side. "Can I sleep in the middle tonight?"
The room fell silent. You looked at Wonwoo. He looked at you.
"...The middle?" you echoed weakly.
Woojin nodded, it was the most ordinary request in the world for him.
You hesitated until Woojin had disappeared almost entirely beneath the blankets, only his sleepy little face peeking out.
Leaning towards Wonwoo, you lowered your voice to little more than a whisper.
"...What do we do?"
"He's already distressed," he murmured finally. "If we tell him no now..." He didn't need to finish it. "Stay here until he falls asleep."
You nodded. "Just until he falls asleep."
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
Morning came slowly. You woke first, it taking a long moment to place the unfamiliar mattress, before you felt something warm and heavy draped across your waist. Woojin had migrated in the night until he was sprawled almost entirely over you, one leg thrown across your middle. You smiled, then glanced past him and froze. You didn’t realise that you had accidentally fallen asleep last night beside the two boys.
Wonwoo was asleep on the other side of the bed. Without his glasses, without the polished look he carried through every staff meeting, he looked... younger somehow. One arm was thrown over his head, the other resting loosely near Woojin.
And beside him, Woojin slept exactly the same way, the same arm flung above the head, the same slight parting of the lips, even the same faint crease settled between their brows. It was almost unsettling, how alike they looked.
A strand of dark hair had fallen across Wonwoo's forehead, obscuring part of his face. Before you could think better of it, your hand lifted almost on instinct, fingers moving carefully toward the loose strand.
The moment your fingertips grazed his hair, brown eyes blinked open.
You stilled, like a deer caught in headlights. ”Oh”
“I was just..observing” Then, quietly, you murmured, "...He sleeps like you."
His eyes flicked to Woojin's arm still flung over, then back. "Does he?" His voice was rough with sleep, deeper than you had ever heard it.
"The same expression and the same way he throws his arm over his head."
He looked at the boy a long moment. "I never would've noticed," he said, in his raspy voice. Neither of you spoke after that. Between you, Woojin sighed contentedly in his sleep and burrowed closer, anchoring himself to both of you at once.
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
You went to Hogsmaede the very next morning, all three of you, to fulfil previous night’s promise of getting toys and clothes for Woojin.
The first stop was a children's clothing shop, and within minutes you'd disappeared into the racks. "Woojin, come here." You held a tiny knitted jumper against his front. "Oh, look at you. You're adorable."
"I look handsome," he corrected.
"You look very handsome."
Before you could admire him any longer, the jumper disappeared from your hands. Wonwoo had taken it without a word, turning it over to inspect the label before feeling the fabric between his fingers. Satisfied, he placed it into the trolley while you wandered off again.
"Oh! Woojin, come look at these."
The pattern repeated itself half a dozen times, socks embroidered with broomsticks, robes so impossibly small they made you coo, a knitted hat with bear ears, you and Woojin gasping over each discovery as though it outdid the last, while Wonwoo quietly sorted excitement from practicality behind you, checking sizes and seams before either dropping an item in the trolley or returning it to the shelf.
At one point you and Woojin reached for the same pants at the same moment, looked at each other, and said "in the trolley" in perfect unison. Woojin dissolved into giggles. So did you. Wonwoo paused with another mini sweater halfway to the trolley, watching the two of you laugh over something so inconsequential, and thought, though he didn't say it, that even if Woojin didn’t look like you, he had definitely inherited your joyful personality.
Without a word, he set the pants into the trolley and followed after the pair of you once more.
By the time you finished buying clothes, toys, bedding, books, and enough school supplies, the afternoon had slipped quietly into evening.
Dinner was at a little restaurant tucked between a bookshop and an apothecary, warm with the smell of fresh bread. Until your meals arrived, Woojin had already begun drooping where he sat beside Wonwoo.
He lasted about halfway through his dinner before his cheek settled onto the tabletop with a tiny sigh, the glass of pumpkin juice still clutched loosely in one hand.
You smiled fondly. "I think someone's reached his limit."
Wonwoo glanced over and without disturbing him, he quietly slid the abandoned food onto a plate before pulling the glass of pumpkin juice safely out of the boy's reach.
Only then did he look back at you.
"So," he said, the first time he'd ever started a conversation without prompting. "Did you always want to teach?"
You blinked, pleasantly surprised.
"I think so," You traced absent-minded circles around the rim of your mug. "Professor Sprout was my favourite when I was here. She made everyone feel like they belonged in her classroom. I wasn't particularly talented at first. I nearly killed a Venomous Tentacula in second year."
"...Impressive."
"It wasn't on purpose." You laughed. "I just remember thinking, if I could make one student love Herbology the way she made me love it, I'd have done something worthwhile."
"I imagine you already have." He said it so plainly it took you a second to realize he meant it. "And you?" you asked. "Woojin mentioned you being an Auror."
"I joined the Ministry after graduation." He leaned back slightly.
"It felt like the right thing to do. I was good at it." There was no arrogance in his words, just facts.
"But..." His gaze drifted briefly to the little boy asleep beside him, “eventually I realized I couldn't protect everyone. Perhaps I could teach someone else how to protect themselves instead. So I came here."
You looked at Woojin, asleep between you, utterly convinced this thoughtful, reserved man was his father. "I get it why he looks at you the way he does. Like you can fix anything."
"...I hope," he said quietly, "...I never give him a reason to think otherwise."
By the time you started back toward the castle, Woojin had gone entirely boneless with exhaustion, walking between you with a hand in each of yours, until somewhere along the path his feet simply stopped moving altogether and Wonwoo swept him up without breaking stride, settling him against his shoulder and he was asleep before you'd cleared the gates.
"I'll take him tonight," Wonwoo said quietly, adjusting his hold on the boy. "You should rest. You both used up too much energy while shopping.”
You didn't argue. You walked back to the castle beside him in comfortable, unhurried silence, watching and admiring the way Wonwoo had stepped up into his role so effortlessly.
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
Students returned the following week, and it took less than a day for the entire castle to discover that Professor Jeon had, apparently, acquired a child.
Woojin looked so unmistakably like Wonwoo, same eyes, same careful, watchful stillness, the same particular way of tilting his head when he was thinking. The resemblance alone silenced most speculation. It took a little longer for anyone to connect the boy to you, mostly because you and Wonwoo had been so studiously careful in public, but it happened anyway, and by the second afternoon the whole school seemed to know that the small boy trailing Professor Jeon between classes called Professor Lee "Mama."
Your brother heard it from three people before lunch and arrived at your Herbology classroom at a dead run.
He burst through the door mid-lesson, loud and dramatic as ever, and you rounded on him without missing a beat. "I am teaching, Chan, go back to your dormitory or I will hex you where you stand."
But Woojin had already spotted him from his corner table, where he'd been colouring quietly through the lesson exactly as he always did. "Uncle Dino!"
Chan blinked. "Huh—?" But the boy had already crossed the room and grabbed his sleeve, tugging him down into the corner with the urgent, conspiratorial whisper of a child sharing a secret.
"Why are you at Hogwarts?" Woojin whispered. "You're supposed to be at work."
"What work?" Chan asked, faintly dazed, crouching properly now, studying the boy's face with growing, dawning confusion. The resemblance to Wonwoo really was uncanny. "How old are you kid?"
Woojin held up five fingers. "Five. I'm a big boy."
The class had, by now, entirely abandoned any pretence of working. You dismissed them five minutes early out of pure self-preservation, and the moment the door shut behind the last student, Chan rounded on you with the full, righteous fury of a man who has just done extremely questionable maths.
"Five years?" he demanded. "You hid a child from me for five years? I'm telling Mum and Dad."
You smacked the back of his head without much force and dragged him toward the door, explaining low and fast everything that had happened. His expression cycled through disbelief, alarm, and fascination. "So he just appeared? In a corridor? And nobody's told Mum and Dad?"
"McGonagall wanted to keep it contained until the Ministry understood what they were dealing with," You said, moving down the row of Mandrake pots with the automatic efficiency. "There's nothing to tell them yet. There's nothing certain to tell anyone yet."
"There's a child, noona. That feels fairly certain." He lowered his voice, glancing at Woojin, who was very obviously listening despite pretending otherwise. "Does he — does Professor Jeon know? Properly know? Has he said anything? Because if he's making you handle this on your own while he just stands there being broody and unreadable like he always—"
"He's been extremely present, actually," you said, sharper than you meant to, faintly surprised by your own defensiveness. "He is good with both of us."
"So you and Professor Jeon..." He said the name like it tasted strange. "He barely talks. Is he good to you? Because I don't care if it's the future or the past or whatever timeline nonsense this is, if he ever—"
"Chan."
"I'm just SAYING—"
"Uncle Dino and Appa are best friends," Woojin announced, from where he'd resettled himself contentedly on the crate beside him, "Appa says you're the little brother he never had."
You couldn't help smiling. Somehow, it was comforting to know that somewhere in some timeline, your brother had found a best friend in Wonwoo. You hadn't expected that of all things, but it felt right.
"That's not—" Chan opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. "That doesn't sound like Jeon Wonwoo at all—"
"Was I not supposed to say that?" Woojin asked, blinking up at him, entirely innocent, already sensing from the sudden stillness in the room that he had said something he wasn't meant to.
You closed your eyes briefly and reached for patience.
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
Woojin settled, in the weeks that followed, into the rhythm of the castle so completely it became hard to remember what Hogwarts had looked like without him.
One evening the greenhouses had gone quiet, students long gone, the castle settling into its nighttime hush beyond the glass, when the door creaked and Wonwoo stepped inside.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to interrupt."
"You aren't." You glanced up from the moonlily buds you were coaxing open.
"I came to see if you were still here," he said. "Woojin was asking where you were."
Your expression softened. "Is he alright?"
Wonwoo sat on a stool, pulling it closer to your set. "He waited up." said, the corner of his mouth lifting,"..but ended up falling asleep."
You smiled to yourself. "I'll apologise in the morning for making him wait up."
"He won't remember."
His gaze drifted to the flowers. "What are these?"
"Moonlilies. They only bloom after sunset, rather boring during the day." Your fingers brushed a pale blossom as another unfurled beside it, silver petals catching the moonlight through the glass roof.
"They're beautiful," he said.
"They're my favourite." You gestured at the rows stretching deeper into the greenhouse. "They'll keep blooming another hour or so. If you ever can't sleep, you can come see them."
Something unreadable crossed his face. "I'd like that."
The quiet settled again, comfortable, until he spoke. "Hold still." You blinked, and he leaned closer, reaching up to brush his thumb across your cheek. "There. You had mud." Your heartbeat became unexpectedly hard to ignore. He seemed entirely unaffected, or simply very good at pretending otherwise.
After a moment, as though the question had only just occurred to him, “Do you have a partner?"
The question caught you so off guard you laughed. "No."
"No one waiting for you?"
"No."
He nodded once. "I've been thinking," he said. "About Woojin. He still wakes some nights expecting both of us, and we keep sending him between two rooms." He paused. "I was wondering whether we should ask Professor McGonagall if our quarters could be connected. So he has one home."
The thought lingered longer than you expected. It wasn't technically moving in together, just one home, for a little boy who couldn't understand why his parents lived apart. "I think he'd like that," you said.
"I do too."
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
McGonagall agreed the next morning with the look of a woman who'd been waiting rather a while to be asked, and the magic took most of an afternoon, walls softening, a doorway blooming where there had been solid stone, two sets of rooms folding into one home neither of you had entirely built on purpose.
You brought Woojin to see it after dinner. He walked in ahead of you, and the moment he crossed the threshold he simply lit up, spinning in a delighted circle.
You brought Woojin to see it after dinner. He walked in ahead of you and lit up completely, spinning in a circle. "My house is back!" He threw his arms around the couch. "I missed you, home!" then, abruptly, "Where's Seol?" already forgotten in the next breath as he sprinted for the bedroom that had once been yours.
"Mama, Mama, this is my room!" he announced, bouncing on the bed with total confidence, and you didn't have the heart to correct him, didn't particularly want to.
He herded you both through the rest of it with the brisk, self-appointed authority of a very small landlord, and finished by planting himself in front of what had been Wonwoo's door alone,until that afternoon, pointing inside. "Go to your room. Goodnight, Mama." He rose on his toes, pulling you lower and pressed a firm kiss to your cheek, then did the same to Wonwoo, who accepted it with startled, helpless tenderness. Then Woojin stepped back, arms crossed, and looked between the two of you expectantly.
"Now your turn," he said, like this was simply the next obvious step in the routine.
You and Wonwoo looked at each other. A warm flush crept across your cheeks, his ears turning red in similar fashion.
"...Oh," you managed intelligently.
Beside you, Wonwoo looked equally flustered, clearing his throat as though searching for words.
Before either of you could decide who was supposed to move first—
"Fast," Woojin giggled, looking at the pair of you like you were being terribly silly. He pointed at his own cheeks with both hands. "Goodnight kisses!"
You closed your eyes for the briefest moment. Wonwoo quietly looked at the ceiling.
"...Right," you mumbled.
Woojin waited patiently while the two of you recovered enough dignity to lean down and kiss one of his cheeks each
Woojin dissolved into delighted laughter. "Silly Mama and Dada," he announced, thoroughly unbothered by the fact that you'd both gone crimson and speechless, and skipped off to his own room without a backward glance, leaving the two of you standing in the doorway in the sudden, charged quiet he had left behind.
Neither of you said very much, after that. There wasn't, really, anything sensible to say.
You ended up in the same room. It seemed the simplest arrangement now that the quarters had become one home instead of two, and neither of you had the energy to overthink what that might mean.
He was careful with you. Quiet, steady, bringing the same attentiveness he brought to everything, and you found you trusted it completely, the way you had found yourself trusting nearly everything about him these past weeks without quite noticing when it started. His hand found yours in the dark. Sleep came slowly, not from discomfort, but from being suddenly, acutely aware of each other in a way you hadn't been before. Eventually, exhaustion won and you both drifted to a quiet sleep.
Woojin woke sometime after midnight.
He padded sleepily into the hallway, rubbing one eye with the back of his fist. The door to the bedroom stood slightly ajar.
He peeked in. Moonlight spilled across the room, and his parents were asleep, your back against Wonwoo’s chest, his arm loose around your waist, both of you breathing with the heavy rhythm of people too tired to notice how close you had ended up. His sleepy face broke into the biggest grin. "You’re back," he whispered, and climbed carefully onto the bed, curling up in front of you instead of between you, pulling your arm over himself with practiced familiarity, asleep again within seconds.
Wonwoo woke first in the morning. Woojin lay between you now, not separating you, but tucked safely in front of you, your arm around him, his own arm still loose around your waist. Three people. One tangled shape on the bed.
He watched you both breathe a moment, then reached up and gently tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear before settling back against the pillow. For once, he felt no urgency to get up. Morning could wait.
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
With Woojin increasingly absorbed into afternoons with Uncle Dino or Uncle Gyu, you and Wonwoo found yourselves with actual unclaimed hours, and neither of you was quite willing to waste them.
It was Wonwoo who moved first.
He started appearing at the greenhouse door with two steaming cups of tea, lingering awkwardly in the doorway until you looked up from your work.
"Thought you might want company," he'd say, as though that alone explained why he crossed half the castle during his free period.
More often than not, Woojin would toddle over the moment he spotted him, abandoning whatever stick or flower had captured his attention. Wonwoo would wordlessly scoop him with one before handing you your tea. Within a week the gesture had become second nature.
A few days later you found him asleep over a stack of essays, quill still loose in his hand. You slipped his glasses off his face and set them beside the parchment before nudging his shoulder.
He blinked awake, disoriented, and you told him plainly that he needed to go to bed.
"I still have—"
"You've been raising an energetic five year old all day," you said, folding your arms. "The essays can wait."
He looked at you for a long moment, and something in his expression softened before he admitted, voice still thick with sleep "I don't mind either of your energies," he stifled a yawn, stretching his arms "..makes me happy."
You had absolutely no idea what to do with that so you said nothing at all.
He still insisted on staying up most nights to finish grading, so eventually you started bringing your own work into his office instead of arguing about it. Neither of you said much once you were both settled. He would shift his chair a little closer, you would spread your parchment across the corner of his desk, and the two of you worked in companionable silence until the candles burned low.
He began walking you to your classroom afterward too, even though the route took him the opposite way from his own. He never explained it beyond insisting he would get to his class eventually, and eventually, it seemed, always meant after he'd seen you safely to your door.
On the colder mornings you were the one who stopped him and Woojin halfway across the courtyard, pointing sternly at the hat dangling forgotten from Woojin's hand until he groaned and put it on. Then you turned the same look on Wonwoo.
"You too."
He blinked in suprise."...Me?"
"You'll both catch cold," you said, and without another word pulled his scarf a little tighter around him.
He noticed things before you did. A quill running low on ink would be quietly replaced on your desk overnight. If you skipped lunch, a neatly wrapped sandwich would turn up in the staff room by early afternoon, and you'd know without asking where it came from.
You noticed things too. Whenever he buried himself in paperwork through mealtimes, you started simply setting a plate down beside him in the Great Hall and waiting until he ate it, ignoring whatever protest he tried to offer. Woojin, already halfway through his own shepherd's pie, took to backing you up without being asked, informing his father solemnly that Mama had said to eat, so he should eat.
Wonwoo accepted defeat every time.
Across the table, Mingyu had taken to watching these exchanges with an unbearably smug grin, and one evening he finally said aloud what he'd clearly been thinking for weeks, “I love your little family
You and Wonwoo looked up in perfect unison.
"We're not—"
"...a family?" Mingyu finished for you, smiling into his drink. "Right."
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
Slowly, the conversations that had once ended after a polite greeting stretched into long ones. Silence stopped feeling awkward between you. You learned that Wonwoo didn't speak often, not because he had nothing to say, but because he waited until something was worth saying. He learned, in turn, that you talked enough for the both of you, wandering easily from Herbology to your brother's latest letter to a book you read years ago that had suddenly reminded you of a student.
Most people interrupted you eventually. Wonwoo never did. He listened with his attention fixed solely on you. Over time you began to notice the small things about him that anyone else might have missed: the faint lift at the corner of his mouth, the thoughtful hum whenever he disagreed, the way he would bring up something you had mentioned days earlier as though it had never once left his mind.
Somehow, without either of you deciding it, spending time together stopped feeling like an obligation born from impossible circumstances. You began to look forward to it instead.
One evening, while Woojin sat between you at the table stubbornly sounding out a picture book, you found yourself watching Wonwoo rather than the page. He guided the boy through each difficult word with endless patience, never frustrated, never rushing him, and the thought left you before you could stop it.
"I think I understand now," you said, "why I'd marry you."
You looked at him, a little embarrassed after the words left you, and Wonwoo looked completely caught off guard.
"I think I do too." He held your gaze for a long, quiet moment.
Then, almost shyly, he looked back down at the book beside him, where Woojin was still waiting, for his appa to help him with the next word.
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
The best afternoons belonged entirely to Woojin.
They usually started with a game of tag across the grounds, Wonwoo pretending badly not to be fast enough to catch him, until somehow you were running too, laughing while Woojin shrieked with delight between the two of you.
Someone always tripped eventually, usually you, and Wonwoo would stumble trying to catch you before all three of you went down together in the grass, Woojin throwing himself on top of the pile with a triumphant declaration that your pile was now a hamburger.
You and Wonwoo dissolved into helpless laughter beneath the weight of a giggling five year old.
It was in moments like these that you had to remind yourself, gently and every time, that none of it was permanent.
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
The Ministry officials returned in early October with answers at last.
An illegal Time-Turner experiment had torn open a fracture between two points in time. Woojin had wandered too close, slipping through before anyone could stop him. He had never belonged in this timeline—not because he came from another world, but because he came from several years ahead.
Somewhere in that future, two frantic parents had spent weeks searching for the little boy who had vanished without a trace.
"There is a window," the lead investigator explained quietly. "We can safely return him."
The witch hesitated before continuing.
"The timeline will... protect itself afterwards."
You asked her what that meant.
"Everyone’s memories won't disappear all at once," she said. "But as the fracture closes, they'll begin to blur. Faces first, then conversations. Eventually it will feel more like something you dreamed than something you lived."
Woojin would forget these months too. He would remember growing up exactly as he was meant to. As far as he would ever know, he had never been here at all.
It was supposed to be a kindness, yet it felt unimaginably cruel.
The walk back to the castle was silent.
That night, neither of you slept much. Woojin, blissfully unconcerned, lay between you talking about things that happened that morning-- Uncle Gyu teaching him Quidditch fouls, Uncle Dino taking him along with his friends to Hogsmeade. Every ordinary little story landed somewhere deep inside you, each one another reminder that there was an entire life waiting for him beyond your reach.
Eventually his words grew slower, each sentence interrupted by a yawn, until they dissolved into sleepy murmurs. Within minutes he was asleep between you, one small hand fisted loosely in the fabric of Wonwoo's sleeve.
You watched him for a long time. Then, unable to stop yourself, you gathered him carefully into your arms and pressed your face into his soft hair. The first tear fell before you realized you were crying, and you tried to stay quiet so you wouldn't wake him.
Beside you, Wonwoo didn't say a word. He simply moved closer until your shoulders touched, then wrapped one arm around both of you, drawing you and the sleeping boy against his chest. You felt his chin come to rest lightly atop your head. For a while there was only warmth, and the quiet understanding that for one more night, the three of you were still here. You leaned into him, having a final night with the family you had briefly been allowed to borrow.
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
The Astronomy Tower was quiet at dawn.
Woojin stood between you, one hand tucked into yours and the other in Wonwoo's, looking more curious than frightened.
"Will you be okay?" you asked softly.
He looked up at you with complete certainty. "I'll see you for dinner."
The words caught somewhere behind your ribs. Wonwoo crouched down in front of him and smoothed a wrinkle from his little jumper, telling him gently that his mum and dad had been looking for him. Woojin frowned, as though the sentence didn't make any sense at all
"You are my mum and dad."
You dropped to your knees beside Wonwoo, your shoulder brushing his.
"We are," you whispered, your voice trembling. "Just... a little earlier."
Still not able to grasp the meaning, he wrapped both tiny arms around the two of you together, deciding it probably wasn’t that important anyway.
"I'll see Mama and Appa for dinner,” he mumbled into the hug.
The Ministry kept its promise. The memories faded carefully over the following days, lifted away one by one until neither of you could remember the name of the child you loved, only the shape he had left behind.
Some things, however, refused to disappear. Whatever the timeline had taken, it hadn't touched what you and Wonwoo now shared. Somehow, without either of you noticing, Wonwoo had become the first person you looked for at the start of every day, and you had become the place he returned to at the end of it. Neither of you questioned when the castle had stopped feeling like home, and each other had quietly become one instead.
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
Several years later, you stood in the kitchen of the house you shared with Wonwoo and eventually made your own. Morning sunlight spilled across the wooden table, where a list of baby names lay abandoned between two half-finished mugs of tea.
Absentmindedly, your hand rested over the gentle curve of your stomach.
Wonwoo looked up from the list and asked if you had any favourites. You tapped the parchment with the end of your quill, thinking, and the name left your lips before you could even reconsider it.
"...Woojin."
You frowned slightly, almost amused by yourself. "I don't know why," you admitted. "It just... feels right."
He looked at the name for a long moment before a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "I like it too. It somehow feels perfect."
Neither of you questioned it. Some things had long since stopped needing explanations.
Outside, Seol tore happily through the garden after a fluttering butterfly, barking with the same boundless enthusiasm she had since she was a puppy. You watched her through the window until you felt familiar hands settle gently around your waist from behind.
"You've been standing too long, baby," Wonwoo murmured against your ear, pressing a small kiss to your jaw.
"I'm pregnant, not made of glass."
"I know," he said, guiding you back toward your chair anyway, one hand settling over yours where it rested against your stomach.
"You fuss too much, honey," you said, though there was no real complaint in it.
"So I've been told."
You laughed softly and turned in your seat to face him. He knelt without a word, the way he always did lately, resting his cheek on your stomach a moment, like he was listening for something.
You laughed softly and turned in your seat to look at him properly. He caught your gaze almost immediately.
"Baby," he said, kissing over the curve of your stomach, "can you tell your mama to stop staring at me?"
You let out an indignant laugh. "I think I’m allowed to stare at my handsome husband."
The faintest blush made his ears turn red. You smiled, softer now, and settled your hand over his where it rested against your stomach.
"You're going to be such a wonderful father, Won." You said it so simply, like you already knew, and subconsciously you did. "I just know it."
For a moment he only looked at you, like he couldn't quite find the words for what that did to him. Then he straightened, tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear, before leaning down to meet your lips.
The kiss was slow and careful. One hand cupped your jaw, his thumb brushing gently along your cheek, the other gripping the armrest of the chair to avoid hurting you. When he finally pulled back he only went as far as your forehead, staying close, breathing you in like he wanted to keep this exact moment a little longer.
"I love you," he murmured against your skin, quiet and certain, like it was the easiest true thing he had ever said.
"I know," you smiled, your hand finding his jaw. "I love you too."
His hand found your stomach again unconsciously, just as something shifted beneath it. Both of you went still.
"Did you feel that?"
A small kick answered for him. Wonwoo huffed out a soft and a little disbelieving laugh, and bent down to press yet another kiss to your stomach, murmuring something against it too quiet for you to catch. You covered his hand with yours anyway, content to let him have the moment.
Outside, Seol barked triumphantly at nothing at all. Inside, your home was warm with morning light and love, that the two of you had spent years quietly building.
And somewhere in that warmth, already loved before he had taken his first breath, a little boy was about to come home to the family that had always been his.
End.
📖 Before you leave Owl's Library, consider returning this record to the shelves with a reblog so other readers may find it.
after going on a blind date with false pretenses with the ceo of your company, things take a turn when he asks you to marry him to keep himself from ending up in an arranged marriage.
⟢ 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞(𝐬): romance, smut, fake dating, angst
⟢ 𝐚𝐮(𝐬): business proposal, nonidol
⟢ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 13.7k
⟢ 𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: cussing, lying, drinking, lots of office gossip, Cheol has daddy issues, people think mc is a gold digger, insecurities and body issues.
⟢ 𝐬𝐦𝐮𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: unprotected sex, they both are needy, lots of making out, big dick Seungcheol, oral (fem rec), size kink, creampie, cum eating, multiple orgasms, fingering, hair pulling body worship, multiple positions, multiple orgasms, Seungcheol talks mc through it. nicknames: darling, baby, good girl (hers) baby, cheol (his)
⟢ 𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠: 18+ minors do not interact
⟢ 𝐚𝐧: This fic is for the SVTFLIX collab hosted by @100vern . It’s loosely based on the k-drama business proposal. Thank you @aeristudios for listening to me ramble about this story and thank you @jakedustry for beta reading.
🎧: snooze | sza | lightening - charli xcx | into you - ariana grande | bmf - sza
Choi Seungcheol prodigal son in the heir to the Choi Corporation. Being the only child of an extremely wealthy and successful businessman has left Seungcheol with immense pressure. His whole life has been laid out for him. The moment he graduated high school, he was sent to a prestige college with the intention of immediately stepping into the family business. The day after graduation, he started working for his family’s company and never looked back.
One thing about being the heir to the company is that his parents are obsessed with the idea of him settling down and giving them at least one grandchild. Seungcheol is so wrapped up in work, he can't even imagine dating. Let alone getting married and staring a family.
These days his weeks consist of going on dates with socialites and heiress that his mother believes would make a great wife.
Tonight is no different. He finds himself in an expensive restaurant with a pretty woman sitting across from him. Except this time, the woman across from him isn't someone who comes from a rich family, it's you. You don't come from money, nor do you have much to be honest. You work for Seungcheol's company as Jeonghan's assistant. The funny things is Seungcheol knows your name, and definitely knows you're not Angel, the girl he's supposed to be on a date with.
THE PRINCE AND THE LIAR
You've been friends with Angel since you were teenagers. Growing up, your family made enough to be considered middle class. As a teen you were so smart you were able to get a full ride scholarship to a fancy private school. While in school, you became best friends with Angel, the heirest to a luxary cosmetics company. Angel has always been an incredible friend to you. She's always been someone who pushes you to get out of your comfort zone and to try new things.
You were surprised when you were hanging out in her fancy high rise apartment and she mentioned going on a date with the CEO of Choi Corporation. You weren't sure why her mother and his mother were trying to set her up with your boss.
"You're going on a date with my boss?" You ask, sitting on the plush chair that sits in the middle of her large closet.
"I don't want to go on a date with your hot boss. I was planning to go out with Soonyoung tonight."
"Your mom still doesn't know about Soonyoung?" Even if Angel doesn't want to admit it, her and Soonyoung have something going on that's more then just sex. Soonyoung works at a dance studio, and doesn't live up to Angel's mother's high expectations.
"Why don't you cancel on Seungcheol?"
"My mother would kill me if I did."
"I see."
Angel holds us a beautiful pink silk dress. She keeps glancing at the dress, and back at you. "This would look good on you."
"Yeah it's also not in my tax bracket." You've been shopping with Angel enough to know you couldn't afford anything in this closet.
"I have an idea!" She shouts.
"What?"
Her eyes go wide, and she gives you the biggest smile. "You're going to go on the date with Seungcheol." That's not what you thought she was going to say.
"What?"
"He's expecting you."
"He's never met me and doesn't know how I look. Just pretend to be me."
"I work for him."
"Like you said before. He doesn't know you exist. You work on a different floor for Jeonghan."
"Angel, this isn't a good idea."
"Come on, it's one blind date. You don't have to go on another one. Just go out with him once and pretend to be me."
"Angel—"
"Babe, just put the pretty pink dress on and go."
-
The moment you sat down, Seungcheol recognized you. He knew immediately you weren't Angel. He's well aware you're Jeonghan's pretty assistant. Instead of telling you he knows who you are, he decides to let this play out. It's not like he actually wanted to go on a date with Angel.
From the beginning he can tell that you're shy. He makes small talk with you, and actively goes out of his way to avoid talking about anything related to the real Angel.
He does want to tease you a little and see if you will own up to the lie. "Angel is a pretty name." He says before taking a sip of his wine.
"Thank you."
"How did your parents pick that name?"
"Grandmother named me." That isn't a lie. Angel was actually named by her grandmother.
The dinner is nice, an even though you're pretending to be someone else, Seungcheol can't help but find you interesting. He wishes he could ask you out again instead of the woman you're pretending to be.
The night ends with Seungcheol walking you to the car Angel ordered for you. He takes your hand and places a gentle kiss on top.
"It was nice getting to meet you." He says.
"This was nice. I feel like I haven't gone out on a date this night in a really long time." You haven't gone on a date in years, and even though this is under false pretenses, this was nice.
"Maybe we could do this again."
He fishes his phone out of the pocket of his dress pants. "Could I have your number please?"
Taking his phone, you hesitantly put in your contact info. You hate that you have to write your name as Angel, but you have no choice.
The whole car ride back to Angel's place you can't help but feel guilty that you enjoyed your night out with him. You feel bad you had to lie to him. Seungcheol seems like a great guy, and doesn’t deserve that.
AN UNEXPECTED CONTRACT
Since your blind date that took place three months ago, you've actively gone out of your way to avoid Seungcheol at work. That's been a little difficult occasionally due to the fact that your boss Jeonghan is best friends with the CEO of the company. Whenever you knew Seungcheol was on the floor looking for Jeonghan, you've made yourself scarce.
You don't know that the CEO is a smart man and is well aware you're avoiding him. He's wanted to text you too many times to count, but he can tell by the way you're avoiding him that you won't respond.
Seungcheol day started with his father meeting him in his office. His father is sitting in his chair at his desk.
"Good morning father." Seungcheol says before sitting his bag down on his desk.
"Son, I have important things to discuss with you."
Seungcheol lets out a heavy sigh before sitting down across from him. He just wants this conversation over with quickly.
"Your mother and I have been discussing things and it's clear you have no intention of settling down. We've decided to set you up in an arranged marriage." The room suddenly feels suffocatingly small. The word 'arranged marriage' keeps playing in mind on repeat.
"What?"
"Your mother has a perfect woman to be your wife. Lena comes from the Park family that owns the Park Finacal Banks." Seungcheol knows exactly who he is talking about. The idea of being thrown into an arranged marriage with a stuck up narcissistic heiress makes him want to throw up.
All of Seungcheol's logical thoughts are slipping out of his brain at a rapid pace. "I'm seeing someone!" He shouts.
"You are?"
"Yes. We were keeping things private."
"Who is she?"
"She works for our company. She's Jeonghan assistant."
"She's poor?" His father sounds extremely confused.
"What she makes doesn't matter to me. The only thing that matters is the fact we're in love."
His father leans forward, resting his elbows on the desk. "How long have you been seeing her?"
"Three months."
"You either marry her, or the Park's daughter."
"It's too soon for us to get married."
"If she rejects your proposal, you'll marry Lena." His father stands up.
Seungcheol feels stuck in his place. His father walks out of his office as Seungcheol tries to wrap his brain around what just happened.
The door slams shut and Seungcheol instantly snaps out of it. He stands up quickly and rushes out of his office. His assistant Seungkwan stands up.
"Seungcheol, is everything okay?"
"I got to go. Move my meeting to tomorrow. Tell them I'm dealing with an emergency."
Seungcheol walks to the elevator in a rush. The doors open and quickly walks in. His office is on the seventeenth floor. He presses the sixteenth floor the one you and Jeonghan work on. He needs to get to you before you can hide from him. The doors open and he rushes to your desk, outside of Jeonghan office.
Your eyes go wide at the sight of him rushing to you. "I need to talk to you, please don't run and hide."
"Okay." You say softly.
He barges into Jeonghan's office. Jeonghan looks up from his computer very confused. "I'm taking your assistant for the day. Tell Joshua to find someone to fill in for her."
"What the fuck is happening?" Jeonghan is extremely confused.
"I'm going to propose to your assistant and hope that she says yes."
"That doesn't explain anything, Cheol. I've never seen you speak to her."
Seungcheol let's out a heavy sigh. "Come to my house after eight and I'll explain everything. Just ask Joshua to get you a second assistant."
Seungcheol walks out of Jeonghan office and sees you still sitting at your desk, looking extremely nervous.
"You're not fired or anything, so don't worry about that. Just grab your purse and anything you bring with you everyday. We're not coming back to office today."
Silently you stand up and grab your purse. "Um, sir, I can't really afford to miss work."
"You'll be paid for today, don't worry."
With your purse in hand you follow Seungcheol to the elevator. Silently, you stand there waiting for the doors to open. The elevator dings and you both step inside.
Seungcheol his the underground level for the parking garage. You stand there not sure what you should say to him.
"I'm aware you're not Angel, just so you know."
Your heart instantly drops. "I'm sorry."
"It's fine. I'm not mad about it."
"Angel is seeing someone else her parents don't know about. Did you know all along I wasn't Angel?"
"Yeah, I have a good memory, and recognized you immediately."
The elevator dings and the doors open. You both step out into the parking garage.
"Did you drive here?" He asks.
"No, I took the train. I don't own a car."
"Okay, follow me to my car." He starts walking toward his CEO parking spot.
"Sir, where are we going?"
"To lunch and to discuss a contract."
You follow him to his expense all black Maserati. He stands on the passenger side and opens the door. Sliding into a sport car that looks too expensive to touch, you're extremely confused by everything that's happening.
Seungcheol gets into the drivers seat silently as he starts the car. He turns on the radio to help cut the awkward silence. The drive to the restaurant isn't too long. He pulls up to an expensive looking hotel. He hands the keys to the valet before he walks around and quickly opens your door.
"Come on." He says.
You follow behind him with your heels clacking against the expensive marble flooring.
Workers bow their heads at Seungcheol as he heads towards the elevator. He presses the button and the doors slide open. Silently, you stand next to him. You have zero clue why he dragged you out of work and brought you here.
He presses the button to the seventeenth floor. He checks his watch and glances over at you. The silence between you is deafening.
The doors slide open and he hold his hand out, guesturing for you to go first.
He walks up an expensive looking restaurant. The host immediately lights up. "Mr. Choi." The host bows his head.
"Two please."
Immediately you're led off through the expensive restaurant. You've seen lunches here booked on Jeonghan schedule. You're led over to a plush booth that overlooks the city.
The waitress immediately comes over and places two glasses of wine in front of you. You can't even pick up the menu, you just stare at Seungcheol.
"I'm aware your name isn't Angel."
"I'm sorry."
"It's fine. I recognized you the moment you sat down."
He doesn't say anything else. He just opens the menu. "Do you know what you would like to eat?"
"I'm not hungry." You appetite disappeared as you were pulled away from work.
"Please, order something." He folds the menu placing it down in front of him.
The waitress comes back for the order and Seungcheol orders himself the salmon. The waitress turns to you, and you just blankly stare at the man across from you.
"My date will take the lemon chicken." He says, handing over the menu.
The silence between you is incredibly loud. Seungcheol's eyes are fixated on you. Grabbing the glass of wine he takes a big gulp. He doesn't even bother slowly sipping on it.
"Mr. Choi, what is this about?" You finally break the silence.
"You didn't call me Mr. Choi on our date. Please call me Seungcheol or Cheol." He raises his brow before taking another drink of wine.
"That date was a mistake on my part." If you could go back in time you would never let Angel convince you to go out.
His brows furrow together. "A mistake?"
"Yes, a mistake. I lied to you, and that's not fair to you."
"I don't care that you lied to me."
It's your turn to now furrow your brows. "You don't?"
"No I don't care."
"Oh." You thought for sure he was mad about your lies.
"I'm here because I have a business proposal for you." He takes a deep breath. "My father informed me today, that he plans on setting me up into an arranged marriage."
"What does that have to do with me?"
"Well you see, I told him I can't marry someone else, because I'm seeing someone and I'm very serious about them." You have no clue who he could possibly be talking about.
"Yeah?" You ask.
"I told him I'm dating you, Jeonghan's assistant." His words if you like an ice cold bucket of water. Your stomach drops and you're rendered speechless. "I know it's crazy. See, here's the thing, my father says I either propose to you, and marry you or I'm marrying Lena from the Park Bank family." You know exactly who he's talking about, Angel has mentioned her on multiple occasions. According to your best friend Lena is a narcissistic, social climber.
You open your mouth to speak but nothing comes out. Seungcheol leans back in his chair, and lets out a sigh.
"What are you asking of me?" You finally find the right words to say.
"I'm asking you to be my fiancée. We don't have to get married right away or anything. But I need you to play the role of my fiancée until my parents push hard enough for us to get married. Maybe we can make it a long engagement and I'll figure out an exit plan." He's absolutely insane. Your eyes are wide, and all you can do is blink at him. You can't process the fact, that he basically just proposed to you.
Reaching out, you grab your glass of wine, and without another thought, start chugging the rich liquid.
"I know this is crazy."
You set the empty glass on the table. "Am I being punished for lying to you?"
"No, not at all. I just thought this could be beneficial to both of us." He shakes his head.
"Beneficial?"
"Yes, you'll move into my penthouse, and I'll take care of you."
"To sleep with you? I know I lied, but I'm not sleeping with you and playing house with you."
He puts his hands up. "Woo, I'm not asking you to have sex with me. I'll set up the guest room just for you. You'll have your own space, and we can be roommates basically."
"What about my job?" You're pretty sure being engaged to the ceo is against hr policies.
"I'm technically your boss, but Jeonghan is in charge of you. You can continue working for him or I'll get you another position. Or you can be stay at home fiancée. I want to fully support you. If you're going to help me with this, it's the least I can do." Is he offering to be your sugar daddy?
"As a sugar daddy?" You blurt out.
"No, as your fiancé, I would be your providor."
The waitress comes over intrupting this absolutely insane conversation. She pours more wine into each of your glasses. You both go quiet for a moment.
"If I agree to this, what are the rules?" You've struggled to get by off and on through our your life. You realize that this business proposal could be a blessing, you can live comfortably and not worry about money.
"I haven't thought that far ahead. I think the one thing that needs to be clear is, we can't see other people. And when we're in public, we have to act like we're a couple. The only person who can know we're not together is Jeonghan."
"I need to have someone I can talk to about this. I need to tell Angel. She won't tell anyone. She has her own secrets she keeps hid away, and won't share ours." Seungcheol wants to laugh at the fact that of all people you bring up the girl that started this whole mess for you.
"Okay. I'll get you a proper engagement ring today. I want to have you moved in by the end of the week."
The waitress walks over and sets your food down in front of you.
"By the way, you're going to have to be comfortable sharing kisses and holding my hand in public." The idea of sharing public affection with Seungcheol doesn't sound terrible.
He reaches out, holding his hand over the table. "Darling, do we have a deal?" Reaching out your grab his hand and shake it.
"I accept your business proposal."
THE HOTTEST NEW COUPLE
Everything has felt like a whirlwind. Seungcheol was true to his word, he got you a beautiful engagement ring, and three days after your agreement, you had moved out of your studio apartment into his huge penthouse.
With the help of Seungkwan, he made sure your bedroom was perfect. The guestroom that is now your room is absolutely beautiful, and it even has its own ensuite bathroom with a beautiful claw foot tub, and a shower that can comfortably have four people in it. Seungcheol stocked it, with all the products you use. He wasn't lying when he said he would take care of you. He brought over all your clothes, and even bought you a ton of new stuff to wear.
You get to work two days before it's all over the news that you and Seungcheol are engaged. As soon as everyone knows, things instantly change.
Walking into work with Seungcheol, you can feel everyone's eyes trained on you. The two front desk girls who are the biggest gossips intentally watch. Seungcheol shoots them both a smile before lacing his fingers with yours.
The two girls immediately leans in and clearly start whispering to each other.
Looking down while you walk, you try your hardest to ignore all the staring.
The doors to the elevator slide open, and Seungcheol leads you inside. He doesn't release your hand as he presses the button to the floor you work on.
There is a long beat of silence. "The people are going to talk about our relationship, but I just need you to ignore it."
"Okay." You aren't exactly sure how you can just ignore people whispering about you.
"It should calm down shortly."
The elevator stops on your floor and Seungcheol instantly can tell you're stressed. He releases your hand. "Hey, everything will be okay."
"Okay." You don't know if your saying that for him, or yourself.
The doors open and you step out. Seungcheol stays back and gives you a smile before the doors close.
Walking through the office, you can feel too many eyes on you. You head straight for Jeonghan’s office. You give his closed door a knock before stepping inside. You've never been happier that Jeonghan gets to work early.
Jeonghan is sitting at his desk leaning back sipping a coffee. "You know Joshua got me a second assistant, you don't have to rush in here bright and early now."
"I'm kinda freaking out and need a moment away from all of the gossips that work for this company." Jeonghan may be your boss, but you have grown to consider him your friend.
"Oh, I see news of your engagement hit the media."
You sit down in the chair in front of his desk. "I'm not used to this. Seungcheol is used to this, the media has always loved him. Before all of this no one knew who I was."
"The media circus will calm down soon. You guys will be the hot gossip for maybe a week."
You hate being the center of attention and this is making you feel uncomfortable. "I don't like that I know that everyone in the this office is talking about me."
"Don't let them bother you." Jeonghan sits his iced latte on the table.
"It's hard not to."
"Mina is working at her desk outside. Why don't your grab your laptop and work in my office for now?" Mina is Jeonghan second assistant Seungcheol requested he got.
"Don't you need privacy?"
"No."
"What about meetings?"
"There is a conference room on this floor and the big one on floor ten." Jeonghan has clearly thought about this.
"Okay."
Things from this day shifted. Everyone officially knows about your engagement. Jeonghan has gone out of his way to protect you from people talking about. He may be your boss, but through this he's become one of your closest friends.
Living in Seungcheol's penthouse feels strange. His large penthouse doesn't feel like home. You just feel like a guest, living here for now.
It's been a long day at work, since Seungcheol has to stay over for a meeting Jeonghan offers to drop you off.
Arriving at your new home, you slip off your heels and head towards your room. Looking through your drawers, you find some lounge wear to change into. After a long day at work, a scorching hot shower sounds amazing.
Walking into the bathroom you strip away your clothes. Stepping into the shower, you try to turn your brain off. This whole engagement with Seungcheol is still a lot to process.
Standing under the hot water, you try your hardest to turn off your brain, but you can't. You just keep thinking about the way everyone now looks at you.
There is this little voice inside your head that says people probably just think you're a gold digger.
Shaking your head, you try and push away the nasty thoughts. Grabbing your favorite shampoo, you start washing your hair.
Getting out of the shower you get dressed in the comfy clothes you picked out. Your bare feed pad across the hardwood floor as you make your way to the kitchen. Opening the fridge, you look for the ingredients to make something to eat. Cooking has always been one thing you like to do to relax.
Opening the drawer you find two steaks. You hestiate to pick them up. It feels weird to use things without asking for permission, but Seungcheol has told you a few time, that anything in the house is yours.
Pulling the steaks from the fridge you look for some veggies that would go good with them.
Grabbing your phone, you turn on some music. You sing along to each song as you prep your dinner. Maybe if Seungcheol doesn't get home super late, he can enjoy a warm meal for dinner.
You get lost in the music, and cooking. You plate the steak giving it time to rest. Walking over to the wine friend in the counter, you find a bottle of wine. You stare a the label for a moment, hoping and praying you didn't pick an insanely expensive bottle. Reaching into the cupboard you grab a glass.
You pour the deep cherry colored wine into the glass. The merlot tastes devine.
Sitting at the table by yourself you enjoy your second glass of wine. You're taking your time eating, hoping Seungcheol will be home soon. You know you can just ask him when he'll be home, but for some reason that feels inappropriate to you.
Scrolling through your phone as you slowly eat, you can't help but smile as the front door opens. A very exhausted looking Seungcheol walks in.
He looks up at the table and finds you giving him a gentle smile.
"Hi." He awkwardly waves.
"I made dinner for you."
You stand up quickly, and rush towards the kitchen. Seungcheol takes his time taking off his bag, and walks towards the dining area. Walking back into the dining area you place down the plate and bring another glass for wine.
"This looks amazing." Seungcheol is learning that you love cooking.
"Thank you. Sorry if you were saving these steaks."
He takes a seat across from where you were sitting. "Anything is this house is yours." He's told you this so many times. It's just extremely hard to wrap your mind around that.
Reaching out he grabs the bottle of wine, and pours himself a glass. Having dinner with him like this feels very domestic. It feels almost a little too real.
You eat in silence for a few minutes before he speaks again. "Sorry I had to stay so late at work. I'm trying really hard not to be as much of a workaholic." Anyone who knows him knows what a hard worker he is. He's always been known for speanding countless late night hours at the office. You've been there a handful of times with Jeonghan working late with him.
"My father called."
"What did he say?" You know that Seungcheol and his father's relationship can't be kind of difficult at times.
"He saw the news of our engagement, and has requested for us to join them for dinner one night." The idea of having dinner with Seungcheol's family is quite terrifying. You're sure they're nice people but they're extremely rich and live an very different life style then the one you're used to.
You knit your brows together, unsure of how to respond.
"I told them it can't be anytime soon, that we're very busy."
"Oh."
"We can avoid that dinner for a while. I have to travel quite a bit for work soon, and you won't be meeting them without me."
"Okay." Grabbing the glass of wine, you take another big drink.
"Hey." He reaches out, taking your hand. "I know this isn't a normal engagement, but just know that we're a team. I have your back, when you agreed to help me that meant we became partners." You still barely know him, but you can't help but feel as if you're catching feelings for him. Seungcheol is truly the ultimate man. It would be nearly impossible not to have a crush on him.
OH HES A GENTLEMAN
The media is having a hay day with the fact one of the cities most eligible bachelors is now taken. Everyone one online is talking about your "secret relationship." Too many threads online are speculating about how long you have been together.
Everyday you go into work holding Seungcheol's hand, and every afternoon you sit in his office eating lunch. Sometimes it's just the two of you, and occasionally Jeonghan will join.
He finds it quite humorous, watching the two of you play the role of the happily engaged couple.
You've be technically engaged for three weeks, and outside of work you haven't done anything together other then relax at home. You've had a handful of movie night, the select times Seungcheol is working from home on something.
Today, he came home from a meeting out of the office after eight. It's one of those night you didn't feel like cooking, so you settled for ordering yourself takeout from your favorite Thai food place, and made yourself comfortable on the couch, reading a book. Seungcheol barges in holding a shopping bag from Prada.
"Hi, darling." Ever since he proposed he started calling your this nickname. You won't complain though, you find it charming. You've never had anyone call you a sweet pet name.
"Hi, Cheol."
Pulling the blanket off your lap, you place your book down and walk over towards Seungcheol. "Did you go shopping?" You realized immediately that Seungcheol has a love for luxury designer items. All his suits he wears to the office are designer. Your favorite ones, being his Prada ones.
"I got you something." He holds the bag out towards you.
"Why?" You're very much not used to him buying you things, let alone expensive luxury items.
"Because you're my fiancée, and I saw this and thought of you."
Sitting the bag on the table, you pull out the tissue and find a black box with a bow on it. Your heart drops already knowing what's inside. One day while you were leaving work together you saw a woman with this bag and you told him how that was your dream bag. Your first mistake was letting him know you had a desire to own something expensive like this.
Opening the box, you want to cry at the sight, of the beautiful black leather bag, you've always dreamed of owning. To be quite honest, you're a little caught off guard by how much he's spoiling you. You have to remind yourself that this is a business transaction. That there are no romantic intentions behind his purchase. You need to tell yourself this a gift from a "friend."
"Seungcheol, this is beautiful." He gives you a crooked smile.
"I'm glad you like it." The second he knew you wanted this bag, he fully planned on buying it for you.
Your eyes start to water, you reach up pushing away your tears before they can fall. You can't help but feel embarrassed for crying in front of him. "I was thinking, even though this is a business transaction, that maybe we could still go on dates." You've been thinking about brining this up for the last few days. Angel had put the idea into your brain. Your best friend loves the idea that you and Seungcheol are living together. According to her, Seungcheol will treat you right and take care of you. She not wrong, you haven't been together that long and Seungcheol is actively going out of his way to be an amazing partner to you.
He nods and smiles. "I would love to take you out on dates." He steps toward you and leans in and presses his lips to your cheek for a gentle kiss. "How about we go out tomorrow night?"
"I would love that."
"What are you reading?"
"Just some romance novel Angel has been talking about nonstop." Your best friend has always loved a spicy romance novel, she's even roped you into reading them with her.
"What did you do for dinner?" Seungcheol asks as he removes his suit jacket.
"I ordered Thai food."
"Is there any left?"
"Yeah, I ordered enough for both of us."
You lead him into the kitchen and help dish him a plate. Sitting at the kitchen table, you silently read your book as he eats dinner.
-
Seungcheol made a big deal to both Seungkwan and Jeonghan that he need to be off on time today. He's gone out of his way to plan a romantic date night for you both.
Sitting at Jeonghan's desk, you're working on organizing his meetings for the next few days.
"You know your adoring fiancé is making a big deal about some date night?" Jeonghan looks up from his phone.
Your cheeks warm with blush. "Is he?"
"You now for this just being a business transaction, he's putting in a lot of effort to woo you." You thought when Seungcheol made this proposition, that this would simply be a business transaction, but things from the very beginning have felt a little too real.
The moment you clock out of work, Seungcheol is already at Jeonghan's office, ready to pick you up.
He's dressed in your favorite navy Prada suit he owns. In his hand he's holding a beautiful bouquet of red roses.
Jeonghan leans back in his desk chair, holding back a laugh. He's eating up the fact that Seungcheol is putting in a real effort.
"Are you ready to go?" Seungcheol asks, holding the bouquet out.
"Yes." Thank god you wore your favorite dress to work today, and decided to actually wear a pair of heels.
"Did you send Seungkwan off to pick those up?" Jeonghan chimes in.
"No." Seungcheol responds before grabbing your hand.
The second you step out of Jeonghan's office, hand in hand with the ceo of the company, all eyes are on you. Blush creeps up on your neck, realizing everyone in eye shot is staring at you.
Seungcheol squeezes your hand, snapping you out of your thoughts. He stops at the elevator. Leaning down his lips brush your ear. "Darling, ignore all of them."
Reaching, he presses the button. Silently you glance up at him. "You look beautiful." If only he knows that you wore a sexy red matching lingerie set he probably won't see.
The doors slide open and he leads you inside. As more people join you in the elevator, you end up practically pressed against him.
Walking outside you find Seungcheol’s expensive red Ferrari waiting for you. He wastes no time taking the flowers and holding the door open for you.
He jumps in the drive seat and puts the flowers back in your lap.
The drive to the restaurant is filled with a comfortable silence, as Seungcheol hums along to the radio.
You've learned since living with him, he loves singing along the radio lightly, and singing when he's in the shower.
He pulls the car up to the valet and you immediately recognize this restaurant. You've booked a few very important meetings for Jeonghan here. This place is crazy expensive.
The passenger door opens and Seungcheol is holding his hand out for you. "Come on, darling."
Your heels click against the marble floor. Hand in hand he leads you to host. "Two for Choi." He says holding up two fingers.
The hostess leads you over to a booth tucked away in the corner. Sliding into the booth, he sits down across from you. The hostess sits down a simple paper menu down in front of you. This place is known for the Omakase style. The sushi chef here is world renowned.
The waitress comes back over, and Seungcheol orders a nice bottle of sake.
Dinner is absolutely incredible. You've never had sushi this delicious before. The whole time you're eating and talking you can't help but notice how Seungcheol lights up as he talks to you. If you didn't know any better you might be think has feelings for you.
"Thank you for taking me out." You say before taking a sip of your sake.
"This is nice. We should try and go on a date once, or twice a week." When he talks to you like this, it's hard to tell yourself that this isn't real.
"I would like that."
The bill arrives and before the waitress can even put it down, Seungcheol is holding up his black card. You don't even want to know how expensive this date was.
Leaving the restaurant, Seungcheol immediately laces his fingers with yours. "Do you have room for dessert?" He ask before walking up to the valet.
"Yes."
"How do you feel about vanilla soft serve?"
"It sounds delicious."
Tugging on your hand, he leads you down the street to a little ice cream shop next door. He holds the door open, stepping inside you're reminded how overdressed you are. Your heels click against the tile. Seungcheol never releases your hand as he walks up and orders to cones.
The lady working the counter hands your a tall vanilla ice cream cone. Seungcheol leads your over to a little table by the window. He releases your hand as he helps you sit down. He takes his place across from you.
You slide your tongue through the creamy and sweet vanilla soft serve. Seungcheol's eyes stay on you, watching you enjoy your sweet treat.
"Have you been here before?" You ask before taking another lick.
"I like to come here after meetings. If it's a bad meeting it's a little pick me up, and if it's a good meeting, it's a celebration."
"What would you call this?"
"A celebration, after a nice date."
After ice cream you finally head back home. The whole ride you can't stop thinking about the way Seungcheol was looking at you. Recently, he's been flirting quite a bit, and things are just starting to feel too real. You realize maybe you really want things to be real.
THE TALK OF THE TOWN
Something about today feels off. Your morning started by spilling your coffee, and by the time you arrived to work with Seungcheol you're fed up with the constant stares from everyone at work.
Standing in the copy room, you're atempting to scan some items in peace. The door opens and you glance over to find two girls who work in accounting whispering and softly giggling. Taking a deep breath, you try and push away the negative thoughts floating around in your brain.
You know Seungcheol is used to being the talk around town, and having everyone stare at him, but you aren't used to this. You feel like a circus act.
Grabbing your papers, you quickly exit the room. You can feel both their eyes burning into you. Walking through office you can feel everyone continue to watch you.
Busting into Jeonghan office, you desperately need to escape everyone's prying eyes.
He looks up from his computer and knits his brows together. You must look absolutely frazzled.
"Are you okay?"
Closing your eyes you take another deep breath trying to gather yourself. "Yes." Lying feels like the best option at the moment.
"Sit down and stop lying to me."
Placing the papers down on the desk you sit across from him.
"What is going on?" He reaches for his coffee that's sitting next to him.
"I'm tired of everyone staring at me, and everyone talking about me when I enter a room here." You say quickly.
"Don't let them get to you, they're just jealous."
"Jeonghan, it's not that easy." You sigh.
"I know. But just know that Seungcheol and I will always have your back."
"Your fiancé has a meeting during lunch." He always gives you a mischievous smile whenever he refers to Seungcheol as your fiancé. "How about we go get some lunch together?"
"That would be nice."
Jeonghan leads you out of the office. You aren't sure what he has planned, but you follow him to the little cafe on the corner. The holds up two fingers and waiteess immediately leads you to the table by the window.
You sit down across from Jeonghan, picking up the menu. You realize you've had food delivered from this restaurant before for him.
"This is the place with your favorite chicken pesto sandwich."
"I was gonna order us lunch from here, but you clearly need an hour away from the office." Jeonghan sets his menu down. "I'm going to recommend my favorite, the chicken pesto. I would also suggest getting the lychee lemonade."
"How about you order for me," you give him a smile.
The waitress comes back and Jeonghan does order for you. This place is cute. Looking around, you wonder if Seungcheol would have lunch with you here one day.
The waitress comes back over and sets down a glass of ice cold lemonade in front of you, and a latte in front of Jeonghan.
"So, how is life being engaged?" He asked as he sticks his straw in his latte.
"Socially not the best, at home with Seungcheol—" At home things are feeling too real, and you cant help but constantly be confused.
Jeonghan raises his brow, before taking a sip of coffee. "Something tells me you're enjoying the aspect of sharing a home with him."
A heavy sigh passes your lips. "I can't talk about this with you. You're his best friend."
He shrugs. "Anything you say to me, won't be repeated. He may be my best friend, but I'm also friends with you."
"Things just feel a little too real right now."
Jeonghan nods before taking a drink of the cold beverage in front of him. "You know, Seungcheol seems happier since you both started the arrangement."
He's not wrong, before all of this started, whenever you would see Seungcheol around the office he was always sporting a frown. These days it's rare you don't see him smiling. The only time he doesn't seem happy, is when his father is in the office.
"He's not the only one that seems happier." You glances at you, raising his brow. "I don't think I have ever seen you this consistently happy." Before Seungcheol, you were a lot more stressed. Your job pays you well, but worrying about paying rent and all your expenses was too stressful at points. It's nice knowing, no matter what Seungcheol will take care of you.
"I feel happier. I spending time with him, and he's great to live with."
"I think you two would make a fantastic couple."
The waitress comes over and sets down both your meals. Jeonghan thanks her, and gives her a gentle smile.
"Aren't we already a couple?"
"I'm saying, if you start acting like this is fully real, you'll be even happier." Jeonghan's words play in your head on repeat. Over the last week or so you've wondered what it would like for your relationship with Seungcheol to be real. Sure, he takes you out and will hold your hand, but you want to know what it's like to kiss him and to be with him fully.
Arriving back at the office, you find Seungcheol by the elevator, with his phone pressed to his ear. The moment he see you and Jeonghan, he gives you a big smile.
Jeonghan nudges you and gently pushes you towards Seungcheol. Glancing over, you see the girls at the front desk clearly watching you, and whispering to each other.
Jeonghan immediately looks over at the girls. The startled look on their faces as he walks towards them says it all. The immediately stand up and bow their heads at him, clearly apologizing.
Seungcheol glances over there as he pockets his phone. He takes a couple steps towards you before pulling you into his chest for a hug.
He kisses the top of your head before you leading you towards the elevator.
-
CRAVING SOMETHING MORE
Sitting in Angel's favorite restaurant downtown, you're sipping on a latte listening to her talk about the crazy things Soonyoung has done to her in bed recently. It's been so long since you've been intimate with anyone, that hearing about her sex life is reminding you how much you miss sex.
"You look like you're zoning out." Angel says before taking a sip of her own latte.
"I'm listening." You raise your brow, leaning back.
"What's going through your mind?"
"Nothing." You don't want to have this conversation, let alone have it in the middle of a cafe.
"I don't believe you." She pouts. "Just tell me what's going on."
Reaching for your coffee, you take another sip of your ice latte. "Fine. I'm just thinking about the fact I miss being intimate with someone."
"Girl, last time I check you lived with a super hot buff guy who calls himself your fiancé."
"It's not that easy. We both know he's not fully my fiancé."
Angel dramatically rolls her eyes. "Um, last time I checked random men don't buy just any girl a Prada bag she's always dreamed of."
"He did that just to be nice." You look at said bag sitting on the table next to you.
"Girl, if you're missing sex and being intimate with someone, ride your sexy fake fiance." Angel has never been one to mend her words.
You're in the middle of a crowded cafe. The last thing you need is to have people hearing about your so called relationship with with Seungcheol. "Angel." You look around hoping no one is paying attention.
"What? You're the one who clearly seems to be pent up. Sometning tells me, your fiance would be down."
"Keep it down. I don't need the whole cafe in my business."
Angel smirks before taking a sip of her drink. "Are you bringing Seungcheol to my birthday tonight?"
"Yes." When you invited Seungcheol, you weren't sure if he would agree. It's been a few months since you've been faking your relationship, but you haven't attempted a social outing like this.
"Make a move on him tonight. Have yourself a little cocktail and loosen up and tell him you want to ride him into the sun." You can't even respond you just stare at her absolutely embarrassed. "Wear that skin tight lace dress I bought you. I promise you, Seungcheol won't be able to keep his hands to himself."
-
Arriving at Angel's luxury penthouse, you're dressed in the skimpiest dress you own. Standing outside the door, you keep attempting to smooth out the front of your dress. Seungcheol is standing next to you in a pair of black jeans, a white shirt that hugs his large frame, and a leather jacket. Looking down at your feet, you realize these high heels might have been a mistake.
"You look gorgeous by the way."
"Huh?" You look up at him, knitting your brows together.
"You keep messing with your dress, and I just want to let you know, you look incredible." He reaches out, taking your hand away from your stomach.
"I feel like the dress is too tight and makes my stomach stand out." You've always been a little bit self conscious about your body, and this dress isn't helping that.
"I promise you, you look sexy as hell."
Your ears burn with embarrassment. "Thank you."
The door swing opens and you find Angel standing there. "Come inside now." She grabs your free hand, pulling you and Seungcheol inside.
Her place is filled to the brim with too many people to count. Looking around, you see some familiar faces, and too people you have never seen before. She leads you off to her room where Soonyoung is sitting on her bed.
"Hi." He awkwardly waves to you and Seungcheol.
Angel releases your hand and walks over to Soonyoung. You immediately notice how he lights up instantly.
"I have the good alcohol tucked away in here. The last thing I need is people getting into my thousand dollar scotch." She walks over and grabs the expensive bottle of the dresser.
"How about we takes shots to celebrate my birthday?" She smiles.
"Sure." Seungcheol responds.
Soonyoung hops off the bed and goes over to the bar cart by her huge walk in closet. He comes back holding four crystal glass shot glasses.
Angel runs off to her closet while Soonyoung pours the dark liquor. She comes back dressed in a completely different dress. She wearing a vintage dress that looks incredible on her.
Soonyoung passes around the shots. Seungcheol raises his and says, "to the birthday girl."
Everyone takes their shots. The dark liquor burns as it slides down your throat. Your eyes stay trained on Seungcheol, watching as he's absolutely unfazed by the strong liquor.
Everyone puts there shot glasses back. Standing close to Seungcheol, he throws his arm over your shoulder, holding you close to him.
"My room is off limits to anyone who isn't in here now. If you guys need some privacy feel free to come in here." She raises her eyes brows at both of you suggestively.
Glancing up at Seungcheol you see him biting back a smile.
Reaching over, she grabs Soonyoung's hand and leads him out of her room. You're left standing their was Seungcheol.
"Should we go be social?" He asks.
"Probably."
Heading out of her room, you head off toward the kitchen. The kitchen is filled with people. Seungcheol makes his way to the fridge. He pulls out a bottle of beer and cracks it open.
"What would you like to drink?" He asks loud enough for you to hear over the booming music.
"I'll take a beer." He hands you the one he already opened and grabs another one.
It's not long before some of your friends find you, and immediately start chatting with Seungcheol. It seems everyone wants to know your "fiancée". You can't blame them, he's extremely charming and kind. You spend your night making small talk people. The whole night Seungcheol is by your side. Even when he's talking to someone else, you have his attention. His hand is always on you in one way or another. His hand on the small of your back makes every logical thought start slowly slipaway.
You excuse yourself, needing a moment to think. Walking through the crowded penthouse, you make your way to Angel's room. Heading to the ensuite bathroom you take your time using the restroom, before touching up your lip oil. You stare into the mirror, and start soothing out your dress.
A knock on the door startles you. You open door and aren't surprised to see Seungcheol standing there. His jacket is off, and your eyes instantly travel across his broad chest. This man looks mouth watering in absolutely anything he wears.
"I shouldn't have followed you, clearly you want space." He mumbles.
You shake your head. "I just needed a moment. I'm glad you followed me."
Without saying another word he steps towards you. He stands so close to you, there is barely any distance between you. Looking up at him you stand a slow breath. His large hand rest on rests on your cheek. Parting your lips slightly. He drags his thumb across your bottom lip.
"You're so pretty." He rasp. You can't think of anything to say, you just slowly blink at him. "My pretty fiancée." Leaning in his nose brushes against yours.
"Seungcheol?"
"Yes, darling?"
"Don't play games with me."
A smile tugs at his lips. "I would never do that."
The moment his lips touch you, the oxygen as been sucked out of the room. One hand holds your face, while the other rests on your side, holding you close to him. One of your hand clutches his shirt.
Your lips move together as if your need each other to breathe. He pulls back slightly and gives you a smile. He turns your body so you're pressed against the wall. Your dress rises up your thighs. Wrapping your arms around his neck, you pull him down towards you.
Kissing him is intoxicating. Any liquor you had during the party is long gone from your veins. Now you're drunk on Seungcheol. His hands rest on your hips, holding your close to him. You don't know how long you've been kissing for. His lips muffle your moans.
Pulling back, his lips are smeared with your lip oil. You both look slightly disheveled. You should be enjoying the fact that you finally kissed, but right now the only thing you can think about is what this means.
"We should go home." He says, pulling away. Your stomach sinks instantly. Your heart rate picks up as anxiety kicks in. Maybe you shouldn't have made out with your fake fiancé.
The car ride back to the house, feels different. Seungcheol hand is resting on your thigh. You catch him occasionally glancing over at you.
The moment you're inside, Seungcheol says goodnight before quickly kissing your forehead and disappearing off into his room.
After finally stripping away your tight lace dress that's left you feeling uncomfortable all night, you finally step into a hot shower.
The hot water helps strip away the tension. No matter how hard you try, you can't get the feeling of Seungcheol's lips on yours out of your mind.
NOTHING MORE THAN A GOLD DIGGER
It's been a week since your kiss you shared, and absolutely nothing has changed. There are still the lingering touches from him and longing looks from you, but nothing more has happened.
It's been clear since this morning that Seungcheol isn't having a good day. It's a Saturday and normally neither of you work on the weekends. Today is different though, Seungcheol has spent all morning locked away in his office.
You spend the morning out with Angel getting lunch and you thought maybe by the time you returned home Seungcheol would be done working.
Sitting on the couch, you're mindlessly scrolling through your phone. Seungcheol's office door opens. He closes the door and pauses, taking a deep breath. He walks out into the living room and finds you sitting on the couch.
"Are you okay?" You close your phone, and sit it down on the couch next to you.
"I'm sorry to do this, but we have to go to my parents house for dinner tonight." The frustrated look on his face lets you know everything you need to know. He moves and sits down on the couch next you. He leans back, letting out a heavy sigh.
"I don't mind going." It's not exactly a lie. You will absolutely go to stand by Seungcheol side, but you're quite scared to meet his parents. Specifically his father.
He pushes himself up, resting his elbows on his knees. "I'm not saying this because you don't always look nice, but I need you to look extra nice tonight. My parents are judgy." You know what he means, you don't take offense to what he says.
"What should I wear?"
"Why don't you wear that Chanel dress I bought you, and pair of heels?" You know the exact dress he's talking about. He randomly gave it to you last week, and you told yourself you were going to save it for a special occasion. You didn't expect that special occasion to be meeting his parents.
"Okay. What time are we going?"
"Can you be ready by five?" That's two hours away, it won't take you that long to get ready.
"Yeah."
You both go your separate ways, Seungcheol heads off to his room, and you head off to your bathroom.
Turning the shower on, you let the water warm up. Stripping away your clothes you step into the warm water. Tonight calls for an everything shower. You wash your hair, scrub your body with you warm vanilla scented sugar scrub, before you take your time shaving.
After the shower you take your time, applying your fancy body oils, and lotions. Your goal is to feel as nice as possible tonight.
Heading off to the closet you find the exact dress Seungcheol gave you. The dress fits perfectly. The only problem is, you can't reach the back zipper. Picking up your heels you walk out into the living room. You glance into the kitchen to find Seungcheol standing there drinking what looks to be a glass of whiskey.
You drop your heels on the floor and walk towards. One of your hands is across your chest, holding up your dress.
"Can you help me with the zipper?"
He nods and walks up towards. Turning around you make sure your hair is out of the way. Slowly he slides the zipper up.
"There you go."
You turn back around to face him. His eyes slowly travel up and down your body, clearly checking you out.
"You look beautiful."
"Hopefully your parents like me." It shouldn't matter if they do, this whole relationship is fake, but you desperately want them to like you.
He stares at you trying to figure out what to say. He wants his parents to like you, but he knows how his father is.
"My dad is tough, but my mother is kind." He walks over and picks up the glass of whiskey. He chugs the rest of the liquid and doesn't even flinch.
"We should go." You say.
Arrive at Seungcheol's family home, you can't help but be in awe at how beautiful their home is.
Seungcheol parks his car in the driveway. The moment he's parked he hops out to open your door. He's clearly a mixture of nervous and frustrated.
Hand in hand he leads you to the front door. "No matter what, I have you back." Is the last thing he says before the door is opened.
Walking in you're immediately greeted by his mother. She's excited to see you both. She pulls Seungcheol in for a hug.
"Mother, this is my fiance." He does even get to say your name before his mother is pulling you in.
"Seungcheol said you're pretty, and he's not wrong, you're beautiful." Blush creeps across your cheeks. She releases you and leads you both towards the kitchen.
"Let's have a glass of wine."
Looking around the expensive hi-tech kitchen, you're truly reminded how different both your tax brackets are.
"Seungcheol, go get your father and tell him it's dinner time."
Seungcheol hand lingers on your lower back for a moment. He knits his brows together and opens his mouth, wanting to tell his mother no.
"I'll be okay." You mouth to him quietly.
Hesitantly, Seungcheol leaves you alone.
You glance over at Mrs. Choi, she gives you a gentle smile, one that reminds you of your own mother. She picks up a glass from the counter, and pours you a glass of white wine.
Taking the glass you stare at it for a moment before taking a sip.
"Seungcheol is a good man." His mother says.
"I know."
"My husband is a tough man, but he's tough because he's trying to protect the things he loves." This is her way of defending him. Seungcheol rarely speaks of his father, it's clear to you that they have quite a few issues.
"I would never do anything to hurt Seungcheol." You've fallen in love with her son, the last thing you want to do is hurt him.
"I can tell by the way that you both look at each other that you're in love." You stomach drops. Your feelings you have for Seungcheol don't feel like they're being reciprocated.
"He's a great man."
"I asked Seungcheol if you had any food allergies. I asked our chef to make something special for dinner tonight." She gives you another smile before taking a drink of her wine.
Seungcheol comes back alone. He can't hide the irritated look on his face. "He'll join us in a little while. Let's start dinner." He grabs your hand leading you towards the dining room.
Walking into the dining room, you're greeted by a long marble table. Four places are already set. Seungcheol shows you to your place and sits down next to you. His mother sits down across from you.
Silently, you sit there listening to Seungcheol and his mother talk. Its clear he's quite distant recently. She's a sweet lady, and it's clear she cares about her son.
The chef comes out and places down plates in front of you. The food looks absolutely delicious. Quitely you eat, listening to Mrs. Choi talk about a charity dinner she's hosting.
The moment Mr. Choi walks in the room the mood shifts. Mrs. Choi stands up to greet him. The feeling of Seungcheol large hand resting on your thigh instantly catches your attention.
"You must be my son's fiancée. The assistant." The way he's says your job title sounds degrading.
"Nice to meet you." Your voice is meek. You feel like you don't belong here.
"Don't speak to her like that." Seungcheol immediately responds.
His father barks out a laugh, sitting down at the table, across from him. A screaming silence takes over the room. The tension is so thick you can cut it with a knife. His father doesn't say anything else as another round of food is brought out.
His mother goes back to talking about her charity event. You silently sit there eating. You can feel Mr. Choi's eyes burning into you.
"So, how did you manage to seduce my son?" He gives you a pointed look.
Glancing at Seungcheol, he grinds his teeth. His hand squeezes your thigh.
"I didn't persue your son."
"That's funny." Mr. Choi barks out another laugh.
"I asked her out. She wouldn't give me the time of day for month. I persued her." Seungcheol responds.
"Seungcheol, you're the cities most eligible bachelor and you picked a gold digger." His venomous works sting. Wincing, You avert your eyes.
Shoving his plate forwards, Seungcheol stands quickly. "You will not speak to my fiancée that way. Darling, let's go home." He reaches for your hand.
"Cheol." his mother stands up quickly.
His father leans back in his chair with his eye burning into you.
"Mother, I'm sorry. I'm not going to sit here and let him speak to her like that."
"Baby, let's go home." He's never called you that before. You can see the desperation behind his eyes.
Standing, you let him lead you out of house. The moment you're outside, he lets out a heavy sigh.
"I'm sorry." Is all he can say.
"It's okay." You're hurt, but that's not his fault.
The car ride home is filled with silence. It's clear Seungcheol is extremely upset. Walking into the house, he pauses and stares at you.
"I'm sorry," he repeats again.
"I'm okay."
Walking over to you, he rests his hand on your cheek. You think for a moment he might kiss you. He leans in and gently kisses your cheek before heading off to his bedroom.
-
No matter how hard you try, you can't sleep. Lying in bed staring at the ceiling, your mind wonders to Seungcheol. Pulling yourself out of bed you glance at yourself in the full length mirror. You're dressed in panties that barely cover your butt and a baggy shirt that hits mid thigh. You should find a robe or something but right now, you just need to to get out of this room. Maybe a glass of water or something will help you relax.
Your sock covered feet pad against the hard wood floor. Walking through the living room, you glance over and see Seungcheol office door is cracked open, light is flickering out into the dark living room.
No thoughts are in your head as you walk towards his office. Not bothering to knock you peak your head in. You find his laptop in front of him. He's dressed in just a pair of cotton gray lounge pants. His beautiful bare torso is on display.
The sound of the door creeking closed catches his attention. Raising his head, his eyes catch yours.
"What are you doing up?" He pushes his chair back a little.
"I couldn't sleep."
"Why?"
"I was worried about you."
He pushes his fingers through his dark hair, and lets out a sigh. "You shouldn't have to worry about me."
You take a step towards his desk. His eyes travel up and down your very exposed legs. Thinking maybe you should have found something else to wear.
"Dinner upset you." You place your hand on the expense marble top desk.
"I was upset, because he was rude to you." He lets out a sigh. "I don't ever want to see you upset, and knowing that my father was intentionally rude to you—" he blinks and looks away. "I just don't like that he treated you that way, and he thought he could say those cruel things to you."
"I don't care what he thinks about me. I just care about what you think." You walk around the desk. He rolls his chair back, giving you room to stand in front of him.
He looks up at you with sad eyes. Reaching our you rest your hand on his cheek. "I don't like seeing you upset."
"I'm not upset anymore."
Pulling back, you rest your butt against his desk. You stare at him, studying him carefully. Ever since that kiss you shared, you've desperately wanted to do it again.
Reaching out he silently mess with the hem of your baggy shirt. "I like your pajamas."
Blush flushes your cheeks. "I should have put a robe on."
He shakes his head, standing quickly. "No, you shouldn't have." He takes a step towards you, caging you in against his desk. The tension in the room is thick. Leaning in he brushes his nose against yours.
"Cheol—"
"Yes, darling?" He pulls back slightly.
"Why haven't you kissed me again since the party?" That kiss you shared has been living in your mind on repeat.
His hand rests on your cheek. Slowly he drags his thumb across your bottom lip. "I was afraid you didn't want me to kiss you again. I feel like I keep messing things up with you."
"I want you to kiss me again." You muster up every single ounce of confidence you have.
"My fiancée wants another kiss?" He raises his brow.
"Please."
He leans in slowly, leaving you desperate for what's to come. First touch of his lips is intoxicating. One hand rest on your hip, while the other holds your face. This kiss feels different, feels desperate and lust filled.
He pulls back and looks are you with lust blown eyes. Both your lips are swollen from the intense kiss.
"More." You whisper.
Without another word, he grabs your hips lifting your on to his desk. The marble is cold against the bare skin of butt and thighs. A shiver runs down your spine. Seungcheol stands between your spread legs, crashing his lips into yours. His lips are air and your oxygen deprived lungs. Wrapping your arms around his neck you hold him close. His hands run up and down your shirt cover sides.
He pulls back just a little to judge your reaction. "More." You repeat as you chase his lips.
Pushing his hand up under your baggy shirt, you feel his calloused hand run along your side. Pushing yourself towards him, you're desperate for more.
One of his hands moves to your butt, groping the flesh through your panties. Absentmindedly, a moan leaves your lips.
"You sound so pretty," he practically moans as his lips make a trail from your jaw down to the most sensitive part of your neck.
"Cheol." You moan his name like a sinful prayer.
He slips his hand under your panties. Grabbing your cheek, and pulling you towards the edge of the desk. It desperate moan leaves your lips, feeling Seungcheol hardened erection pressing against your panty covered core.
"Fuck me." You aren't quite sure where that came from, but you want him so badly it hurts.
"Baby, we shouldn't have our first time on my desk while I'm upset." He pulls back with wide eyes. He's trying his hardest to think logically.
"Okay." You pull back from him. The instant feeling of rejection is almost too hard to bare.
He leans in and presses his lips to yours for a soft kiss, the complete opposite of what you just experienced. "Hey, don't do that. I want you so fucking bad, but I don't want our first time to be like this. You deserve romance, and something sweet. This feels rushed and horny." You definitely weren't expecting him to say that.
"Horny?" You can't help but smile.
"Yes, this feels like we're a couple of horny teens."
"Okay."
"We should go to bed."
He helps you get off the desk. He doesn't move though, he stands right in front of you. Placing his hand on your cheek, he leans down to give you another kiss.
Taking your hand, he leads you out of his office. You wish he would take you to his room, but it's clear he's trying to be a gentleman.
-
Falling asleep was nearly impossible after kissing Seungcheol again. You fell asleep dreaming of him.
By the time the morning light was peaking through your curtains, your eyes flutter open.
After last night, you've grown tired of playing cat and mouse with Seungcheol. You're tired of pretending, you want to be with him fully. You're sick of this just being pretend.
Crawling out of bed, you head to the bathroom to quickly brush your teeth. You're hoping you can catch Seungcheol before he goes to the gym for his morning work out.
Your sock covered feet pad across the hardwood floor. Walking up to Seungcheol room, you see the light peaking out from below the door.
Taking a deep breath you knock on the door. You hear his foot steps and the door opens. He knits his brows and stares at you, looking confused. He's dressing in his gym clothes, you must have caught him before he was heading out.
"We need to talk." You say.
"Sure."
"Do you want me?" You're being brave. If you want this game of cat and mouse to end, this is the only way.
"Yeah, my god I want you so bad."
Nothing else is said. Throwing yourself forward you wrap your arms around his neck. Your lips crash together for a searing kiss. Grabbing your hips, he walks you back into his room, your lips never parting as he kisses you, as if he needs you to breathe.
"You're killing me with your pajamas."
Pulling away he reaches for your shirt. He rips it off you quickly, leaving you standing there in just your panties and socks.
His eyes are lust blown. Crashing his lips back into yours, he kissed his way from your lips, down your neck. Biting your bottom lip, you try and hold back a moan.
His fingers hook into your panties, pulling them down your thighs, slowly. Mindlessly he kisses the top of your mound while looking up at you through his lashes.
"Cheol—" his name is nothing more then a desperate moan.
He pulls back with his lips slightly swollen. "Let me take care of you."
"Okay."
"Get on the bed, baby." There he goes calling you baby again. If you aren't already wet, you would be now.
He places a knee on the bed. His eyes are filled with lust as he stares at you. Leaning up on your elbows you watch your fiancé remove his shirt. He tosses it across the room, towards the pile of your clothes.
Sitting on his knees between your spread legs, his large hand gently rubs your thigh. "You're stunning, and seeing you spread out like this for me is driving me crazy."
"Cheol—"
"Seeing you last night in nothing but your panties and that shirt, practically drove me insane. It took everything in me not to give in, and fuck you, just like you asked." His words leave you even more turned on.
"Seungcheol—"
"Yes, darling?" He gives you a wicked grin.
"Please touch me." You've never been one to beg, but right now you'll do anything to be with him.
He moves so he's hovering over you. Tangling your fingers in his hair, you pull him closer to you. He pulls back with the same grin.
"I want to taste you."
Silently, you nod, desperate for more.
He leaves a wet trail of kisses from your jaw down. He drags his tongue between the valley of your breast. He takes his time groping each of your breast. While one hand plays with one breast, the other sucks and toys with your nipple, earning a whining moan from you.
Closing your eyes you toss your head back. "Cheol—"
"Such an impatient girl." He teases.
He goes back to dragging his tongue down the valley of your breast. He spots at the top of your mound.
He moves so he's laying on his stomach with needy core in front of him. You look down at him, and find him staring at you with his lust filled eyes.
"You're already so wet." He drags his fingers through your wet folds. "Did you get wet just from making out?" He takes his finger into his mouth, tasting your slick. "You taste just as sweet as I thought you would."
He takes his time kissing the inside of your thigh couple times, helping to relax you. "Baby, I want you taste you."
He dives into your pussy, like a man starved. He takes his time sucking on your clit while he toys with your entrance.
One of his fingers slide into you with ease. His eyes never leave yours as he toys with you. Then licks fat strips across your clit. He adds another finger, helping to stretch you out. You haven't seen him fully naked, but you know that he's massive. Just based on his built, and how he looks walking around in sweatpants. You know he's packing.
Without thing you tangle your fingers in his dark hair. Pushing your hips up, you desperately try to to bring yourself closer to that edge.
"Baby, you're so needy." He laughs pulling his lips away from your core. He never stops thrusting his finger in and out of you. "I know you can come. Be a good girl and come for me."
Breathlessly, you nod. Sinking into the overly expensive cotton sheets, your orgasm hits you hard and fast. Your fingers tug in his hair for a moment before all the muscles in your body relax. Your walls flutter around his fingers, as he massages your gummy walls helping you ride out your high.
He pulls back and slips his wet fingers back into his mouth.
"Darling, how do you like it?" You definitely weren't expecting him to ask that. You don't think you've ever had a man ask you that before.
"I don't know."
He cocks his head to the side. "Baby, what do you mean you don't know?"
"I just want you, and I'll take anything you'll give me." You hold your hand out towards him.
"Grab a pillow, and put it under your hips." Without thinking you follow his instruction. He hops off the bed and goes over to the nightstand. Pulling out a box of unopened condoms, and a bottle of lube.
Your eyes watch him carefully as he strips away his clothes. It's a mouth watering sight, watching his massive erection smack against his stomach.
He grabs the box and before he can even open it, you mutter out his name.
"Yeah?"
"We can go bare. I'm on birth control and I'm clean."
He tilts his and asks. "Are you sure?"
"Yeah."
Picking up the bottle of lube, he clicks it open and pours some across his length. He slowly pumps it with his eyes trained on you.
Crawling back onto the bed, he picks the lube back up. "This might be a little cold." Slowly, he pour the cool liquid onto your needy core. He takes his time massaging your opening with the lube.
"I'm big, so this might hurt." By the looks of his massive cock, you feel like that's an understatement.
He moves so he's sitting on his knees between your spread legs. He takes his length in his hand, he run the rosy tip through your folds a few times. Intentionally making sure he bumps your sensitive clit.
"I'll go slow, and if you get uncomfortable we can stop." He insane if he thinks you'll stop him. You aren't sure you have ever wanted a man more then you want him. Even if sex with him is a little painful, you'll take anything he can possibly give you.
The first inch is quite uncomfortable. The way you gasped silently is enough to make his brain short circuit. He watches you carefully, making sure you aren't in too much pain.
You reach for his hand. You want to touch him desperately. He moves his body so he's closer to you as he slowly slides in inch by inch. He doesn't move for a moment, he stay still, filling you to the brim.
Leaning down his rest his nose against yours. "You feel so good." He whispers.
"You're really big," you let out the softest laugh.
"You're just really tight." He pushes himself back a little. He's resting on his elbow, practically plastered against you.
"I might be tight, but anyone would be when you have a massive cock."
He can't help but smile at your statement. You don't understand how cute he thinks you are. He reaches out, brushing your hair away from your face.
"You can move." He leans down, pressing his lips to yours for a sweet kiss.
Your first time together isn't some rough passion filled night. Seungcheol wants your first time together to be passionate, but romantic. He keeps a slowly and deep pace. With pull of his hips, he leaves just the tip inside of you. Driving his hips back in at a firm pace, he practically kisses your cervix with his length.
Everything about your fiancé is massive and the feeling of him covering you as he slowly fucks you is absolutely intoxicating.
Lifting your leg you rest your foot on his back. He sets a slow but deep pace. Your fingers are tangled in his hair, holding him close to you.
"You feel so good." You moan.
"You were made for me." He moans against your neck. "You're such a good girl for me."
You stay like this forever with him. With each thrust he touches that spot deep inside you, that has you seeing stars.
Closing your eyes you tilt your head back. All the nerves in your body feel alive. Your second orgasm is rapidly approaching. Biting your bottom lip, you try to stay quiet.
"I wanna hear you." He moans.
"Fuck—" All logical words have left your brain.
One of your hands grip the sheets below you. He picks up his pace, your grip on his cock, letting him know you're close.
"Baby just let go." His sweet sinful words push you over the edge. For a moment it feels as if every muscle in your body is tense. White hot wave washes over you like you've never quite experienced before. Suddenly you feel more relax than you ever have. Your walls flutter around his lenght like a heartbeat.
He never stops thrusting, he helps you ride out your high. He pulls back, earning a whimper from you. He pulls out of you and sits in his knees his still hard cock, is covered in your release.
"Come here, baby."
Using every ounce of strength you have, you crawl to him. While he's sitting on his knees, you straddle his thighs. Reaching between you, you line yourself up with he length. Ever so slowly you sink back down.
He lets you set the pace. Instead of bouncing up and down, you rolls your hips into his. His lips are all over your throat, definitely leaving marks in his wake.
You can tell he's getting close by the moans falling from his lips. His hands grip your hips, helping to guide you up and down his length at a quicker pace.
Your third orgasm comes out of nowhere. Throwing your head back you moan his name. Leaning forward your rest your head on his shoulder.
Your walls contracting around him, push him over the edge. He holds you flush against his thighs, as he paints your walls with his milky release.
Pulling your head back you look at him with a lazy smile.
Slowly, you pull yourself off him and lay down on the bed. He hops off and heads to the bathroom. The site of his naked butt jogging away is something you're never forget.
He comes back holding a warm wash cloth. He takes his time gently cleaning up the mess he's made of you.
After disposing of the towel he crawls into bed with you. Laying on your side you're staring at him. He's lying next to you laying on his side. Reaching out he grabs your hand.
"I love you." He says those three words you have been dying to hear.
"I love you too." Even if you were too scared to admit it, you've been in love with him for a while. "I don't want this to be fake anymore."
"It hasn't been fake for a while. In my eyes, you've been mine." He says with the sweetest smile.
"You're mine too."
He closes the distance and kisses you. Pulling back he says "We can make this real. Screw dating, I want to actually marry you."
"I would like that, but maybe we should properly date and stuff."
He lets out a little laugh. "We can do that. But I'm still calling you my fiancée."
"Alright. We're officially engaged."
If you would've known going on that date and pretending to be Angel would lead you here, you would have never tried to get out of going on that date with Seungcheol. You never expected to date him, let alone fall in love with him and end up engaged for real.
"I love you, baby." He leans in for another kiss.
"I love you too."
an: this might get a part 2 for their wedding it might make a sequel with Angel and Soonyoung that has these two love birds wedding. If anyone would be interested in reading that pls let me know.
♥ 𝑠𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑦: After being the only person in your office to work an all nighter, you return to your desk after getting breakfast to a sweet note and a cup of coffee. Refusing to believe that anyone would love you again after a bad breakup, you don’t take the note seriously at all… until more start showing up and your mind starts spinning trying to figure out the person who left them all, not knowing it’s the only person you’ve allowed yourself to glance at in years.
♥ pairing: Kim Seokjin x fem!reader
♥ Genre: angst ⋆ fluff (mostly fluff) ⋆ smut eventually
♥ Word Count: 3.6k for part 1
♥ Part: 1/?
⟶ 𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠: Office Romance, No use of Y/N for MC, MC has self esteem issues, Seokjin is whipped and a hopeless romantic, Cute secret admirer notes, MC is experiencing financial abuse from her family, emotionally abusive unnamed ex boyfriend, sweet Seokjin, MC overworks herself to the point of fainting, MC heals her trauma with help from Seokjin, eventual smut, two people helplessly in love, Seokjin may ruin all other men for you
♥ A/N: This is my first published fic in a very long time. I hope you all enjoy and are looking forward to the next part. If you like and want to be added to the tag list please send me an ask ♥ This first chapter is only a taste of how much more i've written for this fic, but let me know what you think ♥
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Stretching your arms, your eyes scanned to the bottom right hand corner of your work computer. 2:34 AM, a sight that has been common for you for years, in which you had no intention of stopping, not when the opportunity for promotion was up on the table. Though this had become the normal for you, now was not the time for you to suddenly quit, not you had to do everything in your power to show your hard work. Your competition was a man far more charismatic and lively than you, life clearly not sucking the soul out of him like it had you. He was lucky to not have to be here at two in the morning, but you were determined, so you found yourself working extreme overtime to show your devotion to the job, or as far as the company you worked for was aware. The promotion hardly mattered to you, but the opportunity to pay your family debt away was what really mattered. Your dad had gambled away your parents retirement and put your childhood home on the line when you were 16 years old. It’s been twelve years since then, and at 28 you were almost through the daunting amount of debt. Your boss described the sign on bonus as “life changing.”
If that meant you worked from the moment you woke up, to the moment you fell asleep for the minimal amount of hours required for your body to not shut down, then that’s what you would do. You needed this so you could live again. You knew you couldn’t live like this forever. The same family you worked tirelessly for bugging you about marriage and kids when you didn’t even have time to sleep. That’s why no matter what it took, you needed this promotion. You had been working tirelessly from 16 years old, studying and working part time until college was over, and then you worked overtime at your low tier office job, because any job was money you could make, and with unlimited overtime you had managed to eliminate about 80% of the debt in the six years since starting this job.
You don’t know how once upon a time you had squeezed romance between all this, but perhaps that’s why it ended.
Most people would go home by now and leave the seemingly endless work for tomorrow, but you didn’t, instead sliding your chair out from under your desk and making your way to the makeshift office kitchen. When you work for such a large company, there’s always some data that needs to be entered somewhere, some spreadsheet needing to be fixed, some math error. You figured the more your name was on things the better. Brewing yourself a cup of coffee on the Kurieg, you waited for your coffee to brew as you did the mental math in your head; if you completed an all nighter today, at 6:00 PM you could clock out and sleep your weekend away, enough to give you that renewed energy to pull you into the next work week and keep this cycle going.
As you moved back to your desk with your cup of coffee in hand, you continued to work into the early hours of the morning. Your coworkers shuffling into the office, mummering “good morning” to each other, blissfully unaware that you were still wearing the same clothes that you were yesterday, that your eye makeup was slightly melted, or that your eyes were clearly blood shot from lack of sleep. No one exactly talked to you, but you didn’t make yourself approachable either. After college you had realized that if you stopped texing people first, if you weren’t the first to say good morning that they would never speak to you again. Watching everyone you knew fade out of your life strengthened your resolve to double down on work.
Sliding out of your seat, you made your way to the vending machine to pick yourself up some breakfast, whatever the cheapest protein bar was stocked today would be your fuel to keep you alert until lunch time, maybe some coffee too, but you’re not too sure if you should have anymore after consuming coffee all night.
You passed by promotion your rival on the way, looking way too cheery for first thing in the morning, he was smiling and laughing with everyone in the office in a way that looked unreal for first thing in the morning. He even flashed you a bright and wide smile as you walked past him. You didn’t return it, not because you didn’t intend to, but because you were so tired that before you could process his smile, he was gone. Sometimes you wished you could be like him, you were envious of someone who could smile that easily, who could look so incredible first thing in the morning. You would be lying if you said you weren't attracted to the man, you had eyes, and anyone who laid eyes on Kim Seokjin knew how dangerous he was to look at. Sometimes you wondered if he was a siren set to draw people in. That same draw though is why your brain can’t comprehend talking to him, he probably thinks you hate him or something. Maybe that’s for the better than ever admitting your school girl crush on the man when you didn’t even have time for yourself, besides, according to your ex: you were unapproachable, lacked any charm, and in his words, completely boring.
You didn’t need to look in the mirror to know this, to see this fact yourself. When your ex told you this, it had stung but you knew he was right. There was no point in denying it when you had no idea who you were anymore. Your ex leaving was unsurprising when you had become a shell of a woman, someone completely unlovable. You knew it, and he knew it too. You wished you could be the woman he wanted of you, someone deserving of love. You wanted it so bad. To feel. To love.
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Making your way back to your desk, sad protein breakfast bar in hand, you noticed a pink sticky note placed on your keyboard. You raised your eyebrow as you approached your desk. Picking up the pink sticky note, there was text written on it with handwriting you didn’t recognize, not like you would recognize anyone’s handwriting, anyways, but that’s beyond the point. The words on the sticky note made you furrow your brow, looking up to scan the room, to see if anyone was looking at you, but no one was, and that confused you further. Shaking your head to try to wake yourself up, you scan the note again trying to make sense on what you were reading.
“For as long as I exist, you are loved and cared for ♥”
You scanned your eyes over the sentence several times, refusing to believe that this could possibly be real and not a joke. Your brain was short circuiting in a way it hasn’t for a long time. Heat obviously and clearly spread over your cheeks as you pressed the back of your hand to them to test the temperature, your suspicions confirmed at the temperature of your now rosy cheeks. What didn’t cross your mind was that whoever left the note could probably see how much you were affected, if you didn’t sleep deprive yourself, you may have conducted yourself more tactfully. Holding the note in your hand, you slid back down to your desk, opening the top drawer and placing the note neatly on the top of the stack of papers sitting in there.
Right now it was hard to believe that something like that was real, let alone for you. The words of your ex hung over your head like a dark cloud. “Boring. Unlovable. Shell of a woman.”
You slumped back in your chair. It was clearly meant for someone else. A thick foggy rain cloud hung over your head for the rest of the day, you felt stupid for even believing for a second that was for you. As your body graced your apartment, you allowed tears to slip from your eyes, slowly trailing down your face as the door shut behind you. Fuck, the feeling of love and being loved was something you dearly missed. If it wasn’t for the fact that you had pulled an all nighter before you would fall into the gentle embrace of slumber, but through quiet sobs you showered yourself until you were satisfied enough. With wet hair and cheeks, you cradled your body to sleep.
You didn’t know how a simple note could affect you so much, but fuck, it did.
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By the time you had woke up, it had been a full 17 hours, now noon on Saturday, and the streets of the vast city outside of your window were bustling and busy. You had laid in bed for a moment, scanning the bare walls of your bedroom as you thought about your day ahead, guilt pinging your heart subconsciously for sleeping so long. If you had gotten up earlier you may have been able to look for a part time job for the day, but you couldn’t, and you didn’t know what to do. Your mind went back to that note as you stared at the ceiling of your bedroom, and all you could think about how you wished that was for you. Despite your situation, the one thing you knew about yourself anymore was how much of a hopeless romantic you once were. Honestly, you were not really sure what went wrong with your ex, even though you thought everything was going well he started to call you bland and boring. It was easy to bury yourself in work after that, to focus on paying down the family debt you had.
Since it was too late to bury yourself in work today, you were not sure what to even do with yourself. You know what you used to enjoy, perhaps giving something that you used to enjoy a go wouldn’t be a bad idea, right?
You stared at the blank walls in your apartment. The place you shared with your ex used to be filled with your personality, your chosen art and decor filling the house. When you split, you didn’t take those memories with you, deeming them too painful to deal with at the time. This apartment felt less like home and more like a place to sleep. What was the point of decorating a space that didn’t feel like home?
Pushing the blanket off your body, you walked over to your dresser and scanned over your clothes. Most of them unworn for years at this point, but you did notice your running vest in the corner of your top drawer, and that decided it for you. So you went on a run, a long winded run by your local lake, like you used to before your life turned what it was now, before you buried yourself in work to forget. The run started normal, feeling the wind under your feet again after a long time feeling freeing, your heart feeling lighter.
This was a feeling you missed deeply. However as you ran further your breathing started to destabilize. Fuck, you could feel panic settling over your body as you ran harder and faster than your body and mind could coordinate. Every emotion you had suppressed over the past few years was finally coming to fruition in this very moment.
Stopping in the middle of the sidewalk, you had dropped to your knees, your chest heavy as you held it with the palm of your hand. You needed to stablize your breathing, you needed to-
“_?” A familiar voice called out to you, one you only heard in passing, one associated with a smile you would only allow yourself to take glimpses at when he wasn’t looking. You blinked your teary eyes a few times, clearing the water from your vision as you looked up at Seokjin, still on your knees from your panic attack.
“Seokjin?” your voice cracked as you spoke his name for the first time out loud in months. Speaking out, you said probably the dumbest thing you could in the moment, your brain still trying to process your surroundings.
“Are you okay, Seokjin?”
He wasn’t sure if he should be happy that you knew his name or not, at least in this scenario. He swallowed the spit that he had in his mouth before replying back to you.
“I feel like I should be asking you that more, _.”
For the first time since meeting him, his voice didn’t carry the usual sing songy, happy go lucky tone that it normally did. He was either upset or was concerned, and you were not sure which one you would prefer, or if you were reading entirely too much into this.
“I’m fine” you quipped out, an obvious lie, one you at least at the time thought to be believable. Standing up, you brushed off your knees, clearing what little dirt was on the sidewalk off your skin. “It was uh, nice seeing you Seokjin” you softly spoke out, going to bow politely and turning the other direction. You didn’t make it very far though before the world started to spin around you, and you felt your body drop in the grass people sighing around you as the world went dark.
When you wake up again, the bright florescent light of the hospital graced your vision and you instantly shot up, your features settling into a panic as you observed your surroundings. Tender fingers touched your shoulder and you looked to your side to see familiar long brown locks and tender eyes looking at you.
“Please lay down, I’ll tell the doc you’re awake” Seokjin softly pleaded with you. Sighing, you agreed and laid back down as he pressed the button on the remote of your bed. “How long have I—” you asked, unable to complete your sentence. “It’s only been a few hours” he responded to you. The doctor knocked on the door and allowed himself into the room.
“You’re lucky this young gentleman was able to bring you in fast” the doctor spoke to you seriously as your eyes widened at the fact Seokjin was the one who brought you here. Your coworker who you had a semi crush on but also couldn’t bring yourself to talk to this entire time. Your thoughts were spinning out of control already, the machine beeping quicker behind you as your blood pressure was spiking from overthinking.
“Your cortisol levels are extremely concerning, miss _. You’re malnourished, dehydrated, and your body is showing physical signs of you not sleeping.”
You cringed internally at the doctors brutal words, wishing that Seokjin was not in the room and had to hear the most venerable parts of your life. You could feel his soft brown eyes on you, concern riddling his features as the doctor continued.
“You need to rest, miss _ I recommend taking a few days off of work to rest, recover, and allow your body the time it needs, but if you do that, you will be fine”
Both relief and panic simultaneously washed over your features as you started doing math in your head to see if you could take the time off the doctor said and still pay off the loan sharks coming after your family in time. The answer to that was no. There was no way, but you knew how this went and knew you had to put on your most convincing smile and tell the doctor that yes you would rest, which the doctor seemed to take and told you that he would get you discharged momentarily. As the doctor left the room you could see Seokjin’s eyes burning towards you, and his face had a hardened expression you had never seen before.
“I know you didn’t go home Thursday night” he said to you bluntly, which caused your eyebrows to furrow in return. You didn’t deny it as you replied back, there was no need to lie when he already knew the truth “It was necessary” was all that you could speak out, not wanting to spill your entire life’s shame to Seokjin, the coworker which you blew off and never spoke to you again until today.
“Why were you crying?” he asked softly, which caused you to completely evade eye contact with him. You didn’t know what, or if you should say something at all, but something deep within your chest walls hurt and the pain you were holding in was threatening to spill over once again. “Life is not kind” was all you could muster out to him, feeling a deep sense of shame that you had let your coworker see you like this of all people. If it was a stranger you could at least make sure you never saw them again, a luxury you didn’t have when it came to the man with long brown hair.
You were expecting him to ask more, but he didn’t. He let out a small sigh as his eyes raked over your form in the hospital bed. “I’m responsible to take you home, but I won’t make you tell me anything you don’t want. Just please eat your meals and don’t work all nighters again. I know we are competing for a promotion, but… not like this, please _.” He pleaded with you before continuing.
“I won’t compete with someone who’s going to kill themselves over it, I’ll tell the director I’m out.”
Your eyes shot up, looking at him like a deer caught in headlights.
“Wait Seokjin— no!”
You were surprised at yourself for nearly yelling, your voice hadn’t projected like that in a long time, you were not even sure you still had it in you until this moment. “Listen… I’ll take care of myself just please don’t tell anyone about this, I’ll stop working over nighters, I’ll compete with you fairly… just keep this between us, okay?”
Your eyes were watering again, tears threating to spill out in front of Seokjin for the second time today. You never intended for him to feel guilty, the ripple effect of your actions hitting you all at once. All you could think of is how pathetic you probably looked in this moment. Much to your surprise, however he nodded, agreeing with you.
“That’s better” he said with one of his signature smiles he sported at work “don’t worry we’ll still fight over that promotion, I won’t let you get away that easy” he said with a wink which caused you to let out a chuckle, smiling softly to yourself, a small kick of your feet as they hung off the hospital bed.
Seokjin smiled back at you, his heart swelling, filling up as he saw you smile genuinely for the first time that you met him, even more so that he was the one that made you smile. He was absolutely, completely, going to throw his head into his pillow and scream a little when he got home. He needed to keep his composure and act like you didn’t fill every thought in his mind. Getting you to smile would be the fuel to keep him going for a long time. As the doctor headed in and handed you your discharge paperwork, you thanked the doctor and was on your way out of the hospital.
Seokjin drove you home in a comfortable silence, neither of you feeling the need to fill the void as he hummed to the soft rock playing from his car radio. Despite you insisting that he didn’t need to, he walked you up to your apartment, and made sure the door was locked before heading back to his car. As he slid into the drivers seat, he held his hand over his heart, the stammering part of his body ready to burst. He was fucked, completely and utterly in love with his coworker who barely looked at him. He had been from the moment he saw you. He felt drawn to you at first, attempting to strike up a conversation just to see your pretty eyes, and yet you didn’t seem interested not just romantically, but in any sort of friendship at all, so he gave you the much needed space it was clear you desired, because liking you from far away was enough for him.
Today changed his mind, his last conversation with his parents replaying in his mind
“Seokjinah, you’re 33 and you have a low level job and are seeing no one. When our friends brag about their sons it’s hard to listen to.”
He set his chopsticks down, looking at them deeply offended.
“I have someone I like Eomma” he simply responded, but his mother was quick to quip back “You’ve been saying that since you were in college, always in love but never with a lover”
He shook the memory as he looked back up from his car to your window. Today made him realize that space wasn’t what you needed, what you needed was for him to like you closely yet distanced at the same time; you just needed time to get to know people and to trust them. The way you giggled and kicked your feet in the hospital at so much as a joke and a wink proved as much to him.
He knew as he looked to your apartment window that his mother was right. This time he would do something about his constant unrequited crushes. He had already left you one note at work, so he came up with a plan to be in your mind while keeping the distance you needed. Sticky notes and a pen would be his feelings for now, he would fill your desk with all his unspoken love until your heart was full.
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Summary: it's Soonyoung's birthday, but the only thing on his mind is finally confessing to his best friend his feelings for her.
W.C: 4.2k
CW: some profanity, very slight alcohol consumption, and kissing. Hoshi and reader have pet names for each other (Hoshi is Tiger, and Reader is Bunny). No use of y/n, and nothing but tooth-achingly sweet fluff.
A/N: happy to have my return to tumblr for my ult biases bday. im very proud of this one, and i hope you all enjoy xx
“Earth to Soonyoung?”
Soonyoung blinks a few times, unaware that he has zoned out. He glances over to you, then offers an apologetic smile.
“Sorry.” He says. “What did you say?”
“I asked what you wanted to do for your birthday.” You reply, stretching your arms above your head.
The two of you are sprawled out on the small sofa in Soonyoung’s apartment. It was a hot summer day, and the windows were cracked to allow some type of airflow. His AC had gone out a few days prior, and maintenance hasn’t been able to swing by to fix it yet. Truthfully speaking, cold air is what he wants for his birthday. Beyond that, he isn’t particularly fond of the day itself. Birthdays are overrated to him. Why celebrate being one year closer to death? Soonyoung enjoys being alive. Getting older meant that time was passing. He wasn’t sure he was ready for that, yet.
“Ah,” he sighs, settling deeper into the cushions. “Do we have to do anything?”
You laugh, lifting your head slightly to look at him. “We can do whatever you want. Even if that’s rotting like we are now–but I will not let you wallow for the nth year in a row, Tiger.”
He tries to shift to look at you, but you are both a tangled mess of limbs at the moment. He gives up and lets his head hit the armrest again. Rotting the day away with you did sound nice, but anything with you is nice. The two of you have been inseparable since you were kids, and you are pretty much the only person Soonyoung never gets sick of. But maybe that’s because he is also hopelessly in love with you - though that’s besides the point.
“What if I want to wallow?” He fires back. “It’s my birthday.”
“God, you’re so depressing.” You mutter, but there is no real bite to it. There never is. Soonyoung smiles up at the ceiling.
“I’m just messing with you.” He replies. “If we have to do something, I guess I’m content with anything that involves you. Just…nothing theatrical, yeah? I want something lowkey.”
You wiggle so that you’re sitting up this time. Soonyoung lifts his head to find you grinning back at him.
“Really?” You beam. “You’ll actually let me plan something this year?”
Soonyoung should be concerned about whatever you have up your sleeve, but if it means you’ll smile like this again, he quickly decides he doesn’t care. Biting the inside of his cheek, he draws in a deep breath.
“Yeah, bunny.” He manages, forcing a smile back at you. “Go ahead and plan something.”
Seokmin is laughing at him as they wait in line. Soonyoung folds his arms across his chest, immediately regretting saying anything to him. Monday coffee runs were a routine for them. They carpool on the way to work, anyway, so starting the week with something good only made sense. This morning, Soonyoung had mentioned briefly that he was letting you plan something for his birthday, and Seokmin found it amusing. He had every right to, though. Given the fact that Soonyoung never does anything for his birthday and that he’s been harboring feelings for you for a good five years, anybody would find the scenario amusing.
“God, you’re so whipped.” His friend remarks, playfully patting him on the back. “When are you just going to muster the courage to tell her? It’s been long enough.”
Soonyoung quickly shakes his head as the line moves forward. “I can’t do that. What if she doesn’t feel the same? I’m not risking a friendship of twenty-five years over a crush that will likely pass.”
“Likely pass.” Seokmin repeats with an eye roll. “Five years of pining, hyung. I don’t think it’ll pass. We’re far beyond the point of it ‘passing’.”
The line inches forward again. Soonyoung sighs, then glances over to him. “I’m content with her friendship for now. I think when the time is right, I’ll say something.”
“When is the time ever right?” His friend counters. “Look, I just hate to see you put yourself through this. Even if you do say something and she doesn’t feel the same, I don’t think she is the type of person to throw away your friendship because of it.”
“Yeah, I guess that’s true,” Soonyoung replies flatly.
His eyes scan the menu ahead, but there’s really no point. He gets the same iced Americano every time they come here. He feels his phone buzz in his pocket and quickly pulls it out. Your name flashes across the screen, with a quick series of texts sent to him.
Bunny 🐰: what size are you again?
Bunny 🐰: jk your mom told me
Bunny 🐰: wait, actually, i do need to know if you prefer chocolate or vanilla. i feel like it changes every week
Bunny 🐰: jk i’m getting marble cake. deal with it.
The corners of his mouth twitch as he quickly types a response:
Tiger 🐯: you’re too much.
Bunny 🐰: you love me 🙂
Soonyoung blinks a few times. God, if only you knew. He hesitates as he types out his last reply:
Tiger 🐯: i do.
He quickly puts his phone in his pocket, unsure of whether he wants to see what you have to say next or not. It’s not like it’s some grand confession, anyway. You always say ‘I love you’ to each other. Part of him hopes that you notice the slight shift in his text, but then he realizes how ridiculous that sounds.
“Fuck.” He mutters aloud. Seokmin glances over to him.
“You good?” He asks.
Soonyoung nods, then cards a hand through his hair. “I’m fine, I just…I think you’re right.”
“I know I’m right,” Seokmin says confidently. “So, how do you want to tell her?”
He takes a moment to think, trying to rack his mind over something that would stand out to you. He hums for a moment as they approach the counter to order. Off to the side, there’s a small menu with seasonal drinks on it. As Seokmin rattles off their usuals, Soonyoung quickly chimes in.
“Can I also get a small s’mores frappe?” He asks. “Extra chocolate, if possible. And whipped cream.”
The barista types in their orders as Soonyoung pays. Seokmin gives them his name, before they meander to a small table in the corner.
“Coffee?” Seokmin frowns. His tone is slightly disappointed. “That’s how you’re going to tell her?”
“No.” Soonyoung quickly says. “I’m going to surprise her at work. I’ll, I don’t know, ask her to dinner tonight. Or something.”
Seokmin rolls his eyes. “Smooth.”
“What do you suggest I do?” Soonyoung folds his arms across his chest.
“I don’t know,” Seokmin admits. “Just, anything other than that. I mean, she does so much for everyone else. Don’t you think a bigger gesture is deserved?”
“It’s more than deserved,” Soonyoung argues. “But how are you supposed to outdo the doer?”
Seokmin is quiet for a moment as he thinks. When the order is called from the counter, Soonyoung wanders back to pick it up. He sits again and passes his friend the drink. Seokmin takes it when a coy grin teases his lips.
“I think I have an idea.”
The next few weeks pass, and the time that Soonyoung usually spends with you is now taken up with Seokmin. To be frank, Soonyoung has nothing against Seokmin. But at the end of the day, Seokmin isn’t you, and Seokmin is annoying. They’ve spent the last several days putting things together for this grand confession (which Seokmin claims is ‘foolproof’ and that it’s going to ‘definitely work’), and he quickly found out that his friend sings about everything. Between going through old boxes, photos, and past birthday gifts, the man found any excuse to sing a little song. It was beginning to drive Soonyoung a little crazy.
As he’s taping a picture to some scrapbook paper, Soonyoung notices his phone light up beside him. He glances down, reading a message from you:
Bunny 🐰: you’ve been so busy lately. are you replacing me with seokmin? :(
He laughs to himself as he types back:
Tiger 🐯: i could never. he’s so annoying. he’s not as nice to look at, either.
Bunny 🐰: i know, i am kind of a catch. but lets see each other soon? i mean, preferably before your birthday, but i’ll take what i can get.
Tiger 🐯: i’ll see what i can do. been working on a project, but i’ll make the time for you.
When he sets his phone back down, Seokmin is singing again. Soonyoung closes his eyes, as if not seeing him will make him stop (news flash: it doesn’t). He watches as his friend reaches for the tape and presses another photo to the page.
“You know,” Seokmin says, “I never knew how sentimental you were. Do you keep everything that she gives you?”
Soonyoung shrugs. “For the most part. I don’t think there’s anything I’ve thrown away. At least, anything that involves her.”
Seokmin looks over to him and proudly presents the page he had been working on. Soonyoung grimaces a bit, but his page doesn’t look any better. He has never been a crafty person, and neither has Seokmin. He keeps insisting, though, that a handmade gift will win her over. Soonyoung isn’t sure how confident he is in that theory. Sure, you’ll like it, but he thinks there could be a better way to tell you how he feels. Something that means something to you.
“At this rate, the scrapbook will be done before your birthday on Friday,” Seokmin announces. “I finished the page with all the old concert tickets already. I still can’t believe you guys saw Astro.”
“Yeah.” Soonyoung pauses. Then he adds, “Do we really think this is the way to do it?”
Seokmin shrugs. “She’s a pretty sentimental person, too, right? I think she’ll love this.”
“I guess so,” Soonyoung mutters.
“You think she’s going to make you make a wish again this year?” Seokmin laughs. “She did that last year, remember?”
Of course he remembers. It was so embarrassing, but the last thing he would ever do is tell you no. Last year, you insisted on dragging him out to a bar with the whole friend group. The bar offered complimentary cake for your birthday, and when they brought out a small slice with a single candle, you begged him to make a wish. You’d gone on a whole tangent about all the superstitions you believed in, and told him that wishes were your favorite. Whether it's on a candle, a dandelion, or a wishbone, you loved the idea of making a wish and hoping it would eventually come true. That had been plenty of convincing for him to do it. He just suffered the embarrassing blows to his ego from his friends afterward. It didn’t matter, though, because you were smiling so big, he was sure your cheeks probably hurt.
“She’ll probably do it again.” Soonyoung finally responds. “She loves that kind of thing, you know?”
“Yeah, she does.” Seokmin sighs happily. “Well, I think this is a good stopping point for the night, yeah?”
Soonyoung hums in agreement. He tries to remind himself that the scrapbook is the perfect way to tell you he loves you, but the idea still doesn’t feel complete. He pushes the thought away for now, certain that he’ll think of something else in time.
The day his birthday rolls around, Soonyoung is a nervous wreck. You’d been distant all day, but he knew it had to be because of the party…right? No, of course it was. He had to stop convincing himself otherwise, because that would make his big confession tonight so much worse. He probably wouldn’t be able to do it if he continues to get himself worked up, but the second you walk into his apartment to set things up, he knows he’s screwed.
You’re juggling two arms full of groceries, as well as balloons in one hand and his present in the other. Soonyoung doesn’t waste a beat, hurrying over to help you set things down. It’s only after he turns to face you again that he sees what you’re wearing. He blinks a few times.
“Is that the same dress you wore when I graduated?” He asks.
You look down as if you've forgotten what you're wearing. You grin and meet his gaze again. “Yes! It still fits! Isn’t that crazy?”
For a moment, he forgets entirely how to speak. You haven’t worn this dress since his graduation, which also happens to be the same day he realized he loved you. So, naturally, that dress has been ingrained in his memory since then. It’s not even anything fancy–it's a shorter black dress that flares out at the skirt. There are no flashy sequins or designs. But because you were the one wearing it, it became the most beautiful dress he’d ever seen in his life.
“Yeah.” He replies. He realizes how hoarse his voice sounds and quickly clears his throat. “Uh, crazy.”
You begin passing him things to set off to the side, insisting that you’ll be setting everything up. He just has to “sit and look pretty”. He isn’t sure how to take that statement. But he obliges anyway, watching you maneuver through his apartment as if you belonged there. In his mind, you do. You always have. He just hopes tonight goes well so you can officially belong here with him–at least in the way he wants you to.
“Everybody should be here in the next hour or so.” You announce, glancing over to him. “I kept it to just our friends. Lowkey, just like you asked.”
Soonyoung swallows. “Cool.”
“Are you okay?” You frown, walking over to him. “You’ve been weird since I got here.”
“I’m cool!” He replies a little too loudly. “I’m great. I just–” he pauses “--am really hungry, I think.”
You laugh, taking the balloons from him. When your fingers brush his for a moment, he swears the breath is knocked out of his lungs instantly. “Good thing we’re eating soon.” You hum. “Do you want to change?”
Soonyoung looks down and realizes he never changed out of his ratty pajama pants from last night. His face burns red in embarrassment. You must notice, because you quickly begin to ramble, “You totally don’t have to if you don’t want to. It’s your birthday. I just thought that maybe you’d–”
“I’d love to change.” Soonyoung quickly stands. “I have something I need to take care of, anyway.”
You make a face. “Ew.”
Soonyoung’s eyes widen. “Oh my god, Bunny, not like that. Jesus, I just meant–”
“I’m kidding.” You giggle. “Go change, Tiger. I’m here.”
Once everybody arrives, Soonyoung seems to relax a bit more. The playlist you made for tonight is perfect, and he’s reminded during every song how much you understand him and his picky music taste. After a couple of hours, Seokmin manages to find him and pulls him aside.
“Did you wrap it?” He asks quietly. “When are you going to give it to her?”
Soonyoung glances over to you to make sure you can’t hear the conversation. Thankfully, you’re happily distracted by whatever antics Chan has up his sleeve right now. He looks back at Seokmin.
“Probably when everyone leaves?” He suggests. “I want it to be just us. I don’t think doing it in front of everybody is the way to go.”
His friend quickly nods in agreement. Soonyoung can tell he’s tipsy. “Good thinking. Nice. Okay, well, let me know if you need anything?”
Soonyoung just nods and watches Seokmin stumble a bit before running into Seungcheol. As Soonyoung begins to make his way over to you, he sees Joshua coming out of his kitchen, balancing the cake in his hands. You gasp excitedly, and dim the lights. Next thing he knows, Soonyoung is being ushered over to the table where he’s greeted by a tiger-face-shaped cake with the words:
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, SOONYOUNG!
When he looks up, his eyes find yours immediately. He barely notices his friends sticking the ‘30’ candle on top of the cake. A few of his friends made a joke that the bakery probably thought the cake was for a kid, but he couldn’t be bothered to care. Not when he knew what it meant to the two of you. He swears for a minute he sees your ears turn red, but then the candles are lit, and everyone is singing to him. After an excruciatingly off-tune birthday song, Soonyoung hesitates. He offers you a small smile.
“Should I make a wish?”
There’s a brief second where you falter, clearly not expecting him to ask that. When everyone looks at you, that’s when Soonyoung’s suspicion is confirmed: you’re blushing like crazy.
“Do you want to?” You ask in response.
A bit of Soonyoung’s confidence is regained, knowing he got you this flustered. Maybe, he thought with the smallest ounce of hope, tonight would go exactly like he was hoping it would. He draws in a dramatic, deep breath and closes his eyes. He doesn’t even care that his friends are laughing right now as he uses every ounce of his mind to make a wish for you–as he wishes for you. Once a couple of theatrical seconds pass, Soonyoung blows out the candle and opens his eyes again. Everyone is clapping and digging into the cake, but the two of you are staring at each other, unmoving. It’s not until Seokmin ceremoniously shakes Soonyoung that he’s pulled out of his thoughts, and moves to get some cake for himself.
After the last few guests make their way out, it’s finally just you and Soonyoung left in his apartment. He was beginning to think it would never happen, given how long everybody was staying. The music still plays softly through your small Bluetooth speaker as the two of you walk around, picking up dishes and cups from around his living room. When Soonyoung picks up his fifth glass, he pauses.
“Thank you.” He says, looking over to you. You glance up from where you’re at in the kitchen, and grin.
“Always.” You respond. Your attention shifts back to the dishes.
Soonyoung makes sure you’re distracted enough before he slips away to his bedroom and retrieves the scrapbook. When he returns, you’re humming along to the music. He watches for a second as you sway your hips and allow yourself to get lost with whatever song is playing. He takes a deep breath, then walks over to you.
“I have something for you.” He announces quietly. You glance over at him and frown when you see the present in his hands.
“Soonyoung, what is this?” You question. He reaches over, turning off the running water. Here goes nothing.
“Uh,” he clears his throat, “you know how I’ve been spending a lot more time with Seokmin, lately?”
You nod.
“Well, it was because he was helping me make this.” He continues, “Um, do you want to sit and open it?”
You hesitate, so Soonyoung gently grabs your hand and leads you out to his couch. Once you both sit, he passes the present to you. You haven’t taken your eyes off of him, yet. Finally, you force out a nervous laugh.
“What’re you doing?” You say softly. “I mean, first the wish and now…” You look down at the gift in your lap.
Soonyoung doesn’t say anything. He just watches as your fingers delicately trace over the wrapping paper before you begin to peel it off slowly–like you were scared to see what was inside. Once the paper is fully discarded, you’re completely silent. Soonyoung forgets how awful most of the pages in there look and quickly shifts closer to you as they come into view again.
“Um, so I’m not crafty by any means.” He says, and it’s his turn to laugh nervously. “So don’t judge it too hard, okay?”
You don’t look at him. Instead, you’re captivated by the book in front of you. When you open to the first page, Soonyoung sees the realization wash over your face. That’s what prompts you to look at him.
“You kept all of this?” Your tone is filled with nothing but disbelief and admiration. He thinks for a second that he hears your voice shake slightly. “But, why?”
“Bunny, I–” he stops. Then, “you mean a lot to me.”
“You mean a lot to me, too–”
“No, I mean,” he sighs before grabbing your hands, “you mean a lot to me. I’ve wanted to tell you for a while, but…I don’t know. I guess I was too nervous. I didn’t want to jeopardize the relationship we already have. But I also know I didn’t want to sit and wait any longer than I already had. You do so much for me, and I wanted to show you just how much I care. How much I’ve always cared. I love you.”
When you don’t reply right away, Soonyoung swallows nervously. Then, finally, you smile.
“You haven’t opened my present yet.” You say.
Soonyoung blinks. “What?”
Without explaining, you gently set the scrapbook onto his coffee table. You disappear around the corner for a second, then return with a small box in your hands. Soonyoung had completely forgotten that you arrived with it. When you sit again, you pass it over to him. He takes it as you watch him expectantly. He begins to unwrap it, but he swears his hands are shaking while he does so. When he takes the lid off the box, his heart stumbles to a stop. Inside was a small silver bracelet with a bunny charm. Soonyoung looks up at you, finding you holding out your wrist. You’re wearing a matching one with a tiger on it instead.
“I’m surprised you didn’t notice it all night.” You comment. “I guess we both had the same idea. Because Soonyoung, I love you, too.”
He doesn’t know what to say at first. So instead, his brain auto-pilots, “holy fuck.”
“Soonyoung!” You shove him playfully, but he catches your arm as you do so. Your expression falters for a second at his reaction. His heart is back to beating as rapidly as it was all night.
“You love me.” He repeats. Saying it feels so real to him. Then, he grins. “You love me.”
“I think we’ve established that, Tiger.” You mutter, but the blush has crept back up to your cheeks. Soonyoung pulls you closer.
“Can I please kiss you?”
“I’d be upset if you didn’t.”
Soonyoung presses his lips to yours as if his life depended on it, though maybe it did. The second they meet, he melts completely into your touch. He could taste the cherry lip gloss that you wore every day, and that he had imagined the taste of thousands of different times. He wraps his arms around your waist, tugging you closer to him. Your hands find their way to his shoulders. When you pull away to take a breath, Soonyoung hardly lets you stay apart for long before chasing after you again. The second kiss is slower, more exploratory. He feels your body relax against him, and he swears it’s what heaven feels like–or at least something close to it.
“Soonyoung,” you whisper into his mouth, “as much as I’d love to continue this, I really want to look at that scrapbook.”
He pulls away and takes a mental picture of your swollen lips and flushed face–you look divine. Then it registers to him what you said, and he frowns.
“It looks like shit.” He says. “Please keep kissing me instead, I’d really rather not be here while you look at it.”
You just laugh and gently push him away. He watches as you take a second to fix your dress and stand. As you grab the scrapbook, you look back at him mischievously.
“Please?” You coo, waving it at him. “I really want to see what my boyfriend made for me.”
That causes Soonyoung to short-circuit, but he’s quick to come back to his senses as he jumps to his feet. He hurries after you, but you cut into the kitchen, and he practically runs into the wall.
“Boyfriend?” He huffs, but an amused expression tugs at his lips. “You can’t just say that and run away.”
“Isn’t that what you are, now?” You tease. “Or should we have a formal proposition for the title?”
Soonyoung cringes at that. “God, no. I’m definitely your boyfriend. If that’s what you say I am, then that’s what I am.”
You smile as you set the scrapbook down on the kitchen counter. “I won’t open it right now, but I’m definitely looking at it when I go home later.”
Soonyoung hums. “As long as I’m not there to witness my shit storm of a scrapbook, I’m fine with that.”
A comfortable silence settles between the two of you, and Soonyoung doesn’t think he could get happier than this. After a few seconds pass, you take a step towards him.
“Soonyoung, what did you wish for?” You ask.
For a second, he considers telling you. But knowing how superstitious you are, he opts for pulling you back into him instead.
“Don’t you know I can’t say?” He smirks. “That means the wish won’t come true.”
divider by @uzmacchiato !! go check out their stuff, it's so cute xx
Title :: Boy, friend
Classification :: Friends to Lovers
Summary :: Everything Vernon does, that's just what friends do....Right?
Word Count :: 5.5k words
Genre: Hogwarts AU • Friends to Lovers • Slow Burn • Fluff • Mutual Pining • Oblivious Idiots
Trigger Warnings: Mild blood purity discrimination (brief use of "mudblood")
A/N: First part of my series!!! Starting with my bias<3 Hope y'all enjoy it
You were standing outside the Charms corridor with your arms full of books, wishing you had asked Yunjin to carry half of them, when you almost crash into Rosalind, a pureblood Slytherin with a personal grudge against you because of your blood status. Great, out of everyone you could’ve bumped into, it just had to be her.
”Out of the way, Mudblood”, She says it quietly, under her breath, just loud enough that you hear it and quiet enough that no professor passing by would catch it.
You have had the word directed towards you several times before and by now you roughly knew how your body would respond to it: the small drop in your stomach, the heat that climbed up the back of your neck, and the practiced effort of keeping your face still so nobody gets the satisfaction of watching it land. You were already gathering yourself to take your books and keep walking when a voice, almost bored, comes from somewhere behind you.
"Didn't realize we were still doing that outdated shit."
You turn and so does Rosalind.
It was a boy from your year. You knew his name, though you had never really spoken to him beyond a passing greeting in the library. Vernon. He was simply standing there with his hands in his pockets, looking at Rosalind with a straight face.
Rosalind starts to say something about mixed company muddying the crowd. Vernon does not raise his voice. He only tilts his head slightly, eyebrow raised and says, "Funny. I was about to say the same about you."
Then he turns and walks away.
He does not glance back at her. He simply bends down to help you gather your books “Here you go”. You look at him with gratitude and your mouth opening and closing without any words coming out. “Oh..um, thanks..” He nods and walks down the corridor with the same unbothered pace he'd arrived in, his bag slung over one shoulder, and rounds the corner without a backward look.
You stand there for a long moment, too surprised and flustered, the books slipping slightly in your arms, feeling strangely undone. Not by the insult, you were already used to that. You were undone, instead, by the plainness of what he did. He didn't make a scene of it, nor tried to make himself the hero of the corridor. He just refused to let something ugly go unanswered.
That evening, you head to the library like you always do, intending to lose yourself in a Transfiguration essay and forget about the unpleasantness in the corridor. However, it does not work.
Every time your quill pauses, your thoughts drift back to him and you catch yourself searching the room before you even realize you're doing it.
He is there, seated near the window with a Herbology textbook open across his lap, entirely absorbed in whatever he is reading. The firelight catches against the side of his face as he turns a page, unaware that anyone is looking at him.
You find yourself watching for a moment longer than you probably should.
There is nothing especially different about him today. He is only sitting there, reading in comfortable silence.
...Was he always this cute?
The thought lands so suddenly that you nearly drop your quill.
"Absolutely not," you mutter under your breath, giving your own cheek a light smack before forcing your eyes back onto your essay. "We're not doing that."
Your face feels suspiciously warm anyway.
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
If someone asked you to name the exact day you and Vernon became friends, you would not be able to answer them. There is no single afternoon you can point to. It happened before you could realise.
It began, you think, with a seat.
You came down to the library carrying more parchment than you could comfortably hold, tired because of a double Potions lesson, and there is a seat near the window that seems to have been left empty despite the room being otherwise full. You sit without thinking much of it. It is only the following evening, when the same seat is empty again, that you glance up and catch Vernon sitting opposite to you, looking away too quickly, as though he had been watching the seat to see whether you would take it.
"Were you saving that for someone?" you ask.
"No, you can sit here" he says. Then, after a pause, he adds, "You always sit there anyway."
"I do?"
"You do."
“Oh, thanks Vernon”. You do not examine this too closely. You only sit down, and he goes back to his book with a nod in reply, and by the end of the week it has become, without either of you ever deciding it, the place where the two of you sat.
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
From there, things multiply slowly. He begins falling into step beside you on the walk to Herbology, without a word of greeting, as though the two of you had always walked together. In return, you begin saving him a place at the library table nearest the window.
You spend long stretches of time in silence together, and to your quiet surprise, you find that you do not mind it at all. He has a way of simply existing beside you that makes the quiet feel less like the absence of conversation and more like a kind of company all its own.
Neither of you ever calls any of this friendship out loud. It does not seem to need saying. It is simply what your days are shaped around now.
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
It is well into autumn before you catch yourself thinking something you immediately try to talk yourself out of.
You are in the library, having to sit at a table with a single same worn copy of a Transfiguration text owing to the upcoming exams. Without much options, the two of you squeeze into the table that was clearly meant for one person. Your shoulders brushing every time either of you turns a page. Beneath the table, your knees end up pressed together.
Neither of you shifts away. You are meant to be conjugating a difficult incantation, but for several long minutes you are far more aware of the warmth where his knee meets yours than you are of any of the words on the page in front of you.
You tell yourself this means nothing. Friends sit close together. It is a small table. There is nowhere else to put your legs.
"You don’t have to memorise the text, you know right?" His voice is quiet.
You blink, realizing you've been staring at the same paragraph for nearly a minute. "Y-yes I know."
"Wake me up when you’re done reading this page, Miss Sloth"
You nudge his shoulder with yours. "You're insufferable."
"So I've been told."
You find yourself chuckling despite yourself. At that sound, he looks up at you from the book. "Hold still."
Before you can ask why, his hand reaches across the narrow space between you, and his fingers brush lightly against your temple. He tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear, eyes locked with yours as he does it. His thumb lingers for the briefest second against your cheek before he pulls away.
"There."
You stare at him, your breath catching slightly. What just happened
"What?"
"You had ink on your face."
"...That doesn't explain the hair,” you say under your breath.
"It was in the way." he says and simply returns to reading.
Meanwhile you spend the next several minutes pretending to study while your heartbeat refuses to settle. Do friends do that? Surely they do....don't they?
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
Vernon is running late after helping Professor Sprout with something in the greenhouses, leaving you alone long enough for Yunjin to slide into the seat across from you. She tears a piece off her toast before looking at you over the rim of her teacup.
"So," she says, far too casually, "how long have you and Vernon been together?"
You nearly inhale your pumpkin juice and a coughing fit takes over before you can answer.
"What?" you manage between coughs. "We aren't..." You shake your head, still trying to catch your breath. "We're just friends."
Yunjin opens her mouth to reply but instead, her eyes drift over your shoulder. You turn just as Vernon arrives, setting his bag beside him before sitting down next to you.
"You alright?" he asks, already reaching into his pocket and without waiting for an answer, he unfolds a neatly pressed handkerchief and places it in your hand. Then he pulls your empty goblet closer, fills it with water from the pitcher in the middle of the table, and nudges it gently toward you. "Here," he says quietly. "Drink slowly."
You mumble a small thank you, cheeks warming as you take the glass.
Only after you've stopped coughing does he begin serving himself breakfast as though nothing unusual had happened.
When Vernon looks away to butter his toast, Yunjin meets your eyes. One eyebrow lifts.
The expression is enough to let you know her exact thoughts. Sure. Just friends.
You look away first, having nothing to defend yourself anyway.
A few days later, you're leaving the library alone after returning a stack of books while Vernon waits outside for you.
As you're signing the register, Madam Pince glances over her spectacles. "Tell your boyfriend that if he's going to keep borrowing books on advanced Transfiguration, he ought to remember to return them on time."
You blink."My... boyfriend?"
"Mr. Chwe." She says matter-of-factly and stamps another return slip. "The two of you practically live in my library."
Heat crawls up your neck. "Oh... we're actually just friends."
Madam Pince pauses for exactly one second. "Hm." The noise is polite yet entirely unconvinced and she goes back to shelving books.
Outside, Vernon looks up the moment the library doors open. "There you are."
You leave feeling strangely embarrassed, just hoping that he doesn’t notice your blushing cheeks.
Later that week, you're waiting outside Charms while Vernon stays behind to ask Professor Flitwick a question.
Joshua happens to pass by. He slows when he notices you standing alone. "Waiting for Vernon?"
“Oh hello Joshua! Yes, he'll only be another minute."
Joshua smiles to himself. He adjusts the strap of his bag before adding, almost as an afterthought,
"I think it's kinda sweet"
"...What is?"
"The way you always wait for each other."
Your heart stumbles. "We're only friends Shua."
Joshua studies your face for a moment. Then, very gently, he asks, "Has he actually told you that?"
The question catches you completely off guard. Before you can ask what he means, Vernon steps out of the classroom.
Joshua's expression changes immediately. "Anyway," he says with an easy smile, "I'll see you both at dinner."
He walks away before you can stop him.
You spend the entire journey to the Great Hall thinking about those six words.
Has he actually told you that?
Told you what?
The strangest part isn't that people assume you're together. It's how naturally Vernon seems to fit into those assumptions without ever knowing they're happening. You begin to wonder, quietly, whether you are the only person at Hogwarts who is confused about what this actually is.
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
When Madam Pince finally announces the library is closing for lunch, Vernon gathers both of your books without asking and waits while you shove loose parchment into your bag. The corridors are crowded with all the students rushing towards the Great Hall. Without thinking, your fingers curl around the sleeve of his robe so you don't lose him in the sea of students. The moment you realize what you're doing, embarrassment floods your face and you let go. Before you could think much about it, his hand reaches your wrist to gently guide you through the crowd.
"Careful," he says as a group of third years barrels around the corner.
His fingers are warm on your wrist and you think he doesn't seem to notice what he’s doing. You are reading way too much into it…you notice far too much...
His hand stays there until the hallway opens into the courtyard. By the time he lets go, your skin still remembers his and you are beginning to think your heart has become deeply unreasonable.
Outside, the air has a sharp bite to it. You rub your hands together as the wind slips beneath your robes.
Without a word, Vernon unwinds the scarf from around his own neck and before you can protest, he loops it around your neck. His fingers brush beneath your chin as he straightens the ends. For one impossible moment, he is standing so close that all you can see is him. As he’s done with securing the scarf around your neck, his eyes lift to yours, offering you a small smile and suddenly you forget how to breathe.
Then he steps back as though nothing unusual has happened.
"I was fine," you manage to mumble out as you both continue walking. You spend the walk to the Great Hall trying to hide your smile into the scarf.
After lunch, the two of you drift back to the Ravenclaw common room to finish the assignment you had barely started. Claiming the sofa nearest the fire, you get comfortable on it trying to warm yourself up. Vernon walks behind you, removing his jumper and throws it casually on the armrest. You quickly lean over and grab it from the armrest, pulling it over your uniform. It hangs well past your fingertips.
He glances up once. "You've stolen another one."
"I’m just borrowing it. Please I think there’s a draft in here" you hug yourself, rubbing your hands on your arms.
"You said that about the last one too."
"I returned that."
"Yeah yeah, you did… only three weeks later."
You look away, unable to hide your grin. "It was too comfortable to return."
“Keep it” He only returns to his notes, completely unbothered, while you try to not look at him too much as you spend your time pretending to understand Ancient Runes.
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
Several hours pass as you both work on writing your assignments in silence. You stretch your arms up, fingers flexing as you let out a small yawn. “Finally...I managed to write a bit. Do you want to read it?”
“Hmm let me see” He shifts closer to read your essay over your shoulder and you become acutely aware of how close he is. Close enough to see the faint scar marking his eyebrow. Close enough to notice the way his lips part ever so slightly as he reads out your essay to himself.
“This looks like a good start” He looks at you.
His gaze is fixed on you and you wonder, absurdly, what would happen if neither of you looked away, what would happen if either of you leaned in just a bit closer. Your pulse pounds loudly against your throat as you struggle to get your head straight, unable to look away from the boy sitting beside you.
Your thoughts remain thoughts as Seungkwan enters with pumpkin tarts and the moment breaks. “Tarts for all!” He walks towards you both, and you shift slightly away from Vernon, clearing your throat. “Don’t forget to eat between your obnoxiously long study sessions” he says, offering you one.
Vernon reaches for another piece of tart on the plate, as though nothing had happened. Well nothing had, technically.
Poor you, now you will have to spend the rest of the evening wondering if you imagined the entire thing or not.
Thankfully, the portrait swings open before your thoughts can spiral any further, and Joshua walks in, balancing a stack of books against his hip.
"There you are," he says, walking towards the both of you.
“Didn’t I tell you we’d find them here” Seungkwan joins and takes a few books from Joshua, setting them on the table. "We checked the library, the courtyard, and even the Owlery. We were actually beginning to think you had disappeared."
Joshua's gaze lands on you, then on the oversized jumper and then finally on Vernon. The corners of his mouth lift knowingly. "So this is where you've been hiding."
You hurriedly begin stacking your notes. "I should probably leave you three alone. You haven't seen each other all day."
Before you can stand properly, warm fingers wrap gently around your hand. Vernon looks at you with quiet confusion.
"Why would you leave? We were in the middle of something."
"I just thought you'd want to catch up with them."
His thumb shifts absentmindedly against your knuckles as he gives your hand a gentle tug. "Sit back down. We've still got half an essay left."
The gesture is so casual that it almost makes it worse. You sink back onto the sofa, hoping the warmth creeping into your cheeks isn't too obvious.
Across the room, Seungkwan watches the entire exchange before slowly turning to Joshua. "I'm not saying anything," he murmurs.
Joshua smiles to himself. "I wasn't going to, either."
They both take the armchairs opposite you and the conversation slips easily from homework to Quidditch to Seungkwan's latest complaint about Professor Binns. You find yourself laughing far more than you contribute.
Seungkwan glances around before lowering his voice. "Apparently Mingyu rejected someone today." Joshua looks up in surprise. "Really?" "Not intentionally though," Seungkwan corrects with a sigh. "A girl asked if he wanted to go to Hogsmeade with her this weekend and he just smiled and said, 'Sure. Who else is coming?'" Joshua groans, dropping his head into one hand. "No..." "By the time someone explained it to him, she was already halfway back to her common room."
Vernon lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "Poor Mingyu." His smile is small, the corners of his eyes crinkling. You look away before he can catch you staring, but it doesn't really help. The warm feeling lingers deep inside your chest. Friends aren't supposed to make your heart race just by smiling. At least, you don't think they are.. Or I have been doing friendship wrong for years?
You do not say any of this to him. You are not entirely sure your voice would survive it anyways.
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
Finally the gruelling exam is over and you were on your way to find Vernon after your last class of the day, a habit so worn into the shape of your afternoons now that your feet carry you toward the usual courtyard without your having to think about it, when you hear his voice drifting from around the corner. He was talking to someone you did not recognize, his tone easy and unhurried like it always was.
You slow without meaning to. It’s not like you were trying to eavesdrop. You simply catch, as you pass, a question you do not quite hear the whole of, and then Vernon's answer, plain and unmistakable.
"Yeah. I've got a girlfriend."
You stop walking. Whatever comes after that sentence, if anything comes after it at all, never reaches you, because your ears have gone strange and rushing, and your feet were already carrying you backward before you have consciously chosen to move.
A girlfriend.
Not you. It cannot be you, because you have spent months insisting, to anyone who would listen, that the two of you were only friends, and he must have believed you, and so he must have found someone else in all this time, someone you know nothing about, someone he speaks of so easily and so plainly that it must have been true for a while now.
You do not stop to reason any of this through properly. You only turn and walk the other way, the scarf, his scarf, wound tight around your throat as though it might hold in whatever sound is trying to climb up out of your chest, and you do not look back to see whether he noticed you were ever there at all.
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
You begin finding reasons not to be where he expects you.
You take your meals early or late, timed carefully around whatever hour you know he will be elsewhere. You study in an empty classroom near the greenhouses instead of your usual table by the library window, and when Madam Pince notices the table sitting empty for the first time in months, she says nothing to you directly, though you catch her frowning at it once, as though the silence itself has become suspicious to her.
You give Vernon short, clipped answers whenever he catches you in a corridor. Busy. Sorry. Can't, essay's due. You do not look at him properly when you say these things, afraid of what your face might give away if you do.
He does not chase you down, not at first. He has never been the sort to make a scene, and some distant, grateful part of you is glad of that even as another part of you, unreasonably, wishes he would corner you and demand to know what is wrong, so that you would not have to be the one to say it first.
Instead, he only grows quieter. You catch him watching you sometimes from across the Great Hall, an expression on his face you have never seen there before. Not hurt, exactly, but something close to it.
Yunjin finds you in your dormitory a week into it, arms folded, entirely unimpressed with your excuses. "What happened?" she asks, "Don't tell me nothing happened because I'm not buying that for a second."
"Nothing happened," you say, which is nearly true, since nothing happened to you directly. You only overheard something you were never meant to hear, and it happened to break something in your chest that you had not realized could break so easily.
Yunjin sighs and sits down on the edge of your bed. "He asked me where you were after Charms yesterday," she says, gentler now. "Then this morning he wanted to know if you'd skipped breakfast because he hadn't seen you in the Great Hall. I don't think he has the faintest idea what's going on."
You do not answer that. You pull your knees up to your chest and stare at the wall, thinking miserably that of course he does not know, since the thing that is wrong is a girlfriend you are not supposed to know about at all. A whole life he apparently has that has nothing to do with you.
You keep the scarf anyway. You tell yourself you will return it eventually. You do not take off the hoodie either, and you find yourself crying quietly into the sleeve of it more than once, which is exactly the sort of thing you had promised yourself you would not become.
You avoid him for eleven days, but god does it feel a good deal longer than that.
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
Vernon doesn't go looking for you immediately. For the first few days, he assumes you are simply busy. But by the end of the week, he isn't so sure.
Joshua looks up from his book when Vernon drops onto the sofa opposite him in the Ravenclaw common room. He watches him for a moment before quietly closing the book over a finger to keep his place.
"You've been unusually quiet all evening," he says. "You haven't turned that page in the last ten minutes."
Vernon glances down at the open textbook resting forgotten in his lap before letting out a slow breath. "I don't think she's very happy with me."
Joshua studies him carefully. "What makes you say that?"
"She's been leaving before I can catch up after class. She doesn't come to the library anymore, and every time I ask if she wants to study together, she already has somewhere else to be." He pauses, his brow drawing together slightly. "She even tried to give my scarf back."
Joshua's expression softens. "Did something happen between you two? Did you argue about anything?"
Vernon shakes his head. "Not that I know of. I've been trying to think if I said something that upset her, but... I can't remember anything."
Joshua leans back against the sofa. "Have you actually asked her what's wrong?"
"I asked if she'd been sleeping enough," Vernon replies earnestly. "Then I asked whether she'd skipped lunch because she hadn't been in the Great Hall. Yesterday I asked if she was coming down with a cold."
Joshua waits for him to continue. When nothing else comes, he can't help smiling.
"Vernon... those aren't really the questions I meant. They're thoughtful questions, just not the important ones."
A small crease appears between Vernon's brows, before he can reply, the portrait swings open.
Seungkwan steps into the common room carrying two oversized mugs of hot chocolate. He takes one look at Joshua's amused expression and Vernon's troubled one before raising an eyebrow. "...Why do I feel like I walked into something?"
Joshua gestures toward Vernon. "Him."
Seungkwan crosses the room, hands one mug to Vernon, and drops into the armchair opposite them. "Alright," he says. "Start from the beginning."
Vernon recounts the past week with the same straightforward honesty he applies to everything else.
Seungkwan's teasing smile slowly disappears and the room falls quiet. Joshua and Seungkwan exchange a glance. Neither of them seems particularly convinced by anything they've just heard.
Finally, Seungkwan lets out a small sigh. "I think she's trying to tell you something."
Vernon looks between the two of them. "What?"
Joshua gives him an apologetic smile. "I honestly don't know."
"And neither do you," Seungkwan adds. "You've been trying to figure it out by yourself all week."
Vernon lowers his eyes to the untouched mug warming his hands. "So... what am I supposed to do?"
Joshua answers first. "You stop guessing."
Seungkwan nods. "And you stop asking whether she's eaten lunch."
Joshua smiles too before leaning forward. "Just find her. Sit down with her, and ask what's been bothering her. Then actually listen to the answer."
Vernon is quiet for a long moment, turning the advice over in his mind. Finally, he nods.
"...Alright." He sets the mug down on the table beside him and rises to his feet. "I'll go talk to her."
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
He finds you, eventually, in the courtyard beneath the beech tree, the same place you used to meet every morning before all of this fell apart. You are sitting with your knees drawn up, your face turned toward the lake so that he will not immediately see you have been crying.
He does not say anything at first. He simply lowers himself down beside you, close but not quite touching, and waits patiently, just as he waits for most things.
You break the silence before he does. "I'm sorry," you say, your voice trembling from the very first word. "I know I've been avoiding you. I know that wasn't fair to you. I should've just talked to you instead of disappearing like that."
He watches you quietly. "Okay," he says after a moment, his voice careful, almost cautious. "Can you tell me why you were avoiding me?"
A watery laugh escapes you. "I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I heard you. A couple of weeks ago, in the corridor. You were talking to that Ravenclaw boy."
He nods slowly, trying to remember.
"You said you've got a girlfriend."
Something shifts across his face, surprise perhaps. Whatever it was, you could not quite tell.
"And I didn't hear anything after that," you continue before you lose your nerve. "I didn't need to."
Your voice catches slightly, as you try to get the words out before breaking into another sob. Well, here it goes "I've been in love with you for months, Vernon. I don't even know when it happened exactly. It just... did. Somewhere between spending time together, it stopped feeling like friendship to me."
You laugh weakly through your tears. "I thought maybe you felt something too... I thought maybe it meant something to you as it did to me."
"And then I heard you say that." You shake your head.
The words come more quietly now. "So I figured I just had imagined everything. I thought I'd built an entire relationship in my head while you already had someone else."
"I kept thinking maybe if I stayed away long enough..." You wipe hurriedly at your face "...eventually it would stop hurting."
You let out a shaky breath. “But it didn't."
"I just wanted you to know why I've been avoiding you. I know you have a girlfriend, and I won't make things awkward anymore. I'll stop borrowing your things. I'll stop following you around after class." You manage a small, miserable smile. "I'll leave you alone."
Vernon has gone very still. He looks at you for several seconds, his brow slowly drawing together. "Wait." His voice is quiet.
"I'm trying to understand."
You look up at him, sniffling as you keep wiping your cheeks.
"You heard me say I have a girlfriend”
"...Yes."
"That's why you've been avoiding me."
"Vernon, I don't think that's the important part."
"No," he says gently. "I think it is." He lets out a slow breath, almost sounding relieved. "We've been talking about two completely different things."
You stare at him. "What are you talking about?"
"When I said I've got a girlfriend..." He says it with certainty, walking closer to you, "I meant you."
For a long moment, neither of you says anything at all.
"What," you croak out, "are you talking about?"
He looks at you with genuine confusion now. It wasn’t the look of bewilderment of someone who has no idea what's happening but more like that of confusion of someone realizing an assumption he had quietly lived with for months had never been shared.
He glances down at his hands before looking back at you.
"I gave you my scarf because I hated seeing you shiver. I left my jumpers with you because you always looked prettier wearing them."
A small, almost embarrassed smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
"I walked you back to your dorm every night because I wanted to know you got there safely. I waited for you after class because I liked being the first person you looked for when the lesson ended. I made your tea every morning because I remembered how you liked it, and I saved you a seat because I couldn't really imagine sitting there without you."
"None of that means we were dating Vernon."
"What does it mean, then."
"It means we're friends," you say, though even to your own ears the word sounds thinner than it used to, worn down under the weight of everything he has just listed out. "Friends do all of that."
"Do they." He looks at you with genuine, earnest confusion, his brow furrowed as though you just told him the most absurd thing ever "I've never done any of that with a friend before."
"Vernon, you never asked me. None of it was ever official."
"I didn't think I needed to ask," he says quietly. "When people called you my girlfriend...I never corrected them because I thought you had already become that."
The silence between you stretches only for a moment. Then he smiles, small and sheepish. "I just didn't realize that I never actually told you."
You stare at him and your heart feels impossibly full.
"You are," you say, shaking your head through a laugh through the tears, "the biggest idiot I have ever met."
"I've been told that before."
"No," you murmur, stepping closer until there's barely any space left between you. "For someone so smart," you whisper, "you can be unbelievably stupid."
"So I've heard."
"Vernon."
"Hm?"
"Please...just shut up and kiss me already."
His answering smile is so warm it almost steals your breath before he ever touches you. He closes the distance slowly, giving you every chance to change your mind, and when his mouth finally meets yours it is not hurried at all. It is careful, almost searching at first, as though he wants to memorize the exact shape of the moment before he lets himself sink into it. One of his hands stays cradled against your jaw, his thumb moving in a slow, absent stroke along your cheekbone. The other slides to your waist, drawing you closer without any urgency behind it, only warmth. You feel the small, involuntary breath he takes when your fingers curl into his hair, feel him smile faintly against your mouth before he kisses you again, slower this time, like you had all the time in the world.
When you finally part, just barely, your foreheads still resting together, neither of you move to pull away. His breath is unsteady like you have never heard from him before, and you find that undoes you more than the kiss itself did.
When he pulls away, his forehead rests lightly against yours. “Will you officially be my girlfriend?”
You look at him properly then, the way you have not quite let yourself in eleven days, “I think this question was long overdue.”
He laughs then, properly this time, soft and warm, and something about hearing that sound after eleven miserable days makes your eyes sting all over again.
“Yes, I would love to be your girlfriend” You close your eyes, burrowing your face into his chest. For the first time in eleven long days, everything feels uncomplicated again.
The lake ripples quietly beyond the beech tree, and the last of the afternoon sunlight spills gold across the grass around you.
You stay there together until the air begins to cool, holding each other as though nothing had changed. Perhaps because, in Vernon's mind, nothing really had.
The only difference was that now, at last, the two of you understood the same story.
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
You come down to breakfast the next morning still half convinced you have dreamed the whole thing, until you spot Vernon already seated at the Hufflepuff table, saving you your usual place beside him like he always has, and your cheeks warm all over again at the sight of him.
You sit down. He does not look up from his toast right away, and then, without any ceremony at all, he slides half of it onto your plate, exactly the way he has done a hundred mornings before, and lays a peck on your cheek, "Morning, girlfriend."
You very nearly choke on your pumpkin juice for the second time this term. He glances up at last, and there it is again, that small, fond, faintly smug curve at the corner of his mouth.
Yunjin, across the table, does not even glance up from her eggs. "Finally," she says, to no one in particular, and returns to her breakfast as though nothing at all has changed, because as far as she and everyone else at Hogwarts are concerned, nothing has.
End.
📖 Before you leave Owl's Library, consider returning this record to the shelves with a reblog so other readers may find it.
🔞 18+ 🚨 minors and blank blogs will be blocked
masterlist • part one • part two
When you inherit your parents' unpaid debt to the Devil, you're given two choices: serve their eternal sentence of servitude in Hell or negotiate a contract of your own. Surprisingly, choosing the latter and accepting a position to become his live-in assistant doesn't exactly dole out the torment you expect it to. As Hell begins to feel more like home than Earth ever did, both you and your impossibly ancient boss find yourselves navigating a far more confusing negotiation: falling in love.
PAIRING: devil!junhui x assistant fem!reader
WC: 20.6K / 40K (complete)
TAGS: crack, humor, roommate/boss to lover
CW: implied demisexual reader, corporate hell, power dynamic, demons, kidnapping, mentions of alcohol, mentions of vomit, mentions of eternal servitude, bad parents, reader has abandonment/attachment issues and is clingy, god is a woman, mentions of torture and people in hell, brief appearance of a cult/cult leader, mention of the orange man, jealous junhui, possessive junhui, kinda toxic junhui in pt2 but bruh he's the devil so
SMUT (IN PT. 2): marked at start and end, unprotected piv, creampie, virgin reader, possessive, fingering, oral f. receiving, sniffing? lol, his eyes turn completely black during oral, hickeys, biting, lotus, missionary, idk lmk if i missed anything
A/N: mad bc this is DONE and tumblr just doesn't want to let me post bc it exceeds the 1000 block limit. and i'm way too lazy to ctrl+shift every fucking paragraph in this. so. two parts it is. you can see when the next part will be published in the second A/N at the end. anyway, this was supposed to be ready by jun's birthday but work decided to ruin my life. belated happy bubonic boy day. this is based off a dream i had on june 14, 2025; i know bc i wrote it in my notes app the morning after LOL. this is needlessly long and reads like a sitcom with a lot of filler episodes but idc i love devil hui bwahahaha. enjoy love ya bye.
DAY ONE
"AND THIS WILL BE YOUR LIVING QUARTERS. DO YOU HAVE ANY QUESTIONS?"
You stare up at the man, baffled. The stranger who was waiting for you in your living room when you drunkenly stumbled home could not look any less bothered if he tried. He had been seated in the secondhand armchair you bought off Facebook Marketplace, and he looked way too expensive to have his ass touching something you kept telling yourself had no business being resold to you. He was dressed head to toe in black—all impressively the same exact shade of black, a feat you had yet to master—looking like he had stepped right off a runway and into your dingy apartment, which was probably the only reason you hadn't immediately screamed.
His eyes flicked over to you lazily as your door slammed shut behind you and you tripped over your heels, catching yourself on the corner of your kitchen island before realizing you weren't alone. He had one leg crossed over the other and one hand shoved into your last bag of ghost pepper chips as he stared at you like you were intruding on his space. Then, he withdrew his hand, shoved his pepper dusted fingers into his mouth, sucked briefly, wiped his fingers onto your armchair, then snapped. Your bag of chips promptly disappeared and he stood up. It wasn't even his presence or the chips disappearing without an explanation. It was his height that startled you back to your senses.
You weren't short by any means, but the man towered over you anyway, and you came to the sobering realization that being trapped in a space with a man that size would lead to very horrible things. Well, you were correct. Because before you could even finish inhaling to let out the loudest scream you were capable of, he was in front of you, huge hand clamping over your mouth and squeezing your cheeks together. What you were sure was a Guinness World Record-worthy scream became a pathetic squeak.
The sound, infuriatingly, made the man smirk, your eyes coming down to the small mole right above his lip. He raised a single eyebrow at you before stating your full government name. "That you?"
Your wide eyes must have answered the question for you because he didn't wait for verbal confirmation.
"Lovely." And then somehow, you were here. Wherever the fuck here is. Maybe you blacked out on the way. Maybe you're too drunk to remember how you got here. Either way, here is where you are now.
"Do I have any questions?" you shriek, stomping a foot. Your heel clacks against the pretentious black marble flooring, and you have half a mind to kick them off and throw both at the man's head. "You not only kidnapped me, but you kidnapped me while in my clubbing clothes, bro."
You look down at yourself, disheveled from a night out trying desperately to be sober enough to wrangle other, drunker friends to stay together. Your dress is no longer hugging you in places it was at the beginning of the night, your knees are scraped from where you ate shit trying to chase a friend down the street, and you're sure your hair is trying its best to become a suitable bird's nest.
"Jasmine threw up on me tonight," you inform him, mouth twisting in disgust at the small darkened spot on the edge of your dress where the birthday girl had missed the toilet by a mere inch. "You couldn't have let me change first?"
You startle when he snaps and you feel silk against your skin. You look down to find yourself in a black pajama set, perfectly fitted to you, the bottoms falling just shy of the floor and the sleeves just long enough to make sweater paws if you want them but short enough that they aren't a hindrance.
"Ew," you mutter. "I didn't even shower."
"Luckily for you, you have an en suite," he points out, nodding at the door across the massive bedroom.
"I don't have toiletries."
"You'll find it appropriately stocked."
"But what about my skincare?"
"Again. Appropriately stocked."
"You don't even know my skin concerns."
"Oily on the chin and T-zone, dry everywhere else. Terrible hormonal acne during your period or when you're stressed," he recites like he studied this information. Your mouth pops open in either awe or humiliation—you're not even sure. "You struggle with water intake throughout the day so you'll find a litany of moisturizing products in there. Also, maybe you should start using retinoids." His eyes go to your forehead. "You crinkle your eyebrows a lot. You'll get fine lines soon."
You gasp, slapping a hand over your forehead. "You asshole."
"I'm the asshole giving you all the skincare you could possibly ever want."
"You're the asshole kidnapping me!" you scream the last two words, finally losing your patience.
You thought your best bet would be finding a way to escape wherever you are once the man left you alone, but the mere mention of fine lines kicks you into fight or flight. You swing your tiny shoulder purse at his stomach as hard as you can, satisfied when you hear a soft oof from his lips. You shove past him, your new bunny slippers slowing you down considerably as you stumble down the pristine hallway. You only get to the corner before you slam into what feels like a wall, eating shit for the second time tonight.
"Ugh," you grunt as your ass meets the floor and you're laid out flat on your back. "Ow." You groan, hand coming to your ass while the other attempts to prop you up. You open your eyes to find the stranger crouching down in front of you, amused at your weak attempt at freedom. You glower at him as you massage your butt. "I hate you."
"And you're only going to hate me more," he mutters. The words give you pause. "You have free reign in my home." He stands now, tucking his large hands into the pockets of his slacks. "You can try to run but you'll find you can't. So you might as well get comfortable, and when you've finally come to terms with your circumstances… we'll talk."
Without another word, he disappears right before your very eyes.
DAY FOUR
For three days, you tried everything you could to escape.
You found your phone in your purse and tried calling your friends. They answered and you could talk, but as soon as you tried to tell them you'd been kidnapped, your mouth would suddenly be incapable of moving—like your lips had been glued shut. Terrifyingly enough, on your third call, you walked to the vanity in your room and found your mouth just gone any time you tried to say anything that had to do with the stranger and his house of horrors.
The most horrific thing being that it has no windows or exits. Every single door you've found and tried in this laughably huge house has led to a bedroom, a study, a library, a home theater, a gym, or a space that made no sense to you—one with nothing but racks and racks of clothes and shoes from what looked like every, single period of time in history, ever. Another stuffed to the brim with huge stacks of papers that reached the ceiling. Another with A/C blasting hard, presumably to keep the furniture completely crafted from ice inside rock solid.
The house made no sense, but in that way, it made perfect sense that it belonged to the weirdo that kidnapped you. Now, it's day four, you know the house like the back of your hand, and all your phone calls are spent pretending like you're fine while Stella tells you about her piece of shit boyfriend and begs you not to tell Marisol so she won't hate him any more than she already does. Please. If you're going to tell Marisol anything, it's going to be about your piece of shit kidnapper.
But beyond calling for help and finding an escape, you find that you're fresh out of ideas to find your way out. And sensing that, the stranger appears at your bedroom door first thing when you wake up, a small smirk on those pink lips as he leans against the doorframe, long, lean and dressed in a different variation of the same, black outfit. This time, with a winter coat that comes down to his ankles dramatically.
"Good morning. Kind of."
You scoff, pulling your eye mask back down over your eyes. "It's the middle of summer, you psycho."
"Had some business in Australia."
You freeze for a moment before shoving up one side of your eye mask and peeking at him. "Australia."
He nods. "Yup. Heard of it? Odd place with huge spiders and opposite seasons. Quite cold there right now." He pushes himself off the frame and walks to the foot of your massive California king-sized bed, where he sheds his coat and carelessly throws it on the bench.
You'll give it to him. You've been living like a queen while here. You hate to admit that if he had simply asked nicely, you probably would love to live here with him despite knowing nothing about him—you're not known for your logical or sound thinking. You simply survive the day, and surviving here would be nice. But the sheer audacity of forcing you to be here without your consent drives you to unprecedented levels of stubbornness. Levels of stubbornness that convince you it would be much better living in your tiny, sad apartment in your seedy neighborhood than here, in this mansion, with products that have your skin glowing like it never has before.
When you don't respond to his rhetorical question, he asks something more serious. "Are you ready to have a proper conversation now?"
You blow a raspberry and laugh, making a show of pulling your mask back down and snuggling deeper into your 1,000-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets.
"Perfect, I am too," he says sarcastically, the duvet ripped off you violently within the same breath. You shriek at the sudden cold. The psycho keeps his house freezing at all times, which means when you're not looking for the emergency exit, you're either always buried under several blankets or in the sauna down the hall. You hear the snap of his fingers and your eye mask disappears.
You gasp. "What is wrong with you?"
"Everything here is mine," he reminds you. "Or have you gotten so comfortable, you've forgotten you've been kidnapped?" He snorts at the word like it's a ridiculous thought even though that's literally what he did. He seats himself on the edge of your bed, crossing his legs and holding his hand out. As soon as he does, your bag of ghost pepper chips materialize in it.
"Hey!" you lean over to grab them, unperturbed by the way things just appear and disappear at his whim. He quickly holds them out of your reach, his expression bored as your face stops just shy of his. You glare at him. "Those are mine."
Though his expression doesn't change, his dark eyes suddenly flash a bright, angry red, and you struggle to refrain from flinching.
"Hm," he hums, smirking as you slowly lean away and he brings the bag back down to his lap. He smugly throws a chip into his mouth, crunching slowly before swallowing. Your eyes come down to the insane Adam's apple of his bobbing at the motion. You purse your lips and look back up. "It doesn't surprise me that those heinous parents of yours never taught you how to share."
The words pull all the fight and anger out of you immediately. Your shoulders deflate and you look at him with wide eyes. "My… what? You knew my parents?"
The man nods once. "Unfortunately. Really vile duo, weren't they?"
It's an understatement. Your parents should've never had a child to begin with, but your mother thought doing so would keep your father interested—a fact she never failed to remind you of. She never wanted you, never wanted to be a mother, never wanted someone to raise. All she ever wanted was to keep your father's attention, and you did, for a few years at least. Then, you turned four, and his fascination with being a parent waned, and the two of them deemed you old enough to fend for yourself while they carried on with their lives like they never even had you. You were left at home for hours at a time, teaching yourself to make cheese sandwiches with the microwave, and self-soothing with the TV when it would get dark and you were scared to be alone.
When they were home, you were a pseudo-maid, cleaning up after your mother and bringing your father beer after beer as he demanded them. You knew the brands and how to use a bottle opener before you even knew how to read. Sometimes, you caught yourself enjoying the time they were away more than when they were back, but then the sun would set, and you wouldn't be scared anymore or crying yourself to sleep, and you'd decide it was better than having to be alone.
It wasn't until they hadn't returned for almost a week, leaving you near-starved and dehydrated, that you finally went to the neighbor for help. You were in the foster system the next day, and you never saw your parents ever again. You've been without them far longer than you were ever with them, and still, their fingerprints are all over your life: your stunted education, your desperate need to be around your friends, your avoidance of an empty apartment, apparently this guy. Really, his house of horrors was a reminder of how much you despised being left to your own devices. Maybe that's why you were constantly on the phone even if it meant you couldn't ask for help.
"Um… how?" you ask, dumbfounded.
"They called to me one night," the stranger confides in you between bites of your own chips. Even as he talks with a full mouth, he manages to look just as regal. "Begged for a better life—all the money they could dream of in a land far from where they were, away from everything and everyone they've ever known."
It doesn't take a genius to figure out that he's talking about you.
"They didn't have anything to offer in exchange," he tells you, not bothering to explain why they would be asking him for anything at all. "They wanted to sell their souls, but what the fuck am I supposed to do with something so… ugly…?"
The word comes out of his mouth with a sneer, and you nod like you understand. You kind of do. Everything about the man is very pretty, down to his nail beds and his shined shoes. What would he need from two deadbeats like your parents?
Wait. Their souls?
"So they offered me something more pure," he says, the bag of chips disappearing once more. He plunges his thumb into his mouth to suck the ghost pepper dust off, and you find yourself a little entranced as it pops back out and he does the same with his index finger. You sigh as you turn toward your nightstand and pluck a tissue from the box and hand it to him. He frowns. "Uh, thanks."
"And what was that?" you ask as he wipes his saliva off on the tissue instead of whatever furniture is available to him (in this case, your 1,000-thread-count sheets).
"Their daughter."
You were expecting it. You hadn't been sure what to make of all this; half of you was convinced you were still blackout drunk, passed out somewhere in a bathroom stall while Jasmine puked her guts out. Maybe you were having a very elaborate dream. Or nightmare. But hearing him speak now, you believe it. You wouldn't put those two idiots above summoning some kind of demon to get them out of their gambling debts and make them rich—allow them a life among the elite. And you wouldn't put it past them to trade you for it.
You were expecting it. But still, it feels like another knife through your heart when he confirms it.
"I'm not a fucking monster, though," he says, snorting. You raise an eyebrow at him.
"But… I'm here…"
He nods. "I told them they can't just sell their child to the Devil. So—"
"The Devil?!"
"—I settled on servitude. I would just enslave them at the end of their contract for the rest of eternity."
You balk at him—the Devil. The Devil likes black oxfords and ghost pepper chips.
"But then…" he sighs, inconvenienced. "They died."
"They're dead," you repeat, the words coming out more like a statement than the question you meant for them to be. You find that you don't feel anything about that. You never even got a chance to love your parents. It doesn't feel like you've lost anything. You were always alone; still, the confirmation that you truly are now is odd.
"Mhm," he confirms, the tissue disappearing into thin air as he leans back on his hands. "Can you believe I made those two rich beyond their wildest dreams and they somehow still got into trouble with loan sharks?" His head lolls to the side to look at you. "Unlike you, they were actually kidnapped." He shrugs before adding an important detail. "And murdered."
"Oh," you breathe.
"Yes. Oh. But I still needed to collect payment. And unfortunately…"
He lets you connect the dots on your own. "I'm their only next of kin."
"Precisely," he nods once. "You've inherited their debt."
"So… you're… enslaving me?"
He looks at you with disgust. "What? No. I said I'm not a fucking monster."
"But you kidnapped me."
"I did not."
"You did."
"Let's not get into the semantics of it all," he says, waving a hand dismissively as his eyebrow twitches with irritation. "I am not enslaving you. I am here to offer you a contract."
"A contract."
"A contract." A piece of paper—sheer and made up of glittery red particles—materializes between the two of you, hundreds of lines of red print appearing one by one before you as he speaks. "You may serve your parents' sentence—"
"Enslavement."
He rolls his eyes. "Fine. Yes, enslavement—though I am giving you a choice!"
"Wow, what a gentleman."
"Or," he raises his voice slightly to get you back on track, "you can make your own contract." He nods at the piece of paper. You frown.
"But I didn't ask you for anything."
"Yes, but it will release you from your parents' debt."
"By putting me into my own pile of shit?"
He smirks. "Oh c'mon. I think I deserve more credit than that. Have I not been an incredibly generous host to you thus far?" He spreads one, long arm out to gesture to your bedroom—more like a large apartment in the corner of his mansion.
"A generous host during my stay in your prison?" you ask, snorting. "Sure." His face falls into a flat expression that you ignore as you lean forward to read the beginnings of your contract.
INFERNAL SUCCESSION OF DEBT
Contract ID 666-4
This Agreement is entered into between:
THE DEVIL, King of the Infernal Realms, Lord of Temptation, Prince of Darkness, Keeper of Eternal Contracts, Hereinafter referred to as "Employer," "His Infernal Majesty," or "Boss";
and
Y/N L/N, Sole Living Descendant and Responsible Party, Hereinafter referred to as "Employee".
PREAMBLE
WHEREAS, Employee's parents entered into a legally binding contract with Employer in exchange for wealth, prosperity, favorable stock performance, and several luxury vehicles;
WHEREAS, said parents were obligated to surrender themselves for eternal servitude upon collection;
WHEREAS, said parents have inconveniently perished before collection could be completed;
WHEREAS, Hell's Collections Department has determined Employee to be the sole inheritor of all outstanding debts, obligations, curses, liens, penalties, and miscellaneous infernal paperwork;
THEREFORE, Employer has graciously offered Employee the following alternatives:
OPTION A: In fulfillment of the obligations incurred by Employee's deceased parents, Employee shall enter the service of the Infernal Realm for all eternity.
Duties shall include, but are not limited to:
Processing approximately 4.8 million forms per day
Responding to customer complaints from damned souls
Sharpening ceremonial pitchforks
Serving as a chew toy for baby hellhounds during training exercises
Untangling chains in the Pit of Eternal Knots
Operating the Soul Intake Window during holiday rushes
Rewriting contracts damaged by hellfire
Cleaning the Room of Despair every third Tuesday
Escorting lost souls to the appropriate department
Conducting annual inventories of screams
Working closely with Minghao from Accounting
Employee acknowledges that eternity is a super long time and that the above list is not-at-all exhaustive.
OPTION B: Accept employment under Employer for the duration of Employee's natural mortal lifespan, after which Employee shall receive a permanent position with benefits.
You look back up at the Devil. He watches you with an unreadable expression.
"What's the catch?"
"You'd have to read all 666 pages of your contract to find it."
You narrow your eyes at him. "You don't think I'll do it." He neither confirms or denies. "I will. I will read all 666 pages."
"Fine by me," he says, shrugging one shoulder and standing. "But after you read them and decide on either option A or B, you'll have another contract to sign for terms of your servitude or your employment. I'm sure you can guess how many pages each are."
You feel the ambition leave your soul. You roll your eyes and shake your head. "Sit your ass down."
He smirks and follows directions.
"I assume they went to Hell, no?" He nods. "Why can't you just go find their souls and make them serve their sentence?"
"Debt must be collected before death and the souls are admitted into Hell and sorted into the proper circles of punishment, where they'll be doing something very different for all of eternity." He shakes his head regretfully. "Your parents are currently being fried in vats of oil over and over again. If they had survived until debt collection, they would've remained human for eternity, serving me even as their increasingly brittle bones repeatedly broke under the weight of their chores."
He smiles wistfully at what could have been, and you wince. "Um. Okay... well, what would my duties be for option B?"
The Devil nods to the space next to the contract, where an employment agreement appears, lines appearing one after the other just like the original contract. You groan.
"What the fuck is wrong with you? Why is Hell a corporation?"
His eyebrows rise. "What else would Hell be?"
You pause, ruminating on the thought. "Okay, good point."
You sigh and skim the employment agreement.
POSITION
Employee shall serve as: Executive Assistant to His Infernal Majesty
Responsibilities include, but are not limited to:
Maintaining Employer's schedule
Screening calls
Organizing contracts
Overseeing scheduled plagues, wars, famines, etc.
Managing infernal correspondence
Other duties as assigned
Employee shall reside in Employer's primary estate for the duration of employment. Position will require 30% travel.
COMPENSATION
During mortal employment, Employee shall receive:
Free housing
Free meals
Free skincare
Access to infernal healthcare
Unlimited coffee
Following Employee's natural death, Employee shall receive:
Permanent demon status
Comfortable accommodations
Full retirement benefits
Choice of station
WORKPLACE CONDUCT
Employer shall not:
Steal Employee's soul
Curse Employee without written notice
Sell Employee to rival supernatural entities (or anyone else)
Employee shall not:
Summon competitors
Sign contracts on Employer's behalf
Open portals without supervision
Feed eldritch horrors after midnight
TERMINATION
This Agreement may only be terminated by:
Employee's natural death
The collapse of reality
Mutual agreement
A successful legal challenge upheld by three (3) cosmic authorities and at least one (1) archangel
INHERITED DEBT RESOLUTION
Upon execution of this Agreement:
Employee shall be considered to have satisfied all obligations inherited from their parents
Employee's parents shall remain classified as "Paid In Full"
The rest of your mortal life is a long time. You know very well that by agreeing to this, you're literally signing a deal with the Devil. It's sad and pathetic to acknowledge, but if this new life is anything like the last three days have been, it's already a huge upgrade from how you were living prior to your home invasion.
You lean away from the contracts and take a deep breath before nodding once. You can make it an even bigger upgrade.
"I want an unlimited budget for interior decorating of my living quarters," you start. His eyebrows rise to meet his hairline.
"You're negotiating with the Devil?" he asks, clarifying that he understands your intentions.
"Sure am," you confirm before shooting off your demands one after the other. "I want my apartment kept and paid for as a place to unwind when needed, and I want unlimited visiting rights to Earth. I want all my bills paid for and the newest Samsung any time I want to upgrade my phone. I want backstage passes to any K-Pop group of my choice at any concert I want. I want an expense account and a black credit card to match."
"We—"
"And I don't care if you don't use credit cards in Hell. I want a black credit card. And I want it to be metal and heavy. The fancy one."
He clamps his mouth back shut and nods for you to keep going.
"I want full autonomy over my soul while mortal and after death," you emphasize. "My employment does not mean you own me."
"How many times do you want me to remind you I am not a monster?"
"You're the literal Devil."
"Yes, exactly!" he agrees. "Not a monster!"
You scoff, unsure of how to even respond to that. "You don't own me!" you repeat.
"Yes! Of course! I do not own you! Obviously!" he says, appeasing you. "Go on."
"I also want protection from… whoever your enemies are."
He raises an eyebrow at you. "My enemies?"
You shrug. "Like… God or whatever."
He grins—a genuinely amused one. It's heart-shaped and wide and it's not befitting for the Devil. He looks like someone you could cuddle, not someone who could eat your soul for dinner after finishing your ghost pepper chips. "You, humans, have a very ill-conceived idea of Heaven and Hell. God is not my enemy. She is my colleague."
The smile that envelopes your face is uncontrollable. "She?! God is a woman?! I fucking knew it!"
"Of course she is," the Devil scoffs. "Why would a man be kept in charge of Heaven? That's absurd."
"Hm. Agreed," you say, a little suspicious of having something you both agree upon. "Okay, so no enemies…"
"None," he says, yawning. "Unless you consider damned souls enemies."
"Well, I want protection from anything that can hurt me."
He looks at you like you're dumb. "You'll be living with the Devil. You will be at my side at almost all times of the day. I am the protection."
"What if you hurt me?" you point out.
He rolls his eyes. "It would be counterproductive to hurt my own employee. If you haven't yet wandered into my contracts room, go find it later and you'll see how badly I need an assistant."
You try not to choke on your own spit as you think about the weird room stuffed full of paper. Does he expect you to do something with that…?
"Anything else?" he asks. "You've been so frugal with your demands. Are you sure you don't want to be a billionaire? The ruler of the free world?"
You ignore his sarcasm and shrug. "Is that possible?" He glares at you. "Okay, then no. I don't want those things. But I do have one more demand."
"Oh, goodie," he sighs. "What?"
"On the point of employment until death…"
The Devil laughs, the sound mocking. "That one is not negotiable, darling. It's either eternal servitude or employment until your mortal death—which is what you would be doing anyway if it weren't for your scumbag parents. One is definitely better than the other."
You glare at him. "I'm not going to play Devil's maid until I'm 100 and you're laughing at me as my bones are turning to dust."
"Per your employee agreement, you will have access to infernal healthcare, a perk that would not have been offered to your parents," he points out. "It might surprise you to know it's much more generous than whatever the hell you humans are offering these days. I assure you, your bones will never turn to dust."
"I want to remain as I am," you inform him, not taking no for an answer. "I will work for you until death, but I will remain as I am. No growing pains, no aches, completely healthy in the body and mind I'm in now until I die."
He fixes you with a hard stare for several moments, but you're determined to get your way. You don't avert your gaze and you don't give in. He sighs deeply through his nose. "Fine. Accepted."
The employment agreement changes before your very eyes, reflecting your negotiations, and you're pleased to see every point you argued written onto the paper in glittery red.
"Oh! And I refuse to call you Your Infernal Majesty."
He shrugs. "Okay."
"Okay…"
"What?"
"What do I call you?"
"Oh. Jun. You can call me Jun."
"Okay. I guess you have yourself an assistant, Jun."
He smirks, raising an open hand to you. You take a breath before you slip your hand into his, his slender fingers closing around you and shaking. On the final shake, he squeezes and you feel a just barely tolerable heat bind the two of you together for several seconds. Bursts of bright red lines glow around your joined hands, frantically circling them before they escape to the pieces of paper between you. Jun releases you just as you realize the lines have become both of your signatures on the contracts.
"It's done," he says, eyes flashing red again. "You, Y/N, have just signed a deal with the Devil."
And because you're not one to let a man intimidate you—Devil or not—you smile right back, lean in, and remind him in a theatrical whisper, "You're as stuck in here with me as I am with you."
When the arrogance painted all over his face falters the tiniest bit, you wink and throw yourself off your bed, finally ready to start your day at a bright and early 2 p.m.
"Don't you go regretting this now, Junnie!"
DAY TEN
Hell is exactly what you expected it to be after seeing Jun's contracts: a corporate abyss. It's an open floor plan with unassigned desks, harsh overhead lighting, and a water cooler where a demon is stationed, their only task to make awkward small talk with the parched, tortured soul that comes up to it hoping for a cup. The demons, of course, have the time of their lives, scheduling meetings that could have been emails, demanding overtime of salaried souls, asking for things that were already given to them several days ago and promptly lost upon receipt.
You don't fully understand it. Before you were taken away from Earth, you were working as a full-time bartender. In fact, the only reason you and your friends hadn't gotten kicked out that night for being belligerently drunk was because you were being belligerently drunk at the club you worked at. Before that, your only foray into corporate life was as a customer service representative answering phones and talking to angry people who had nothing but free time to scream at you. You lasted exactly one week, and that's all you need to at least appreciate why it's the model for Hell.
And for the last few days, you've been following Jun around it, soaking in all the information you need. For example, Jun is in "the office" during most "daylight" hours (Hell doesn't have windows so how are you supposed to know when daylight is?), and usually brings his work back to the home you now share. Unclear if he sleeps at all.
He doesn't spend time around the damned souls—not that they even realize who he is as he walks by. He pays them no mind, letting his demon subordinates take care of tormenting them. Instead, his time in the office is spent attending meetings with high-ranking demons, archangels, and occasionally, God herself. If he's not in the office or at home, he'll be traveling. Unclear what he'll do on his trips, but you assume it's something akin to what he did for your parents. He assures you each trip will only be a few hours and that he'll call if that changes. You assure him you don't care.
Today is the first time you won't be shadowing him. Jun unceremoniously dropped you off at the mail room without so much as a goodbye, muttering something about picking you up at the end of the day. You didn't have time to point out that you have no idea when that is. And hours later, it seems that it still isn't the end of the day.
"So… who are you…?"
You look up from the mountain of envelopes you've been tasked with going through. Apparently, the Devil receives a lot of mail, and apparently, Jun is above simply throwing all of them into an incinerator. It turns out when people can't get a hold of God, they turn to the next best thing. And the next best thing insists that you read every last letter and decide whether it's worth responding to.
The demon talking to you entered the room just a minute or so ago. He's a man who looks to be about your age, though you're under no delusions that he actually is. For all you know, he's millions of years old. His spiky blonde hair is currently pointed to your right as he tilts his head at you curiously. "Actually, what are you…?"
You squint at him. "I'm human…" you gesture down at your lack of black leather, dressed like the pink Care Bear threw up on you as a quiet form of protest against the dreadfully drab aesthetic Hell insists on. "Obviously."
He nods. "Right… but… you're not dead."
"No," you say, using more force than needed to slice through the next envelope with the letter opener you were given—a knife with a handle shaped like a devil's tail. A tail you noticed Jun does not have.
The demon winces and you're glad for it. Just because Jun is convinced you're safe doesn't mean you are; the more of them who believe you'll shank them with a letter opener for breathing funny, the better.
"I am not dead."
"What's your—"
"I'm working," you cut him off icily, making a show of stabbing the letter opener into the wooden table and straightening the paper in front of your face. The man next to him snorts but says nothing, simply grabbing the mail he came in for and leaving.
"So you work in the mail room? Do we hire humans to do that now?"
You roll your eyes behind the piece of paper. You don't answer.
"Do you know whose mail you're going through…? Because it's His—"
"Jun's," you sigh, slamming the piece of paper down and shoving it toward your throw pile. "I am reading Jun's mail." You fold your hands in front of you on the table and lean forward to give him all the attention he obviously wants. The demon's eyes widen, leaning back the tiniest bit.
"Y-you can't just… say his name like that," he whispers to you, eyes sliding back and forth. The mail room is full of demons, and it isn't until he looks around that you realize all of them have frozen in place. You frown as you follow his gaze.
"Jun?" you repeat loudly, resisting the urge to smirk when more of them gasp.
"Stop!"
"Why?" you ask, snickering as you reach for the next envelope and rip it open without the help of the letter opener. Dear Satan, you read. "Is it like Voldemort here? Scared to say your own boss's name?"
"Pfft, no one here is scared to say 'Voldemort,'" he says, rolling his own eyes. "Rowling will be here as soon as God decides it's time for her to retire from Twitter. And life."
You hum in approval. "Good to hear."
"It's just wise to be a little more respectful when referring to His Infernal Majesty."
You smile. "Yeah, I'm not calling him that."
"Your funeral."
"Or yours," you say, pointedly looking at the letter opener stabbed into the surface right now. You look back at him and his eyes are on the tool too. "Think Jun would be happy about you distracting his personal assistant from very important work?"
The demon balks at you, but you return your attention to the letter. Dear Satan. "You're his assistant?" You hum in confirmation. "Oh wow. That's… wow. Um, I'm Soonyoung."
"I didn't ask."
"Are you sure you aren't a demon?"
You look up at him without putting your letter down. "I'm sure, Soonyoung." Your eyes flick back down to the letter. Dear Satan, you read for the third time.
"Well, you would make a really good one," he tells you. Your fingers crinkle the letter, twitching in as they try to keep from completely crumpling it in frustration. "Is that why His Infernal Majesty hired you? How did you two meet?"
"Soonyoung." It seems like the entire room freezes and the demon's eyes widen at something behind you. You look over your shoulder to find Jun standing in the doorway, his arms crossed and his brows pulled down. The other demons not named Soonyoung immediately flee the room. "Are you bothering Y/N?"
You huff. "Sure. You can give him my name."
Your boss smirks but ignores you. "Leave her alone. If I hear my name one more time, I'll make you work a shift in Accounting." You raise your eyebrows. No wonder they're so afraid to say his name. It literally summons him.
Soonyoung pushes himself off where he'd been leaning on the table across from you, immediately leaving the room and bowing to your boss and muttering apologies as he goes. You snort, turning back around and reading your letter in full for the first time.
Dear Satan,
If you're real, prove it.
You nod, taking a piece of paper out to write your response. Just as you finish, you hear Jun's voice—much closer this time—and you startle.
"Interesting."
"Holy shit," you breathe, leaning back to look at him reading over your shoulder. "I thought you left."
He reaches past you, allowing you to get a whiff of his cologne. Something that smells woodsy and spicy. He takes your pile of letters and responses and reads them aloud.
"'Dear Satan, if you're real, prove it,'" he reads. His eyes go to the piece of paper with your response. "'No.'"
He stares at you but reveals no indication of whether or not he approves. He puts the two pieces of paper down on the table next to you and moves on.
"'Dear Devil, did the dinosaurs go to Heaven or Hell?' 'They went to Heaven. What kind of fucking question is this?'" Papers down.
You think the twitch of his lips is a smile threatening to break through. He succeeds in hiding it if it is, and he just keeps going.
Dear Satan, should I text my ex?
I am the #1 advocate of free will. But know that if you do, I will haunt you for the rest of your mortal life and you will never find love. Ever.
Dear Satan, if you help me pass my AP Chem test, I will owe you my life. P.S. For my records, does this count as a legally binding contract?
No, it does not. Go study and never write here ever again.
Dear Satan, does my cat work for you? I love her, but sometimes, she does things that make me wonder. I don't think she sleeps. She just watches me. All the time. I also feel like she can maybe talk and is hiding it. Is she secretly a demon?
Jun pauses, eyes sliding to you, though you're unsure why. You hold his stare, but he just redirects his attention back to your response.
Probably. What's her name?
He seems to decide that's enough, calmly putting the pile of papers down with the others. "Hm." You don't know what it means and he doesn't clarify. Instead, he asks, "Hungry?"
You gasp, your work immediately forgotten. "Yes! Does Hell have sushi?"
"No. We only have the blood and organs of sinners here." You crinkle your nose but he doesn't say that he's joking, and it makes your stomach turn. "But Earth does. And I believe you negotiated unlimited visitation rights." You nod. You did. You absolutely did. "Come on. My treat for a good first day spent on your own."
"It's your treat no matter what," you mutter, standing up and leading the way out of the mail room, trusting your responses will be sent out by someone who isn't busy stuffing their face with sushi. "I literally have free food written into my employment agreement."
"You can never just let me have the last word, can you?"
"Nope. Get used to it."
DAY SIXTEEN
Your adrenaline spikes when the phone on your desk, right outside Jun's corner office (the only place with windows and a killer view of racists burning alive at all hours of the day), rings. You squeak with excitement as you answer it.
This should be nerve-wracking for you; your one week in customer service scarred you enough that the sheer sound of phones ringing sent anxiety crawling up your spine. But here, answering the phone meant all kinds of fun possibilities.
It could be a teenager calling via Ouija Board. It could be someone summoning Jun to sell their soul. It could be a demon needing help as a priest exorcises them from a possession. It could be God.
"You've reached Jun's desk. How may I help you?"
"Wrong." Your joy flatlines at your boss's voice. "I told you, you can't use my name when answering the phone."
"I'm not calling you whatever silly title everyone else here insists on calling you," you grumble.
"That's fine. I don't give a shit. Just don't use my name," he says. "I already hear everyone on Earth muttering about Satan. We don't need to add my Hell-given name to the mix."
You sigh. "Fine. What do you need? I've already taken care of your mail and schedule for the rest of the week, I have your requested reports from Accounting, and the Hellhounds have been caught. They're eating their midday snacks now."
"What snacks? You know that cannibals upset their stomachs. If they throw up, you will be cleaning it up."
"First of all, no. I won't." You've already seen the messes the Hellhounds are capable of, and you'd rather Jun eat your soul than have to clean up after one. "Second of all, I know. I gave them some family annihilators."
"Perfect. Thanks. Tell Soonyoung if he loses them one more time, he'll be fed to them next."
"Got it," you say, taking mental note to threaten the demon next time he comes around to annoy you. "So why are you calling? Did you forget whose debt you're collecting today? It's—"
"I know," he cuts you off. "Just checking to see how it's going since this is your first full day without me in Hell."
You frown at nothing in particular. "The Devil does check-in calls…? Oddly considerate."
You can practically hear Jun's glare through the phone. "No. The Devil is making sure you haven't completely run his empire into the ground."
"I am but a measly human," you sigh dramatically. "If I have the power to run a supernatural empire that predates time itself into the ground, it's probably a really bad empire."
"Hm." He clearly refuses to tell you that you have a good point. "I also called to let you know I'll be late tonight so you don't have to worry about working after you leave the office. I'll see you at breakfast."
You told him you didn't care if his trips made him late or if he even wanted to go out and do his own thing after; you aren't his mother or his wife, and you can probably discern this information from his calendar without him calling. But now that it's actually happening, you realize you care a tiny bit. Mostly because in the last two weeks, the two of you have gotten into a routine of sorts.
You woke up, usually from your duvet being ripped off and your eye mask being sent into whatever other dimension Jun sent things to, and you'd sit down for breakfast, going through everything your boss was doing for the day. Jun didn't need to eat, but he joined you anyway, occasionally having a bowl of cereal since you made it clear you never want to see him eating the blood and organs of sinners in the house. Then, he'd take the both of you to work, where you would do whatever it is the day demanded of you, before heading home and having dinner. If he had a trip that day, he still made it home in time to sit with you, eating whatever it is you made in the generously stocked kitchen.
You'd kind of forgotten to be afraid of being alone because you never were anymore. Jun was always there, and if he wasn't, you were either busy working or asleep. The thought of coming back to the house without him, having to eat dinner by yourself, and not having anyone to talk to gets your heart racing faster than usual.
"Hello?"
"Okay," you say, nodding even though he can't see you. Maybe if you force your body to agree to it, your mind will follow suit. "Have fun collecting those souls."
"Thanks," he says slowly.
"Is that all?"
"Yeah, I guess."
"Okay then. Bye."
You don't wait for him to respond, hanging up and immediately standing to make your way back to the house while the clock tells you it's still daytime. Maybe if you fall asleep earlier than usual, you'll bypass the terror you already feel creeping in.
DAY TWENTY-THREE
"Junnie!" you call without turning over your shoulder.
You have to keep working on securing catering for the 1,700 demons who will be gathering for an "Innovation & Disruption: Bringing Medieval-Style Torture to the Modern Age" seminar in a few days. You don't even know how to get blood and organs catered. And never mind having to arrange accommodations for the demons that insist on bringing their eldritch horrors with them.
You hear your boss's usual grunt of acknowledgment. "Time to get going to that cult summoning if you want to make it on time!" You glance at the CCTV feed in the corner of your screen. "They're almost done drawing the pentagram!"
He groans but you hear the unmistakable sound of his chair rolling away from his desk and creaking as he stands anyway. A few moments later, he's standing next to you. You pause your catering research to look up at him.
"I don't assume the demons would want to have Subway or something at this seminar?" you ask.
"No." Jun's mouth curves into a small smile. "No, they probably do not want Subway."
"Shame." You shrug and turn back to your computer. "Well, have fun with the nut jobs! Remember, Risk & Assessment flagged the cult leader for us; his possession score is very high, so if you find him insufferable—and I'm sure that with your patience, you will—feel free to ring me and I'll send you a demon to torment him a bit."
"Noted," he says, chuckling a little. "And just so you know, I'll probably be late again."
You deflate a little. It's been a week since the last time Jun came home late from work, and you're still working out the stress knots it put into your shoulders.
"Oh." You try to think of what you'll do to stave off the panic this time since sleeping early didn't do it for you. When you realize your boss is standing there, scrutinizing you and waiting for a proper response, you say a pathetic "sounds good."
"Hm. I was actually thinking you may be more help coming with me tonight than staying here," he says suddenly. "Or at home."
You straighten up and try not to look too eager at the invitation. "Wait. I can come to the summoning?"
"Sure. Why not?"
"Is that allowed?"
He stares at you blankly. "I'm the King of Hell."
You roll your eyes, your heart rate slowing down as your anxieties subside. "A simple 'yes' would have sufficed."
The second you and Jun make landfall in the middle of the cult's pentagram, there are fanatic screams and people in ridiculous cloaks falling to their knees and sobbing. You don't try to hide the revulsion on your face, flinching away when a follower crawls to you on their hands and knees, wailing and reaching for you. You inadvertently curl into your boss's side. You mutter a quiet apology when you realize you're touching him, but he ignores it, stepping between you and the enthusiastic follower.
"Hands to yourself," Jun hisses at the person, who immediately backs away.
The space becomes significantly warmer at that, and it only dawns on you now why your home is kept so cold. It never occurred to you that of course the Devil will run hot, and you feel that heat radiating from him now with nothing to quell it. The cult members must feel it too because aside from the overenthusiastic one, they give the two of you a wide berth.
Once you acclimate to the audience, you notice you're suddenly in a cloak reminiscent of the grim reaper's.
"What the hell is this?" you ask, lifting an arm and looking at the way the cloth drapes off of it.
"Summoning uniform."
"Then why don't you have one?" you ask, raising an eyebrow at Jun's all-black get-up: a crisp button-down, slim-fit slacks, and a jacket with shoulders adorned with a smattering of crystals, making it look like he's wearing the sky itself.
"I'm the Devil." Which seems to be his answer for everything. Your next complaint is drowned out by the deep and bizarre bellowing of a man on a tiny stage that quakes under his weight.
"Welcome, Our Unholiness!" You assume the man shouting is the cult leader. He wears a goat head that looks so realistic, you sorely hope it's just a mask and that the man is not wearing an animal corpse right now.
"Wrong!" you immediately call, making Jun frown at you as you step back around him, tripping a little when your foot catches on your cloak. "Fuck, ow." You yank at it violently before standing straight and addressing the man. "Accepted titles include King of Hell, King of the Infernal Realms, Lord of Temptation, Prince of Darkness, His Infernal Majesty, or The Big Bad Lord of Doom and Gloom."
"No, nope. Not that last one." You smile at him when he narrows his eyes at you. If you get the cloak, he gets the silly title.
"O-oh. Uh. Everyone, let's welcome… His Maj—"
"Infernal Majesty."
"His Infernal Majesty!" he shouts.
The crowd around you erupts into cheers, and you take the moment to look around. Your boss has been summoned to what looks like a remote compound in the middle of the desert with small concrete buildings scattered around you. The people around you look starved, dehydrated, and unclean. No wonder the Devil has been summoned; this is not a cult leader that leads very well.
"Enough," Jun says, his voice barely rising over the cheers but reverberating through the crowd anyway. It falls silent laughably fast, forcing you to stifle a giggle. "Why have you summoned me?"
"Satan, we—may I call you Satan…?" the goat head tilts toward you like he's asking you for permission. You nod and he turns back to your boss. "Satan, we have summoned you here today in the hopes that you will lend your devoted children a hand."
"I am nothing if not a provider," Jun says in a bored voice. You tilt your head and shrug before nodding as you ponder that statement. You suppose it's true. You have been living a very luxurious life since you moved to Hell.
"Oh, thank you, Satan," he sighs in relief, bowing his head and stumbling a little when the weight of the goat head makes him wobble. "We request a great boon of you."
"A boon," you echo in a whisper, mostly to yourself.
"Our tithes are declining."
"Tithes." Words you will have to Google upon returning home.
Jun's eyes flick down to you briefly before he responds. "Get on with it."
The abruptness throws the leader off, causing him to stutter. You buy him more time by stating, "As you can imagine, Ju—Satan! Satan is incredibly busy. Many summonings to tend to. Many plagues to schedule. Many damned souls to devour whole. Many—"
"He gets it," Jun cuts in.
"Right, of course!" the leader agrees. "Apologies! We would like to request monetary support."
"In exchange for?" the Devil asks, an eyebrow cocked at the man.
"For…?"
Jun glances at you and you nod, frowning when you realize for the first time that you are no longer holding your tablet. You gasp, patting your entire body before you find the needlessly deep inner pocket of your cloak. So deep, your tablet basically rests at your ankle.
"This is deeply humiliating," you mutter at your boss as you bend over to scoop it out. "Who was this made for—Shaquille O'Neal?"
"No," Jun answers, more amused than you've ever heard him. "It's mine."
You pause in your bend, cranking your neck to look at him upside down. "This is your grim reaper cloak?"
He nods, clearly suppressing a laugh. You roll your eyes, shaking your head as you continue digging your device out of the infinite pocket. You straighten back up when it's finally in your grip.
You quickly tap through for the handbook you haven't needed until now.
"Where deals with the Devil are concerned," you read aloud, projecting your voice so everyone can hear clearly, "the Devil accepts servitude of his chosen length, negotiable; a percentage of all future profits no less than 20 percent, negotiable; your luck for an amount of time of his choice, negotiable; the feeling you get when a song gives you chills, non-negotiable; your first-born child to be collected upon their 30th birthday, non—hey!"
You frown at that point and turn to your boss, your back to the cult leader. "What?"
"What the hell do you need a first-born child for?" you hiss in a whisper only he can hear because above all else, you are still very professional. "Your assistant position is already filled. You already have a first-born child that you have collected!"
Your boss's mouth curves into an arrogant smirk that you want to rip off his mouth. "First-born children are a hot commodity in Hell."
"Oh, are they?" you laugh humorlessly. "So where are they?"
"Where are they?"
"Yeah! Where are they?" you ask, unsure what you'll even do when you find out. Now that you've been in your position long enough to really appreciate its perks, the thought of being kicked to the curb fills you with a fight instinct so strong, you could choke on it. "Hiding them in the attic? Basement? In a closet I haven't found yet? Or did you build them a separate house? You have multiple offices? Multiple assistants?"
"Um, can we get back to the—"
"One minute!" you shout without turning back to the cult leader.
"Are you jealous?" Jun asks, his voice equal parts confusion and cocky. When your only answer to that is a glare, he exhales a breathy laugh and shakes his head. "The document you're reading from was last updated decades ago, darling. I assure you I have no other assistants and am not looking for any more—at least not until your contract with me is over."
"I want that added as an amendment to my agreement," you say through gritted teeth, noting to yourself to reach out to Demon Resources when you get back.
"Unnecessary, but we'll—"
"The Devil will not be accepting a first-born child!" you announce, three times as loud as you were before as you spin back around, kicking when your cloak tangles around your legs. "Keep your useless children to yourselves!"
"No children, got it," the cult leader nods. "Well… you see, we were not prepared for a proper offering tonight, as we assumed that as children of the Dark Lord—"
"Lord of Temptation or Prince of Darkness," you correct him, shaking your head.
"Er, yes. As children of the Prince of Darkness… we assumed we would just… um, receive? A gift? As loyal followers?"
Both you and Jun remain still, falling quiet at the assumption—you because you're unsure if your boss wants you to correct him, Jun because you assume he's debating whether he should kill someone or laugh. The leader laughs a little nervously, swaying back and forth and wringing his hands. It's a hilariously silly picture with his goat head still on.
"Correct this idiot before I summon a Hellhound," Jun mutters to you, turning away from the leader and taking a seat. A comically large throne appears under his ass at the perfect moment. He props his head in his hand in immense disinterest.
"You summoned the Devil," you point out the obvious. "If you were looking for handouts based on loyalty, you probably should have thrown your allegiance behind God—which by the way, did you know she's a woman?"
"Oh. Uh, that's… yeah, that makes sense."
"Right? We thought so too," you say, nodding and glancing at Jun briefly over your shoulder. He nods once, blinking slowly in the way he only does when he's finally starting to tire and needs to rest. You turn back to the leader. "If you would like Satan's financial support, he will need more than the promise that you'll continue to live in the desert, starving and unbathed. He will need something he can actually use." You point at his mask. "By the way, the goat head does nothing. He does not like that."
Jun speaks behind you, confirming. "I do not. I hate it."
The leader immediately rips the head off, chucking it away from him with so much force, it bounces several times and disappears into the darkness not lit by the torches that surround the pentagram. He's younger than you assumed he'd be, and he's sweaty and red from staying in the goat head.
"What will you be offering the Devil tonight?" you ask. "Would you like more examples of gifts he will accept?"
"Um, no, I think… I think we can offer, uh, servitude?" his followers groan, but he doesn't change his answer.
"Wonderful," you nod, making note of it in your tablet. One of Jun's famous contracts materializes in front of the sweaty man, the glow of it painting him even redder. "The Devil will award you with just enough money to keep this Burning Man-inspired cult thriving as long as at least one member present here tonight is alive. In exchange, His Infernal Majesty will collect their souls for eternal servitude at the end of their natural-born lives."
There's an uproar of protests as you finish reading the terms.
"Well, wait, hold on! You said this was negotiable."
"Indeed."
"Okay, so let's negotiate!" You watch him expectantly, waiting for said negotiation. "Right, um, yeah. So. Uh. If servitude is eternal… maybe our financial support should also be of unlimited nature?"
"'Maybe'?" you ask, raising an eyebrow.
"It should! It should!" he corrects himself. "Limitless money forever, regardless of whether or not the members here tonight are still alive, in exchange for our eternal servitude upon the end of life."
You watch as Jun's signature starts to scribble on the contract, signaling his acceptance of the agreement. You frown and shake your head. "Denied!"
Jun makes a sound of surprise as his signature stops mid-air.
"Limitless money forever, independent of tonight's members, in exchange for your current and future members' eternal servitude upon end of life—regardless of length of cult membership."
The silence that follows is tense, the cult leader chewing his lower lip as he thinks it through and his followers clearly ruminating on what limitless money can do for them.
"The Big Bad Lord is due for another engagement shortly," you inform him, earning you an annoyed grunt from your boss. "Please make your mind up quickly."
"Deal," he answers, nodding confidently. "Deal!"
You smile as you watch Jun sign on his dotted line. Your boss suddenly appears before the leader, outside the pentagram meant to keep you both contained and the summoners safe from you—obviously a myth. Once summoned, Jun is free to do as he pleases wherever he pleases. Everyone gasps at his reappearance, the leader flinching violently. Your boss extends his hand just as he did to you a month ago. When the man shakes it, the same red lines bind the agreement, and the cult leader's name and signature appear on the contract.
"Enjoy your boon, Lee Seokmin," Jun says, voice low and dangerous. "Don't go dying too soon. I'll be back to collect."
The Devil doesn't waste any more time on the cult, whisking the two of you away and back to your shared home.
"That was fun!" you exclaim, clapping your hands and giggling. "Much more fun than staying at home alone."
Jun snorts but keeps his face carefully blank as he goes to the pantry and grabs a bag of ghost pepper chips. "Yeah?"
"Definitely. Thanks for inviting me."
"I was right."
"Hm?"
"You were a lot more helpful going with me than staying back here," he clarifies, opening the bag and chomping on the snack, which he now keeps an unlimited stock of for both of you. "I should've known you'd be good at negotiating." He throws you a look of fake contempt. You smirk. "I think you should come with me to all my summonings."
You shrug, trying not to reveal how relieved you are about late nights alone not having to be a worry for you anymore. "Sure. I will make myself available."
"So generous…" Jun comments, mouth slanting in amusement. "I'm going to turn in. You good?"
You frown. "Yeah. Why wouldn't I be?"
He watches you for a moment more before shaking his head. "No reason." He looks down at your cloak and nods. "Keep it for the next summoning. Night." He turns and lazily stalks off toward his suite on the other side of the house from yours.
DAY TWENTY-SEVEN
You're getting the hang of Jun in a way you never really understood any of your previous bosses. Before, your managers were people who just told you what to do and gave you minuscule raises once in a while, but being the Devil's assistant demanded knowing him on a level more intimate than you were expecting.
Because why do you know that eating too much human food will have him in the bathroom for ungodly amounts of time? It turned out that your restriction of blood in the house was actually ruining his digestive track. You're not totally uncaring, though; you now allow the Devil his blood consumption—strictly from opaque bottles. Organs, on the other hand, will never be negotiable.
You know that his favorite thing to listen to to relax after a long, stressful day is the tortured screams of damned souls drowning in the river of boiling blood. He likes falling asleep to the screams of damned souls being quartered. If he needs to hunker down and really concentrate on work, the screams of the racists burning alive right outside his window are his preferred background noise, which is probably why his office is where it is.
Jun actually hates having to negotiate. It took that first trip and a handful more to realize that he's fairly quick to accept the first offer he's given unless it's a particularly nasty human being. Since you've started accompanying him, though, you've been getting him a lot more promised benefits than before. So far, you're most proud of convincing a human to sign over her whimsy once 10 years passes. You think it will really brighten up the place once Hell receives it.
There are a lot of devilish stereotypes you've also debunked during your time with him. He has no horns or tail or wings that he's hiding. Everything you see seems to be all of it. His skin has never been red or any other color aside from the golden tan it is now. The Devil does not have an advocate, as he finds people who relentlessly challenge ideas simply for the sake of it exhausting (though, as the ruler of Hell, he does have the privilege of everyone being too scared to challenge anything he thinks or says anyway). He doesn't rely on the worship of anybody on Earth, and he doesn't care to lure pure souls to Hell; he only makes deals with the people he knows belong with him. That inspired an hours-long conversation in which you demanded he assure you your deal was the exception and you do not belong here in Hell with him.
Why? Don't you feel like you belong here? he asked, smirking. You fit right in, darling.
That might be true, but I don't belong here, right? Like, I'm not an evil person. I would've gone to Heaven if not for my terrible parents. Right?
Will you leave me alone if I agree?
JUN.
One thing you're learning now is that your boss tends to be perceived very differently by his demon subordinates. Where you see a particular and sometimes bratty individual, others see a man they need to appease lest they get their heads cut off. Where you see a softie who cuddles with his pets upon returning home, others see a king with an army of Hellhounds starving for the chance to tear them to pieces. Where you see someone who has become your own personal barista in the mornings, others see someone they're too afraid to ask even the smallest of favors from.
Exhibit A: Soonyoung.
Who is currently hissing at you to come meet him around the corner, away from your desk and away from your boss's door. You look over your shoulder quickly to find Jun deep in reviewing the piles of contracts you left for him this morning. You roll your eyes as you stand, dragging your feet lazily as you shuffle over to where Soonyoung is practically crouching to keep from being seen.
"What is it, Soonyoung?" you sigh. He waves for you to bend down and you ignore him, not bothering to crouch to match his height. "You have one minute. The purgatory's auditorium was double booked for the new hire orientation and the monthly angel-demon networking mixer, and I have to find a solution that will not only please Jun but God. I'm this close to suggesting we go to Earth and book a Chili's."
The demon doesn't even pretend to listen to your mini rant, practically speaking over your last few words. "Do you think you can ask His Infernal Majesty if I can have the next full moon off?"
You cock an eyebrow at him. "Why would I do that?"
He looks around nervously. "Um. Because you're pure of heart and soul? And you like me?"
"First of all, only one of those two statements is true," you inform him, enjoying the way he frowns as he tries to figure out which it is, "and second of all, I meant why would I need to do that?" He stares blankly at you. "Ask him yourself."
He scoffs. "Are you crazy?"
"Yes. Next question."
The answer clearly catches him off-guard, and he stammers over several syllables before standing straight and shaking his head. "I can't ask him myself."
"Why not?"
He opens and closes his mouth several times but offers you no valid reasons. He shrugs pathetically before finally admitting. "Because he scares me!"
You look at him incredulously. "Jun… scares you."
"Don't say his name!" he shriek-whispers, frantically grabbing your wrist and pulling you even further down the hall and away from your desk. He stops just outside the copy room, where a damned soul is slapping the broken copy machine. "Of course he scares me."
"The man who needs to be reminded to eat lunch and take his vitamins despite being older than the world itself scares you."
"Yes."
"The guy who gets ghost pepper chip dust all over his fingers and wipes them on whatever surface is closest to him scares you."
Soonyoung doesn't seem to find an issue with that the way you do but he still nods. "Yes."
"The dude—"
"Yes!" he nearly shouts. "Yes! No amount of ridiculous things you say right now are going to convince me to not be scared of him! I am scared of him!"
The soul at the copy machine finally gets fed up and walks out of the copy room, screaming and nearly falling over, their papers flying every direction, when Soonyoung instinctively bares his teeth and growls. They run the rest of the way back to their desk, abandoning the papers they dropped.
You bend down to start collecting them and snort when you find meaningless doodles done by one of the executives whose office is on this floor.
"You see a very different, non-scary version of him, okay?" Soonyoung continues like he didn't just scare the shit out of someone himself. "You're not scared because you don't have to see him when Hell is down on damned souls for the quarter, or when I breathe wrong around him."
You raise your eyebrows. "And this is my problem, why…?"
"It's not a problem," he says, grinning mischievously. He squats down to help you pick up the papers. "It's an advantage! You're his favorite employee! If you ask him if I can have the day off, he'll say yes!"
You pause, looking up at him and laughing. "Me. His favorite employee. After one month."
"Yeah, don't rub it in, new kid," the demon grunts, rolling his eyes. "Some of us have been kissing his ass for centuries, and you walk in and suddenly own the place. But worry not. I'm choosing to view this as a beautiful opportunity, rather than something to be jealous of."
"Sure," you follow, nodding as you continue to gather the drawings that never saw the copy machine. "You still haven't given me a good reason why you can't do it, though. Your fear is not a good reason."
He groans. "Yes it is!"
"It isn't."
"Okay, I mean. On top of that, he'll just say no."
"Why do you think that?"
He stares at you blankly. When he realizes it's a sincere question, he licks his lips and sighs. "Dude. It's been a month. You haven't had a single day off and you haven't noticed?"
You frown as you pick up the last piece of paper. You stand and think about it. "Oh my god…"
"I thought about asking God a few centuries ago too," he says, misunderstanding you. He stands and takes the pile of papers from you. "Didn't work out. Turns out they have no say in each other's teams, and His Infernal Majesty doesn't like it when demons go over his head."
"Naturally," you mutter. "Not what I meant, though. I just didn't realize I'd been working so much."
"Yeah, yeah, time flies when you're having fun," he says, waving a hand. "Anyway, I really need the day off to go to Earth."
"And do what?"
His face lights up now. "I was summoned by a hot witch the other day, and I want to pay her a visit during the full moon."
"Ooooh, a date!" You lean in, actually interested in where the conversation is going now. "What are you going to do?"
"I don't know about a date," he says bashfully, cheeks turning pink. "I just want to see—"
"Soonyoung. How many times do you want me to threaten your life for distracting my assistant?"
The demon squeals, all the papers the two of you picked up exploding into confetti as they rain down around you again. You sigh, staring as they fall to the ground, deciding immediately you will not be gathering them a second time. You look to your left to find Jun suddenly standing next to you, hands in his pockets as he stares daggers at the demon. You narrow your eyes at your boss and think, yes. Yes, you would probably be scared to be on the receiving end of that look.
But you're not so you aren't. You smile.
"Hi Junnie," you greet him. His eyes flick down to you and he shoots you a flat expression at your usage of the juvenile nickname in front of his demon. "Soonyoung has a favor to ask you."
The man in question shoots you a panicked and betrayed look before grinning nervously at his boss, who turns his attention to him now. He continues giving him that stupid grin for several seconds, failing to say anything until Jun raises one eyebrow.
"Well?"
"Oh! I, um. I was wondering if—if I could have, uh—"
"Spit it out."
"If I—um, couldhavethenextfullmoonoff." He swallows nothing. "Please."
You roll your eyes at the anxiety-riddled request.
"Absolutely not," Jun says immediately, inspiring a small, stunned gasp from you. You don't think you've ever heard him deny someone of something. But then again, you've never heard anyone ask anything of him. "You know how busy full moons are."
"No, yeah, for sure, I'm so sorry," he rambles, bowing his head a few times before giggling nervously and waving a hand. "That was so silly. Yeah. Dumb of me. I was actually just kidding. Got you! So silly. Ha…"
"Oh, come on!" you whine on behalf of Soonyoung, who looks at you with wide eyes and shakes his head quickly, silently begging you to shut up. Jun looks down at you, turning to face you completely. "That's so mean! He asked nicely!" You pause, shrugging. "Nicely enough. Why can't he have the day off?"
"Because it's the full moon."
"Okay…" you elongate the word. "And there will be many more full moons. This is just one, and you have thousands of demons. When was the last time Soonyoung had a day off?"
Jun suddenly averts his eyes, clearing his throat uncomfortably. You turn to Soonyoung, who refuses to answer. You frown at your boss.
"He's… he's never had a day off…?" you ask, making it clear how appalled you are at the idea. Your lip curls up in disgust and you look him up and down judgmentally. "What kind of boss are you?"
You gawk at him as his cheeks begin to turn red.
"You don't give your employees days off? Ever? How old are you, Soonyoung? Like a million years old?"
"Okay, relax," he mutters.
"A million years, and no days off? That's really horrible, Junnie. You should be embarrassed. I am very disappoi—"
"Soonyoung, go ahead and take the full moon off ," Jun practically barks at him, taking your arm in his grip at the same time. "Enjoy your day off, and stop talking to my fucking assistant or I'll have you as a midday snack."
The last thing you see before Jun turns you around and guides you back down the hall and away from Soonyoung is the huge, grateful, and excited smile on his face. You giggle, the sound cut off by a startled squeak when you hear the demon bellow at a damned soul.
"What the hell are you looking at?! Pick these papers up and make me a thousand copies!"
When your boss releases you back at your desk, you sit down, already back to figuring out the purgatory auditorium issue. It takes a few seconds for you to realize Jun isn't going anywhere, though. You pause, looking up at him and tilting your head.
"What is it?" you ask.
"I am a great boss."
"Uh," you exhale in a laugh. "Yeah. I know."
"Do you? Because you—"
"Oh, Junnie," you sigh, rolling your eyes as you return your attention to your computer. "Soonyoung just deserves a day off." You're not sure that statement is true, but you'll be damned if anything stops you from getting the first date gossip you're guaranteed now. "I know you're a good boss."
"Hm."
"Hm," you mimic him, smiling a little. When you look back at him, his eyes are narrowed like he's not sure you're telling the truth. "I wouldn't be willingly working seven days a week if you weren't a good boss, okay?"
"Okay."
"Okay."
"Alright."
"Mhm."
"I'm just gonna—" he points at his desk, not bothering to finish his sentence as he disappears back into his office.
DAY THIRTY
You know something is wrong when you wake up on your own naturally, something you haven't done since you accepted the position with Jun. You frown from under your eye mask, hand coming up to rip it off your face. You slowly sit up, finding every single blanket and the duvet still atop you, and your eyes find the clock on the wall, finding that it's almost a full hour after your usual wake-up time.
"My alarm didn't go off," you mutter.
Jun is your alarm. Jun didn't go off. You shove the blankets off you, shivering a little as you slip off the bed and tuck your feet into your bunny slippers. You shuffle out of your bedroom, poking your head into the hall to find it barren and silent.
"Jun?" you call quietly, knowing he'll hear it regardless. He doesn't answer. You walk further out into the hall, going to the kitchen to find it empty. The coffee machine wasn't touched either, even though it's always on and ready in the morning.
Your anxiety spikes as you start to wonder if he left in the middle of the night without letting you know. You scramble back to your room for your tablet, pulling his calendar up and staring at it in confusion when you find nothing different than when you left it last night.
Meeting with Archangel Joshua
Marketing Team pitch
Block for contracts
Block for collection
Monthly Satan/God touchbase (leave 30m for travel to Purgatory)
Hellhound training check-in
Block for contracts
1:1 with Chief Torment Officer
His meeting with Joshua would've started five minutes ago, so maybe he was just running late and needed to go without you? When has he ever run late? You're not even sure he slept. He's had meetings much earlier than that and he never failed to wake you up and sit down for breakfast. You decide the only way you'll find out is if you head to the office and see if he's there. You're one leg into your pants when your phone starts ringing.
"Thanks for calling Hell. You've reached the Devil's office. How can I help you?" you half-grunt with your phone tucked between your ear and shoulder as you pull your pants on.
"Do you have any idea how busy archangels are?"
"Joshua!" you gasp, immediately forgetting your pants and leaving them unbuttoned as you take your phone into your hand. "Is Jun with you?"
"Funny," he says in a way that suggests he doesn't find that funny at all. You get the feeling you won't find what he says next humorous either. "I was about to ask you the same thing. He hasn't shown for our meeting, and while he's the most vexing person I've ever met, he's also never been late. I can only really wait ten more minutes before I have to go appear as a hallucination to some humans and ask them to build a home for the less fortunate."
You groan, free hand applying pressure to your temple and eyes squeezing shut. "You know what, just… go do that. I'm sorry about this. I accidentally double-booked him. Totally my fault. I'll work with your admin to reschedule. Sorry again." You figure you'll take the fall to keep Jun away from scrutiny until you can find out where the fuck he is.
"'Kay. Don't let it happen again," he sighs dramatically.
"Okay, relax, you glorified gnat with feathers," you scoff, continuing to get dressed. "I said sorry. Y'know what? Don't call me for these things in the future! Have Seungkwan do it next time. I don't want to be subjected to your whiny, little rants."
Joshua makes a noise of disbelief before laughing. "Wow, you're the perfect assistant for Satan. For the record, I was totally kidding. I got to sit here and do nothing but doom scroll, so I don't mind. But I will have my assistant call next time. Sorry for bothering you."
"Good. Don't let it happen again." You don't allow him a response, hanging up and gathering your things as you hurry to leave for the office.
But as you exit your room, you hear your name, called so softly, you would have missed it if you hadn't paused to make sure your tablet was on you. You freeze, frowning in the direction of the sound.
"Jun?" you call, mindlessly setting your bag down in the kitchen as you walk toward your boss's suite. You find his door at the end of the hall, a deep, dark blood red, open just a crack. You knock lightly, and when you don't hear anything, you poke your head through.
And there he is, your missing boss, still cocooned in his bed, his favorite Hellcat and Hellhound sleeping at his feet, the former passed out atop the latter.
"Junnie?" you call again. He groans this time.
"Y/N…" he murmurs, not moving an inch or opening his eyes.
You tiptoe into the room, making a kissy face at Key when the hound's tail starts wagging at the sight of you. The movement makes Lock slide off the dog, meowing helplessly as she does. You get to Jun's bedside and wince when you realize how sick he looks.
The Devil is pale, sweating with a sickly sheen, and looking so weak, it's the first time you've thought he could believably pass as human. You reach out to press the back of your hand to his forehead, but he swats it away.
"Hey!"
"Don't," he whispers, voice hoarse with fatigue. "Fever. I'll burn your skin off."
"Oh," you mutter, immediately taking your hand back. "You're sick. I didn't know the Devil could get sick."
"Demon Flu," he says, eyes fluttering open just enough to peek at you. "Soonyoung sneezed in my face the other day."
"Oh!" you blink at him in surprise. "Ew! Good to know! I will make a note to send him to the Hellhounds to serve as a chew toy for the day."
"Week."
"Got it," you say, nodding. You fidget a little, looking down at your boss with pity. He looks so helpless and sad and cute. You fight the urge to run your fingers through his damp hair. "What do you need? What can I do for you?"
"Nothing. I'll be down until 3:33 a.m. tomorrow," he informs you.
"Specific."
"Just… do… assistant things," he says pathetically, fingers twitching when he tries to wave his hand dismissively.
You can do that. Your first order of business is getting him a tall glass of water and force-feeding it to him until he has rivulets of water very distractingly dribbling down his chin, neck, and between his pecs, where it disappears under the covers.
Then, you get him a cold compress, screeching in surprise when the towel crackles and steams upon contact with his forehead. When that warms up within a minute, you try getting him an actual ice block, chipped straight off the furniture of his weird ice room. You take his moan of relief as a good thing and quickly get to work butchering the ice room until you have an endless supply of blocks for Jun's sizzling forehead.
When you're done with that, you make him the hot pot you made yourself one night and noticed he had several helpings of, spoon feeding it to him despite his several protests. After two slurps, though, there isn't much of a fight, with Jun relaxing back into his pillows and happily allowing you to feed him as he lets his eyes close. You pause, wondering if he fell asleep, but he immediately whines for his next spoonful.
"You're a baby when you're sick."
"I could die."
"You literally couldn't."
He slurps his latest spoonful of broth. "Feels like it."
"Mmm," you hum, smiling at how endearing he is when he doesn't have the energy to put up his big, bad act.
"Y'know…" he rasps, "when I said do assistant things, I meant at work."
"My work is making your life easier, no?" you counter, letting go of the spoon to pick up the chopsticks and pluck meat out of the broth for Jun to eat. He practically purrs when his mouth closes around the chopsticks, and you struggle not to watch his Adam's apple as he swallows. "So I am doing assistant things at work."
Jun opens his eyes, able to open them wider than he was when you first found him. "Just work, hm?"
You set the chopsticks down and pick up the spoon to chase his bite down with broth, but his fingers circle around your wrist, stopping before the spoon can touch his lips. His grip is hot but it doesn't hurt—not how you imagine his face would. "You're full?"
"Why are you feeding me?"
You raise your eyebrows at him. "Because you're sick and need to eat…?"
Jun's eyes narrow infinitesimally, but he releases your wrist, allowing you to feed him more broth.
"Not used to being cared for, are you?" you observe, chuckling. "Big, bad Devil has never been spoonfed?" Your boss rolls his eyes but doesn't entertain you by acknowledging your question.
After a few more bites, his long, slender fingers gently push the bowl away, and he shakes his head, muttering a quiet thank you as you set the food aside on his nightstand. You stand, pulling his blankets up even higher when you see him shiver.
"You don't have to do all this," he sighs as you shove your fingers under his back and legs, tucking his blankets in along his entire body until he looks like an oversized, swaddled baby. "It's not in your employment agreement. Go work."
"I will," you say, rolling your eyes at his stubbornness. "And you realize I can help you without being contractually obligated to, right?" you ask, laughing and collecting all the dishes you need to bring back to the kitchen. "You don't need to have me sign my soul away to get me to care, Junnie. I know I don't need to do any of this. Consider it a friend-slash-roommate helping you."
You finish cleaning up and don't allow him the chance to retort or protest, immediately turning away and calling Lock and Key to follow you out of the room.
"Come on, kiddies," you coo as his pets exit. "Your daddy needs to rest." You glance back up at Jun, who stares at you hard with a deep frown on his face. "Call if you need anything. I'll stay nearby and check on you in an hour!"
DAY THIRTY-SIX
Jun has been weird around you for the last week. It's like that dumb flu of his altered his brain chemistry and made him cold and detached.
There was no more going into your room to wake you up; now he has a shrill alarm clock appear to scream in your ear like a demented banshee, disappearing every time you try to smack wherever its snooze button is. He no longer sits for breakfast with you; now, he tells you he needs to be at the office ahead of you and will simply meet you there. Thankfully, he allows you to continue accompanying him to his summonings, but with how weird he's acting, you wonder if it would be better to just face your fears and be alone.
You attempted to talk to him throughout the week, trying not to take it personally when all you got were one-worded responses or grunts or blank stares.
Three days in, you started slacking a little to force him to say more than one word to you. You scheduled meetings so he'd show up ten minutes late. You sent a Hell-wide email promising everyone a four-day work week if quotas were met. You even threatened to release the lower-level sinners from their torture chambers to cause trouble for the archangels. All that got you was a severe glare, and a notice from Demon Resources that one more mistake would get you on a performance improvement plan, which you were informed would involve giving the Hellhounds baths alongside the damned souls in charge of that.
It's clear that Jun is in a mood—probably the aftereffects of the mysterious Demon Flu you can't catch. You've resigned yourself to riding it out, accepting that even the Devil is prone to tantrums and mood swings.
The phone on your desk rings, and you heave a tired sigh before answering.
"Hi. You've reached the desk of The Supreme Lord of Sulkiness," you greet loudly, ignoring the series of choked coughs that erupt from your boss's office behind you. "How may I help you?"
"Oh, uh…" the voice pauses like they're checking something. "This is His Infernal Majesty's desk, correct?"
"Yep, that's what I just saaaaid," you sing-song. "Now how can I help you?"
"This is the front desk. We have an archangel on the line that insists on speaking with His Infernal Majesty."
You roll your eyes. "Who is it?"
"Archangel Brayden…?"
The idiot is the biggest pain in your ass. You're not even sure why he constantly asks after Jun when Joshua is the archangel appointed with all relations having to do with Hell. It's probably a weird power play in Heaven that you're not privy to, but you've been dodging him for days now.
"Tell him he's not available."
"He is threatening to visit for the third time this week."
"Jesus Christ," you mutter.
"You want me to transfer him to Christ?"
You frown deeply at that. "What? We can transfer him to—wait, what?"
"You said—"
"Never mind, just—ugh," you groan in frustration, resting your elbows on the desk and cradling your head in your free hand. "Put him through."
"Will do." The line cuts to the agonized screams of damned souls as you wait for her to transfer him to you.
"Hello?" his dumb voice drifts through the receiver.
"Hi. You've reached the desk of—"
"Who am I speaking to?"
You clamp your mouth shut, rolling your lips between your teeth to keep from immediately snapping at him. When you're sure you won't, you state your name.
He still manages to say it wrong, but you don't bother correcting him. "I need a meeting with Satan."
"And why is that?"
He laughs arrogantly. "That's between me and him."
"Well, he's busy."
"I haven't even given you my availability."
"Don't need yours. I have his, and he's busy." You tack on "for the rest of time" for good measure.
There's a loaded silence long enough that you wonder if you've effectively driven him into hanging up. Of course, that would be too easy. "You really don't want to mouth off with me."
"Excuse me?" You huff a laugh of disbelief. You swear some of these angels are bigger assholes than the demons crawling around here.
"You heard me," he seethes. You feel your self-control dissolving by the second. "Now you can either transfer me to your boss like a good, little demon slave—"
"I am literally none of those four things."
"—or," he near-shouts over you, "you can put me in his books. This is a very important meeting, and I'd hate for you to have your soul ripped apart for failing to schedule it."
"Listen here," you hiss, "you repulsive, pretentious, foul excuse for an—"
"Brayden."
You freeze as Jun's voice cuts into the call. You turn toward his office to find him leaning against his desk, arms crossed over his chest and legs crossed at the ankles. His eyes slide over to you and he lazily lifts a hand and beckons you over with two fingers. You quickly hang the phone up and stand, entering Jun's office in time to catch the archangel bumbling nonsensically on speakerphone.
He nods at the seats in front of him and you take one, slowly lowering yourself as he speaks.
"I don't believe we've met," Jun says, interrupting his stuttering.
"Um, no, we haven't! I just wanted to schedule a coffee chat to introduce myself!" You glare at the phone. A coffee chat is his very important meeting?
"What a fucking tool," you murmur.
"A coffee chat," the Devil repeats.
"Yes. I figured Hell is a huge place. Maybe you need two archangels to serve as point. I'd love to put my name in the ring—"
"And you thought threatening my assistant was the best way to do it?" Jun asks, face blank as he stares at you.
"Oh, no," he says, laughing like it's a joke, "No, no, definitely not. I was not threatening her."
"Hm."
You've grown accustomed to Jun's many variations of hm. There's his thoughtful hm. The hm when he's trying not to smile or laugh. His angry hm. The that-is-the-dumbest-thing-I've-ever-fucking-heard hm. A hm reserved especially for when Soonyoung annoys him. This one isn't one you're familiar with.
"What was it you were saying about her soul being torn apart?" Saying the words again makes Jun's eyes turn a deep red. His hands turn into fists, making the veins running up his forearm pop.
"I was joking!" Brayden insists. "I was totally joking. She and I joke like that! We—"
"Lie to me one more time and I'll have God cast you out of Heaven so fast, you won't know how you ended up in my Hellhound's digestive system."
The line falls silent, and your body does interesting things in reaction to the words—the most obvious one being the odd ache between your legs. You fidget a little, finger slipping into your collar and pulling a little as you begin to feel warm.
"How long have you been an archangel, Brayden?"
"Uh, well, heh," he laughs nervously. "So, I'm not quite an archangel yet. I'm—"
Jun cuts him off with a sharp, terrifying laugh. "And now you never will be," he informs him. "I'm sure both Archangel Joshua and God will agree that you aren't fit for that role."
He squeaks in protest. "I—"
"Wow, how productive!" Jun says with feigned glee. "Look at us, we had a great chat and we didn't even need to waste time breathing each other's air or ruining the joys of drinking caffeine."
"Uh, I, um, sir—"
"Have any other demands you'd like to make?"
"No," he answers immediately. "No, I… I don't. I'm sorry. I—"
"Perfect," he says. "Now if you'll apologize to my assistant, we can get on with our lives. And make it good, Brayden. I don't like to repeat orders."
"I'm so sorry," Brayden grovels, sounding like he's on the verge of tears, if not fully crying already. He sniffles and his voice cracks on his next words. "I don't know why I was acting like such an asshole and bothering all of you when I had no business going over Archangel Joshua's head like that. I'm sorry, Satan."
Jun narrows his eyes. "I don't want your apologies."
"I'm sorry, Y/N."
"Hm," he accepts it. "Then I think our business is done. And Brayden?"
"Yes?" his voice trembles.
"If I hear that you called anyone here in Hell again, let alone my assistant," he starts, eyes flashing a bright and violent scarlet now, "I will personally come up there, pluck you right out of the fucking sky, and take my sweet, sweet time flaying you with a dull butter knife—wings and all—before I tear your soul apart, piece by agonizing piece myself."
There's a loud sniffle followed by a whimper on the line, but the ache inside you is so strong now, you can't even enjoy the sound.
"And if you think my friendships with your superiors will stop me, you are so sorely mistaken." His pause is pregnant with tension, his eyes boring into you as he lands his final threat. "I have absolutely no problem with starting a war over you."
The words send a chill down your spine, and you cross your legs tightly to keep from twitching at the sensation. You grip the arms of your chair and avert your eyes from your boss, trying to understand what the fuck is happening to your body right now. You quietly blow a breath out through your mouth when the sensation doesn't let up.
As expected, the angel doesn't have a proper response to that.
"Good talk, Brayden," Jun says sardonically. "Don't let me hear your voice ever again."
He reaches over and presses a button on his phone, ending the call. He looks back to you, his eyes finally fading back to that deep, comforting brown. He sighs, seeming suddenly and significantly less sure of himself than he was on the phone.
"Um," he clears his throat, coughing a little as he grips the edge of his desk with both hands. He looks down at his lap and inhales deeply. His breath is spicy with the smell of your chips on his exhale, blowing strands of your hair away from your face. "Sorry."
"Why?" you laugh in disbelief. The sound must unwind something in him because his posture relaxes and he looks back up at you. "That was amazing!"
He snorts, shaking his head at himself. "Yeah, well. It's going to result in a lot of discussions with God and Joshua, so… please find something on their calendars."
"Got it, boss," you say, standing to return to your own desk.
Before you get far, though, Jun calls your name, the syllables sounding weird from him—much softer and gentler than you've ever heard him be. It almost triggers your fight or flight for some reason.
"Yeah?" you ask slowly, eyes flitting about the room nervously.
"You don't have to stay on calls like that for my sake," he tells you, crossing his arms again, this time like he's almost trying to protect himself from you. "I know you took the blame for me missing all my meetings while sick, and I know you try to deal with all kinds of bullshit because you don't want people to think the Devil hired someone without a backbone."
The words strike a chord with you that you didn't realize even existed. Did you do that? If you think about it, you can see why your boss would think so. Day in and day out, no matter how much attitude you gave to whoever you were talking to, you still stayed and dealt with the problem so that the others would find you reliable—so that they wouldn't have to bring it to Jun.
You also took the blame for the missed meetings because Jun's health wasn't anyone's business, not until he made it clear it was okay to share with others, anyway. No one needed to know he missed a few meetings without notice.
"So… don't do that," Jun says, sighing. "Assholes—whether in Heaven or Hell—they're always going to try and give you a hard time because they're too scared to say it to my face. And I know without a doubt that you can handle it, but… you're not my shield, okay?"
"Okay."
"I know you were about to rip that prick a new asshole," he continues, making you smile, "but I want you to feel like you can do that from the jump if you need to. Next time, just tell him to fuck off. Or hang up. Or bring me in. Whatever. If anyone has an issue with the way you work, they can talk to me. Just… don't sit there and take it."
You nod slowly. "Alright, I won't… thanks."
"Mhm."
"Hey, Junnie," you say suddenly, taking advantage of his sudden willingness to talk to you now. He hums again, nodding for you to go on, his eyes skimming every surface of your face. It isn't until this moment that you realize he hasn't properly looked at you in a week. "Um. Are we good?"
He frowns. "What do you mean?"
"You've just been…" you trail off, shrugging. "I don't know, a little cold lately?" You hate how pathetic and whiny it makes you sound. "And if it's because I did something wrong, well, I would just like to remind you that our agreement can only be terminated by my death, the collapse of reality, or mutual agreement."
The corner of his mouth twitches upward, but his expression stays serious and he keeps taking his time watching you. So much time, you start to wring your hands nervously. Finally, when he seems to be finished with studying every last millimeter of your face, he shakes his head.
"You haven't done anything wrong," he assures you, sounding tired. "I was just feeling weird. I'm okay, though. We're okay. You don't have to worry about termination. You've made it clear I'm stuck with you."
You grin, nodding. "Good. Because I have grown very accustomed to my unlimited interior design budget and my 1,000-thread-count sheets."
He snorts, rolling his eyes. "Yeah, I'm sure you have. Now go schedule me a coffee chat with God and Joshua for tomorrow, please. Move things around if you must. I'm sure Brayden has gone crying about it to Mommy by now."
You laugh. "Will do."
You leave his office feeling lighter than you have all week.
DAY THIRTY-SEVEN
Jun: where tf r u
Me: have a dr appt!!!
Jun: what why r u ok
Jun: i'll come over
Me: no it's ok it's just a check-up
Jun: liar we don't do check-ups in hell
Me: yeah well i am human and i need a check-up
Jun: u sure ur ok?
Me: yes! i'll be in the office soon.
Jun: fine… if a few hellhounds find u just send them back
Me: bruh
Me: did you give the dogs my scent to find me???
Jun: u never wake up before me let alone leave the house before me
Me: you could have just called
Jun: k wtvr noted
Me: 23 HELLHOUNDS IS NOT A FEW JUNNIE WTF
Jun: SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP JUST SEND THEM BACK
"His Infernal Majesty seems to be very… protective over you," the doctor observes, still clearly annoyed with having 23 fire-breathing Hellhounds at her door.
You wave a hand and laugh uncomfortably. "Oh, he's just a very concerned and, uh, considerate person."
The doctor just stares. "The Devil. Considerate. Right."
"Um. So anyway," you clear your throat, desperate to change the subject. "Do you have experience with humans?"
"No, but I will do everything I can to ensure you leave healthy." Her voice is stern and uncompromising, and you suddenly feel like you're in a principal's office rather than a doctor's. She sits down on a rolling stool, scoots closer to the table you're perched on, and mutters, "Wouldn't want more Hellhounds plowing my door down, ready to melt my face off because the Devil's charge was unhappy."
You shift on the table a bit uncomfortably but smile. It's clear that she will not be forgetting about the 23 Hellhounds sent to her office just because a human wasn't in bed when the Devil woke up anytime soon. Not while you're still in her office, at least.
Jun wouldn't do anything to her anyway. You'd probably just go to a doctor on Earth next time if Hell's medical services weren't sufficient.
"So what brings you in today?" she sighs, crossing her legs and folding her hands over her knees.
"Right, so I experienced something weird yesterday," you start. "I had a stressful workplace issue and my body reacted very unexpectedly, and I now require medical attention."
The doctor frowns, rolling closer to you on her stool. "Okay, if you're comfortable, can you describe the stressful event and how your body reacted?"
"Well, an angel was harassing the front desk so they had him talk to me, and then he started saying all this foul shit—"
"Brayden."
Your eyebrows shoot up. "Yes! How did you know?"
"He's called every department of this Devil-forsaken hellscape," she says, shaking her head and rolling her eyes. "How is a demon doctor supposed to get an archangel a meeting with the Devil?"
You scoff. "Well, he's not an archangel, and it was just a coffee chat."
The doctor snorts, and as you watch her terse personality start to melt, you deem it safe to dive into the full story. By the end of it, she's clapping and giggling, a massive difference from when she was forced to face 23 Hellhounds.
"Wow, that's very attractive of His Infernal Majesty."
You frown. "What?"
She raises an eyebrow at you. "You don't think so?"
"Uh…" You're stumped.
It's not that you've never found anyone attractive… actually, it absolutely is that you've never found anyone attractive.
You tried dating but stopped years ago when you recognized that you were doing it because you felt an obligation to. All your friends were dating or in long-term committed relationships—or at the very least, sleeping around. Dating apps seemed like something you were supposed to do. You quickly shut that idea down. Romance wasn't a hole you've felt in your life so it's not one you lingered on or thought about often. Sure, you knew when people were beautiful or handsome or hot or cute—you know without a doubt that Jun is all of the above. But attraction is harder. You're not sure you've ever felt it.
"You've never felt attraction." Your eyes widen at the demon physician.
"Can you read minds?"
She snorts. "No. I can read your face." She narrows her eyes at you and nods. "And I think I know what happened to you."
"But I haven't given you my symptoms."
"Let me guess," she says, crossing her arms and scooting her stool back so she can lean against the counter behind her. "Elevated heart rate, flushing, perspiration… maybe some pain in the abdominal area or… lower."
You stare at her. "Are you sure you can't read my mind?"
She smirks. "I'm sure, human." She sighs. "You're going to be perfectly fine. Though I do recommend you explore options for therapy."
You startle. "What? Why?"
"Because what you felt was arousal," she reveals, "and I'm guessing you might need someone to process those thoughts about your boss with and it will not be me."
You choke on nothing, triggering a coughing attack that lasts embarrassingly long. When you finally stop, your chest is heaving and the doctor is staring at you blankly.
"Are you done?"
"Coughing? Yes. With you? Absolutely not," you inform her, ignoring the way she sighs like this is an inconvenience. "What do you mean arousal?"
"I mean, you found His Infernal Majesty's defense of you attractive and your body responded accordingly. Very strongly—much more strongly than anyone else probably would—but accordingly."
Your face turns Hellfire hot, and you wish the dogs had barbecued you while they were here.
"You have nothing to worry about as far as your health is concerned. These feelings are very natural." She thinks for a moment before adding: "For humans. Demons are better at discretion."
"But… he was just being nice… why would that be attractive?"
She shrugs. "The bar is in Hell, literally."
"Oh god…" you murmur. Is this what happened to your friends when they insisted that a man paying half the bill after ordering several cocktails to their one water was modern day romance?
"I will say…" she starts, looking a little hesitant as she does.
"You can say it," you encourage her. "I won't tell anyone. HIPAA, right?"
"One, that's an American thing, and two, that's meant to protect the patient's privacy, not the other way around."
"Whatever," you sigh. "You get it."
"Between us girls," she says, even though you two aren't even of the same species. It makes you smile. "I understand why your body would react the way it did. It is quite nice to feel protected and safe."
"Protected and safe," you echo quietly.
"Mhm. Has anyone ever made you feel that?"
The answer comes to you fast. No. No one has ever made you feel protected or safe. That has been your own responsibility since you were four. Still, it takes you a moment to answer because you realize that although that would've been the answer a few months ago, it's more complicated now.
Now, the answer is: no. No one has ever made you feel that way. Not until Jun.
"Can I have a referral to that therapist?"
She smiles. "I'll give you a list of recs, but this isn't that putrid Hell hole you call Earth; you don't need a referral to seek healthcare."
"Right."
When you get into the office and Jun apologizes for the Hellhounds and asks if everything was fine at the doctor's (and if he needs to throw anyone into a vat of boiling oil), you feel your symptoms again. And you know Hell's doctor is right.
DAY FORTY-TWO
Hell is closed tomorrow, and it's all thanks to you. You hope that you'll be included in some sort of history book for this. Every demon you've come across has made it clear that you deserve to be anyway. Because after the debacle with Soonyoung's day off and a single complaint you made to Jun about how Hell doesn't have enough paid holidays, the underworld now has Demon Appreciation Day (DAD!), an unprecedented day off for all of Hell's employees as a thank you for their hard work terrorizing humans.
Unfortunately, it also means the damned souls get a break from torment, but Jeonghan, Chief Torment and Innovation Officer, has assured Jun he's already on it, figuring out ways to automate torture for one day so that the worst human beings in history do not get a break ever again.
"What are you going to do for DAD?" Soonyoung asks the current watercooler demon on shift as soon as she's done small talking a damned soul to tears.
"I'm going to abstain from speaking to anyone." You smile at the answer as you get your own cup of water.
"Oh," Soonyoung chirps, nodding slowly. She glares at him and he immediately walks away, beckoning you to hurry. "We don't want to mess with Jeongyeon when her social battery is dead." You wave bye to her and she winks at you. You know very well her social battery is always dead around Soonyoung no matter what. "Anyway, what are you, our amazing Queen of DAD, going to do on your day off?"
"Queen is a little excessive," you say, not very keen on taking a title that would encroach on any of Jun's millions, even as a joke. "Maybe mayor."
Soonyoung clearly doesn't like the suggested edit, scoffing. "No. Queen is fitting."
You roll your eyes. "Sure."
"What? It is! You're the reason we have our first mandated day off ever!" the demon reminds you. His mouth twists into a mischievous smirk now. "Plus, with all the rumors going 'round, 'queen' is perfect for our king."
You stop in your tracks. "What?"
He giggles so obnoxiously, you slap his arm more out of reflex than anything else. He gasps, rubbing the spot dramatically. "What?! I'm just the messenger! Everyone is talking about it."
"About what?"
"About how His Infernal Majesty must be in love with you if he's willing to create an entire day off just for you."
The words make your stomach jump into your throat. Ever since your appointment, you've been paying extra attention to your feelings, and you're convinced you actually have no idea what anything feels like. Have you ever properly known what you were feeling? What is a feeling anyway?
When Jun ripped the blankets off you in the morning, did you feel annoyed, furious, or helpless?
When Jun wordlessly handed you your coffee, did you feel grateful, enamored, or nothing at all because you were still half asleep?
When he wrapped his long ass fingers around your wrist to travel to Earth for summonings, did you feel giddy, excited, or grateful that you wouldn't be alone at home?
When Soonyoung says that there are rumors that Jun is in love with you, do you feel confused, anxious, or endlessly irritated with the demon?
Since you haven't had a chance to see a therapist, you pick the last one.
You scoff. "It isn't for me, you idiot. I just floated the idea by him."
"And any idea you float by him becomes a fully fleshed out thing by the end of the day."
"Okay, so he's a good and receptive boss."
His eyebrows rise at that. "He's the Devil."
Touché. "It's ridiculous."
"That he loves you to the point of invention? No, I d—"
You shove him into the wall, effectively making him spill his water all over himself. "Hey! You can't just go hitting people f—"
"Actually, I can!" you correct him, walking away. "Jun explicitly gave me permission to do whatever the fuck I want! So take it up with him!"
What a ridiculous rumor from an even more ridiculous demon.
Of all the much cooler rumors that could've been made, that one is the one they settled on? If you knew that's the news that would be spreading, you would've started your own rumors about yourself. Like you're actually God's super cool daughter and this is just a nepotism internship before you become the heiress of Heaven. Or that Hell is just a simulation being run by a crazy scientist named Jun and your arrival marks the imminent end of the experiment—an antichrist of sorts. Kind of poetic.
But the Devil being in love with his assistant? Both impossible and cliche and scary to think about because you don't think you'd be able to pick up on it even if it were possible.
When you return home, you're debating telling Jun about this rumor just to watch him stutter and squirm and turn red (and maybe make plans to disembowel a demon or two), but that's all forgotten when you find your boss back early from a meeting with God he took in purgatory. And endearingly enough, he's sprawled across the couch with both Lock and Key on his stomach and leg respectively, all three of them fast asleep.
You grin, taking several photos before you pocket your phone and watch his chest rise and fall, slowly coming to the realization that Jun needed this break too. You've never seen the man nap, and up until the day he got sick, you were still convinced he never even slept at all. If he's taking a nap, you know it's because he badly needs it. You're determined to leave him be, but you hear your name just as you're about to leave the living room.
"Hey," you greet him, smiling at how confused and sleepy he looks as he lifts his head and stares at his pets. "Sorry, did I wake you?"
He shakes his head, letting it plop back onto the couch when it's clear Lock and Key have no intention of moving. "No, I've been napping long enough," he says, his voice deep and gravely with sleep. You shift your weight from foot to foot as he continues speaking, settling for squeezing your thighs together when your sudden discomfort isn't alleviated. Oh god. Is this arousal again? "God cancelled last minute." He yawns, mouth opening comically wide. "Something about a miracle gone wrong."
"Ah," you nod, walking over to the three of them and taking the empty sectional by his head while you try to get yours to shut up. "What are your plans for this rare afternoon off then?" you ask. "And for DAD?"
Jun tilts his head up to look at you. "Stop calling it that," he deadpans.
"No," you say simply. "It's my holiday and I will call it what I want."
You expect him to point out it isn't your holiday; after all, you aren't even a demon. You're just the catalyst behind something that was a long time coming. But the argument doesn't come. Instead, your boss sighs and straightens his head again, staring at the ceiling.
"Fair enough, I suppose."
You raise your eyebrows, smiling. You're about to point out he basically just agreed that it's your holiday when you hear Soonyoung's stupid voice in the back of your mind. He created a holiday for you. Is that not a man who loves you?
You shudder, shaking a little like that will exorcise the demon from your subconscious.
"You okay?" Jun asks, looking back up at you.
"Huh? Yeah." You struggle to wipe the frown off your face before looking down at the Devil. "Want dinner?"
"Hot pot?"
"I've made hot pot several times this month," you groan. "Are you not tired of it?"
He looks at you like you're crazy. "No?" He sits up abruptly without removing Lock from his stomach first, and the cat releases an ear-piercing yowl before jumping off him. Key follows suit as Jun pulls his legs away and plants his feet on the floor. "You humans tire of things so fast. It's why you're all so vulnerable to temptation."
"Pfft. Me? Prone to temptation?" You pause and think of all the material things you've forced Jun to buy you under the guise of it being absolutely necessary for your productivity as his assistant. You shrug. "Okay, yeah. That is true."
Jun smirks and shakes his head. "Come on. Let's eat."
You nod, following him as he gets up ahead of you and walks into the kitchen. You slow at the door when you find him leaning his back against the fridge, his arms crossed and his lips pursed. He's blushing slightly, and he looks like he almost regrets doing this.
"Happy DAD, I guess."
The kitchen is decorated in every possible shade of pink you've ever seen—balloons, streamers, tinsel, confetti, a sign that says Demon Human Appreciation Day! And in the middle of the kitchen island is a cake, and just looking at it, you know it's not like the blood-based desserts that the demons around here like to indulge in.
"I never had a meeting with God," Jun mutters. "I just had you put that in for me. I was actually meeting Joshua to get this. It's angel cake. Actual angel cake. They use stardust sugar, moon milk, morning dew, and cloudberries. Figured you'd prefer this over devil's cake… actual devil's cake."
You stare at it, decorated beautifully with piped frosting and fresh berries. It's a pale pink—so pale, it looks white compared to the other shades that litter the space—and its frosting just barely glitters under the light. The top reads, Best Human Ever.
"Of course, the angels chose the message. To be clear, I would never call you the best."
You're finally snapped out of your daze at the words, which prompt you to roll your eyes. "Yes because you would use something much better. Like Most Perfect Human Ever, right, Junnie?"
His blush deepens and he glares at the wall across from him. "No."
You look around, stunned by the display of appreciation, especially for someone who was technically just fulfilling her part of the contract. You've never even gotten a birthday party thrown for you, and the happiness you're filled with threatens to strangle you. You swallow the knot forming in your throat, thinking that maybe DAD is your favorite holiday.
"Can I hug you?"
"Absolutely not."
"Oh come on!" you whine, already walking to him with open arms. "You can't do something so kind and cute and wonderful and not accept a hug!"
He backs away from you, hands splayed in front of him to keep you away. "The Devil doesn't do hugs."
"The Devil probably also doesn't have a history of showing his assistant appreciation," you point out. "Or securing her an angel cake she's going to eat in one sitting!"
Jun pauses, frowning. "One sitting?! It's meant to serve 10 people!"
"Give me a hug!" you shriek, jumping at him.
He, of course, disappears. You stumble into the space he was just standing in and gasp in mock offense at being evaded. You spin around, pouting, and find him right behind you, glaring. You sigh.
"Okay, if you're really not consenting to a hug, I will not force you into one. But if you're just being an emotionally constipated weirdo, I would ask that you suppress that for DAD and allow just one—" You hold up one finger for emphasis. "—hug. Please."
Jun's Adam's apple bobs as he swallows nothing, his eyes zoning out on something above your head. He shakes his head and sighs. "Fine. One hug, bu—oof."
You don't wait for him to finish his sentence, hugging him so tightly, you immediately start sweating from the heat radiating through his clothes. But you don't care, tightening your arms around his waist and pressing your cheek as far into his chest as it will go. You're on the verge of tears and your boss doesn't need to see it.
When he realizes you fully intend on making your hug last more than a millisecond, a single hand comes up to rest on your shoulder, thumb hesitantly sweeping back and forth in a comforting caress.
For the first time in several days, you don't bother to check in with your feelings and you decide maybe it's time to stop. Because this just feels nice, and if it feels nice, then that's all you want to know. Everything else is noise that threatens to pop this bubble of safety you're in—Jun's arms. You decide then that the nuances of your happiness are none of your business as long as you are happy. Happy. Something you're starting to think you've never fully been now that you've truly experienced it here, in Hell.
"Thank you, Junnie," you mumble against his chest. You know it's easy to tell you've been brought to tears from the way your watery voice trembles, but thankfully, the Devil doesn't point it out. "You don't know how much this means to me."
He sighs, squeezing your shoulder. "I think I do." After a moment, he adds: "Thanks for everything you do for Hell… and for me. You are very…" He clears his throat uncomfortably, "… appreciated here."
You smile, sighing as you finally pull away from him, wiping at your eyes discreetly as you do. "Thank you. Now let me make you hot pot and let's eat this cake."
You turn away fast to hide your glassy eyes, missing the way Jun rests a palm to his chest where you had just been pressed against him.
JOIN MY PERMANENT TAG LIST • next part »
A/N: again, this is already done and tumblr just kept me from keeping this a one shot bc of its 1000 block limit bc it HATES ME! i've queued the next part to release this wed 7/1 so pls stay tuned! :)
Absolutely incredible read!!!!! Every direction it went felt like a GoSe episode and I loved every second of it! More than Woozi and Minghao wanted to put Hoshi in a cage with a real tiger!
I didn’t realize how much I would love Jun as the devil. I mean look how cute he is!!!!!
You wrote it so well that it doesn’t seem as far-fetched!!
but vernon has a point to make, so that’s precisely what he does: “i don’t need a sales pitch. you will never — ever — have to convince me to fuck you.”
pairing: vernon x afab!reader
type: one-shot (fluff n’ smut)
au: est. relationship
wc: 4.8k
rating: 18+
a/n: i didn’t plan this whatsoever, but i felt so weirdly compelled to write it that i avoided eye-contact with all of my wips, and now… here we are, lol.
cw: pov switch, reader is afab + on their period, gender identity + pronouns aren’t designated, blood mention (obvi), unprotected p in v penetration (ill-advised!!), wee bit of dry-humping (ig?), a lil massage, pet names (baby, sweetheart), self-indulgent ref to a favorite docu of mine, and lastly — vernon (yes, this is a warning 🧍🏻)
🔞 MINORS WHO INTERACT WITH ME AND/OR MY CONTENT WILL BE BLOCKED, WHETHER OR NOT THE CONTENT IS NSFW. I’M AN ADULT WRITING EXCLUSIVELY FOR OTHER ADULTS.
Vernon isn’t blind.
He can see you out of the corner of his eye, laying flat on your back, several unexplained centimeters away from his side. With the duvet clenched in your fists, you stare intently up at the ceiling, like you’re waiting for it to move — or trying to move it yourself, telekinetically. You keep your bottom lip pinched between your teeth, as if you expect it to make a run for it.
So, yes, Vernon can see you.
He just can’t figure out what’s wrong with you.
For a few minutes, he attempts to pay attention to the documentary lighting up the screen on the wall ahead. You were the one that picked it — some wild tale about mother-daughter recluses in New York — and he finds it hard to give a shit about it without your usual commentary. Your hot takes are his favorite part of any movie night, after all.
He’ll be the first to admit that he’s never been good at keeping his eyes off you. Try as he might, he can’t glue his gaze to the television; each glance in your direction sticks longer than the one before it, testing the waters. Minutes slip away just like this until he completely caves, turns his head fully, and stares at you outright.
You still don’t seem to notice.
His brow scrunches up as he watches you, caught in the middle between concerned, confused, and amused by how absolutely ridiculous you look right now. When he speaks, he tries to sound stern, like he isn’t fighting the urge to laugh.
“Baby?”
“Hmm?” is all he gets in response.
You don’t even look his way. If anything, you tense harder now that his attention is on you.
None of it makes sense. Not the weird gap you’ve left between your body and his, your total refusal to look him in the eye, or the fact that there wasn’t an argument to precipitate any of this distance. It’s a symptom with no apparent cause, and it’s totally baffling. Brain-breaking, even.
Frowning, Vernon scoots himself across the bed to get closer to you.
You don’t reciprocate.
He tugs gently at the hem of your sweatshirt in a silent plea for your attention and receives radio silence in response; unless he counts the way you swallow thickly.
Which, for the record, he does not.
This close, Vernon can feel the anxious energy pulsing out of your tensed-up body in waves, so he leans away and props himself up on his elbow. Desperate to know what broke you and how to fix it, he mutters, “What is happening right now?”
Ope.
It comes out harsher than it was supposed to, reading more like annoyance than worry, so he immediately clears his throat. Gently and with a brush of his knuckles against your hip bone, he tries again: “Are you okay? Did I do something to make you mad at me?”
A fly on the wall might get the wrong impression and think he stroked you with a live wire instead.
“Oh, my god. No!” You sputter with a jolt, shifting gears quickly from vaguely on-edge to horrified. You shake your head so frantically that Vernon fears you’ll detach it. “No, you haven’t done anything. I’m fine, I just —”
He interjects with a laugh, “— I don’t necessarily believe that —”
Visibly cringing with every muscle in your body, you cover your face with your hands. Not long after you take a deep breath does a meek voice slip out through your fingers, sounding beyond embarrassed.
“I’m so incomprehensibly horny right now that I can’t even look at you.”
For a second, it’s dead silent because he can’t quite process how much of a weirdo you are, or how completely and hopelessly enamored he is with you. But then the dam breaks. His laugh comes out so forcefully that you pull your hands away from your face, eyes wide.
“Is that so?” He smirks, nodding his head towards the television. “Grey Gardens really gets your motor running, huh?”
Absolutely aghast, you swat at his bicep. Then, you sling your arm over your eyes and groan, “I got my period. It has turned me into a sex-crazed monster, I fear.”
Vernon nods in understanding, even though you can’t see it, and hums, “Ahh.”
And he leaves it at that, only because you seem to have more that you want to say. Something you want to ask, maybe, or a reason you may want to give for not jumping his bones at the first opportunity. He’s down, he thinks without hesitation, so long as you are.
But you don’t say anything.
Maybe you aren’t actually down after all, and that’s why you won’t look at him. Shit, are you embarrassed? Should I say something? Silence falls overtop like a weighted blanket, smothering the two idiots who can’t tell whose turn it is to talk.
Do you or do you not want this right now?
You mumble something that he can’t catch, so he nudges your side gently with his knuckles to encourage you. Just as nervous, you repeat yourself without looking at him, “Period sex is supposed to help with cramps, I think.”
He thinks he’s read the exact same article you have. More than that, he wishes you’d look over at him and see for yourself how completely unbothered he is by this concept.
“If you think about it, it’s kind of like a natural lubricant,” you add in a voice that’s even smaller than before.
Your shyness really might kill him, so he reaches over to grab your hand and gently pull your arm away from your eyes. It’s the first time you’ve looked at him since you laid down — since you put your self-imposed no-contact order in place — and he feels his stupid heart swell.
For what it’s worth, he feels his dick twitch, too.
You open your mouth to speak again, likely to continue your unnecessary campaigning; Vernon is having none of it. He tugs your wrist just enough to tilt you inward, then he kisses you hard enough to shut you up. A tiny whimper slips out of your lips when he pulls away, and it almost makes him regret his decision to do so.
But Vernon has a point to make, so that’s precisely what he does: “I don’t need a sales pitch. You will never — ever — have to convince me to fuck you.”
Your eyes crinkle at the corners, like this is somehow news to you. It shouldn’t be. He’s told you a thousand times in as many different ways how thoroughly crazy you drive him just by existing so closely to him, but maybe you didn’t take him seriously then.
To emphasize his point, he slips his hand under the hem of your sweatshirt and finds your bare waist with the pad of his thumb. It spirals slowly against your warm skin, making both of you dizzy. Then, sick of the distance, Vernon dips his head down to press a kiss to your temple.
“Like, ever,” he murmurs, lips following the curve of your jaw.
Soft, slow kisses trail behind him as he travels down to your lips. Your head tilts further backwards with every single one, providing him with more and more access.
He states it matter-of-factly because, to him, it is. “I’m down so bad for you that it might be terminal.”
“Oh?”
You try to laugh but turn to putty when his palm rests fully on the curve of your waist and pulls you flush against him. The surprised gasp you let loose confirms his suspicion: You can feel how serious he is, affirmation throbbing against your abdomen in time with his heartbeat.
Vernon smirks to himself, relishing your reaction, and bypasses your mouth entirely. A moan escapes from you, soft like an exhale, as his lips move slowly down the length of your neck. Every so often — just to feel you shiver — he flicks the tip of his tongue along the delicate skin he finds there.
“It might be messy…”
The rest of your needless warning gets lost in a dreamy sigh as he suckles at the spot where your neck meets your shoulder. Shifting even closer, your desperate fingers reach out and cling to his t-shirt.
Vernon licks a stripe over the galaxy blooming on your skin. He hums, hand traveling upwards from your waist, “Don’t care about a mess.”
And he means it.
Mindful of any soreness, he smooths his hand over your left breast and massages it tenderly, swearing to himself that he’ll throw the whole fucking mattress out if that’s what it comes down to. For you, he’ll race across town on foot to buy another one, and — fuck it — if the store is closed, he might just break in.
You’re growing impatient; your fingers let go of his shirt and tangle themselves in his hair.
“So needy,” he chuckles low in his chest, teasing. “You know, I think you’re lying. I think it is this bat-shit insane documentary that’s driving you wild, and you’re too embarrassed to admit it.”
“Stop,” you whine, dragging out the vowel sound.
You don’t, though; you throw your left leg over his right thigh and shimmy forward until your cunt grazes his dick. Involuntarily, he groans at the warmth radiating off your core. Every part of you drives him just the slightest bit insane. You seem to know it, he thinks as he watches your pupils dilate in real time.
But he can play games, too, so he rolls his hips forward and grinds against you. He pushes you further, “Don’t get me wrong, baby. I’m not kink-shaming you —”
“Hansol Vernon Chwe!”
Oh, shit. Government name?
“— I’m just a little surprised, I guess.” He sighs with a shrug. “Think you know somebody…”
Your impatience is scribbled all across your scrunched up face. It seeps into your voice when you crash back against the pillows and huff, “Can you please stop fucking with me and start fucking me?”
“Sex-crazed monster, huh?” Leaning over, Vernon punctuates his question with a quick press of his lips to yours.
You whimper, “I’m so serious. I might explode.”
“Then go take care of whatever you need to take care of.” He kisses you again, smiling so fondly that his eyes may even be twinkling. “And I’ll go get a towel.”
You wait until Vernon clears the threshold before launching yourself out of bed at breakneck speed. Stumbling all the while, you race off to the adjoining bathroom and shut the door forcefully behind you. When it clatters against the frame, you finally admit to yourself that you might be a little bit eager.
Maybe.
Opting to keep your baggy, bleach-stained sweatshirt on, you wiggle out of your shorts and — what he refers to as — your crisis diaper. The high-waisted, frumpy, beige panties are utilized exclusively during your period, and to your surprise, they’ve remained spotless. It’s only ever the pretty and expensive pairs that wind up as collateral damage, isn’t it?
As they pool around your ankles, you can’t help but think that Vernon’s nickname for them is pretty spot on. That’s partly why you figured he might need to be talked into this. Unsated arousal aside, you feel as far from sexy as you can possibly get.
You shake your head to clear your thoughts, kick what you’ve discarded into a pile near the hamper, and let your sweatshirt shift down to cover as much of your ass as it’s capable of managing. You grab a square of toilet paper; then, you go to work excavating the wad of cotton that separates you from everything you want in this life.
It is within the realm of possibility that you’re a little bit eager and a little bit dramatic.
Perhaps.
After discarding the evidence in the small trash can under the sink, you wash your hands as if you’re about to step into an operating theater and not the bedroom you spend half your life in. When you finally feel sterile, you lift your head and catch your reflection in the mirror. Instantly, you make eye contact with the painful, hormonal pimple on your chin — the one you’ve been waging a retinoid war against for days.
“Bitch,” you mutter, like calling it names will be the one thing that finally gets it to shrink. Of course, your plan doesn’t work, but you feel a little less powerless. That’s good enough, you think. At least, as good as it’s going to get.
Now half-naked and certifiably unobstructed, you tiptoe back to your bedroom much more carefully than you left it. Vernon enters from the opposite doorway at the same time, jumping slightly the second he notices you. You ignore his frightened eyes and glance down at the crisp, white towel he’s clutching.
You open your mouth to suggest anything otherwise, but he beats you to it. His eyebrows shoot up his forehead as his mouth widens outwards, a self-aware rectangle. Otherwise expressionless, he lets go of an atonal, “Aaaaaaah”, that tells you he’s caught on.
He says nothing else before turning around and walking back the way he came. You have to bite down on your lips to keep from cackling.
That one’s mine, you think, still as infatuated as you were at the start. I chose that one.
While he’s gone, you try not to move, not to breathe too heavily. Vernon said he didn’t care about a mess, but when he said it, he was speaking theoretically with his hand on your tit. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d spoken recklessly with your body melting under his touch.
As far as you know, he hasn’t had any experience with this mess in practice. He could wind up finding you about as sexy as you currently feel — to wit: not at all. So, erring on the side of caution, you turn yourself into a statue and wait for the boy and his towel to find you again.
When he comes back, he plants a drive-by kiss on your unsuspecting mouth before skirting right around you. With shocking finesse, he grabs the corners of the — thankfully — black towel, which unfurls in the seconds before he flicks it upwards. It lands perfectly in the center of the bed, flat without needing to be fussed with.
“Wow,” he mutters to himself, taking in his clean work with raised eyebrows.
The impressed look is still on his face when he turns around, but you don’t have time to comment on his feat because he laughs as soon as he sees you.
“Kinda look like Donald Duck with the whole top-on, bottom-off situation.”
I chose this one?
You pout with an indignant gasp, crossing your arms over your chest. “I’m not wearing a sailor hat, so…. bad analogy. Rude, even.”
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs as he snakes his arms around your waist and pulls you in close. You stumble a little on your way into him; the jury’s still out about whether it’s his hushed tone or the sudden movement that trips you up.
Between his thumb and index finger, he gently captures your chin. You follow along with his unspoken direction, tilt your face up to meet his. This close, you can see your own reflection in his pupils, black dilating against the warmest shade of brown you’ve ever seen.
Vernon takes a moment of silence as he takes in your features, and he studies them so intently that his eyebrows crinkle on their own. He sighs, sounding so completely serious. “You might get prettier every time I look at you.”
It’s unclear if you’re melting, or gushing; and if it’s the latter, you can’t say which biological process is at fault. Thankfully, the hand at the small of your back keeps your weak knees from buckling when his lips brush over yours.
“Even if you’re dressed like Winnie the Pooh.”
You feel him smirk even before you hear him laugh at his own joke. Then, you feel his hand slide down to cup your bare cheek, squeezing affectionately. You want to tell him that this analogy is still inaccurate because you’re not wearing a crop-top; but he gently instructs you to ditch the sweatshirt and get on the bed, and your body moves automatically. No questions asked.
Carefully, you crawl up onto the mattress, then you center yourself on the towel. Still on your knees, you tilt your head curiously and ask, “Where do you want me?”
“Anywhere,” he breezes, pulling his shirt off and tossing it onto the dresser nearby. He amends, “Everywhere. All the time, and then some.”
“Better be careful,” you tease. “Talking like that might have consequences. You may never be able to get rid of me.”
His joggers are the next to go. Your sanity follows shortly thereafter, hungry eyes lingering on the imprint of his cock underneath his boxer briefs. You have to clamp your mouth shut to keep from drooling.
Brown eyes sparkling, he steps closer to you, kicking his pants aside as he goes. “Be careful,” he echoes, not a hint of cockiness to be found — just softness. “Saying it like a threat doesn’t make me wish it’s not a promise.”
I choose this one.
Crossing all the way to you, Vernon reaches the bed and climbs up with significantly more grace than you did. The mattress dips under his weight as he kneels right in front of you, mirroring your posture and causing your stomach to flip with anticipation.
You can’t help yourself; you lick your lips and look up at him with half-lidded eyes. “Naked, please. Like, right now.”
“Damn, I gotta do this myself?” Incredulous, he holds his hands up while glancing pointedly down at his underwear, then back at you.
You arch an eyebrow, unfazed.
“Depends.” You shrug. “Do you want to keep them? Because I really will rip them off of you.”
He concedes quickly; he always does. Sighing, he shakes his head and tuts, “Sex-crazed monster,” before pushing his briefs down his thighs. His length hangs heavy between you, but you swear you can feel its perfect ache inside you already.
You have a one-track mind, so you don’t hesitate to reach out and wrap your hand around him. A groan crawls up from the bottom of your chest when you feel the weighted warmth of his cock in your palm. You don’t hold that back, either.
“Fuck,” he sighs, head tilting as far backwards as it’ll go. Unexpectedly, he laughs. He doesn’t catch the quizzical look you shoot him, though he explains himself anyway, “Your hands are so fucking cold, but it feels so good.”
Swiping your thumb over his tip, you spread the pre-cum you find there down his shaft and stroke him slowly. He grows harder with every gentle squeeze, every pass of your fist.
“We’re learning a lot of new shit about each other today.” You lean forward to pepper kisses across his collarbones. The hum of your mouth against his skin when you talk makes his cock twitch in your hand. “You might have a temperature kink and a thing for Winnie the Pooh.”
He snorts, nowhere near serious, “Shut the fuck up.”
“Make me,” you counter smugly, and you do mean it.
Vernon tilts his head forward to stare back at you. You’re already turning into a puddle, but if the look he gives you says anything, it’s that your melting isn’t enough for him. His voice is low and velvet-lined when he responds, “How about I just make you cum instead?”
“That could work, yeah.” You shrug.
He runs the pads of his fingers down each side of your waist to your hips, then back again; and each time he does it, you shiver. Reflexively, your back arches, chest pressing against his.
At this, he smirks, “It could? Maybe?”
“We can workshop it.”
“Or,” Vernon so generously offers, “You can turn around and lay down on your stomach. You know, if that’s sufficient.”
It’s not until you whip around and flop down onto the towel that you realize you never responded with words. Oh well. You figure he gets the point, judging by the quiet laughter you hear as he settles with his knees on either side of your upper thighs.
You don’t know what his next move will be — you don’t care, either, as long as he moves in your direction — so you don’t anticipate his palms flattening against your bare back, applying perfect pressure with his thumbs while he rubs away the soreness at the very base of your torso.
“Oh, shit,” you moan, eyes fluttering shut as the heels of his hands work out the tension in your muscles. “Have you always been good at this?”
You feel his chest brush against your shoulder blades when he hovers over you. Against the nape of your neck, he murmurs, “Nope.”
He kisses down your spine, mouth trailing after his hands as they work their way back down your body.
“Lemme guess — you read an article? Studied up?”
You get a snicker, then an affirmative hum, then another kiss. This time, it’s at the curve of your spine, just above your ass. Seconds later, he’s kneading the doughy flesh of your cheeks until your whole fucking body tingles.
That’s when it hits you:
Under normal circumstances, Vernon would be face-first in your pussy by now. Devouring you in earnest, like he’s starving. He can’t do that now — and you don’t blame him — so he’s making up for what you both view as a loss.
God, you want him.
One hand disappears from you, but you don’t have to guess where it went. You can hear the barely-there hiss of breath through his teeth when he takes his cock in that hand; as well as the very faint shift of his palm while he pumps himself.
“You’re gonna have to navigate, baby. I dunno how sensitive you are like this, what’s too much — any of that, so you need to tell me how you want me to move.”
Suddenly dizzy over how badly you need him, all you can muster is a nod. Vernon must want a verbal acknowledgment, though, because he leans back over you with one hand bearing his weight beside your head.
He kisses your shoulder and urges you, “Please say so if you need to stop or switch it up. Don’t wanna hurt you, sweetheart.”
“I will,” you breathe. “But I can’t even articulate how much I need you inside of me right now, so please — pretty please — fuck me.”
The tip of his nose bumps your temple affectionately. Right beside your ear, he teases, “With a cherry on top?” And it vibrates down your whole goddamn spine.
“Vernon!” You whine, burying your face in the comforter. It’s muffled, but you warn him nonetheless, “Don’t make me come back there.”
“Aish. Calm down, sex monster.”
The instinct to twist around and glare at him over your shoulder is strong, but every feral urge you feel is stronger. So, when he tells you to spread yourself open for him and tilt your hips back, you do so without even a hint of complaining.
With the crown of his cock slipping through your folds, inching towards your entrance, you hear him curse under his breath. Suddenly self-conscious, you finally crane your neck to the side and glance back at him.
“We don’t have to,” you whisper. “If it’s gross and you don’t want to anymore, I get it —”
He balks at your suggestion without letting so much as a beat pass. “None of that, sweetheart; no spiraling. I’m just trying to figure out the logistics of, like… how to survive how good this already feels.”
Struck dumb, all you can muster is a peep, “Oh?”
“Shit, yeah.” His response comes in a low groan. “Can you take a deep breath for me?”
It’s a good call on his part, a suggestion you’re glad to have taken, because the pressure of him entering you is intense enough to knock the wind out of you. Empty lungs likely would’ve led to your untimely demise.
You whimper, already overwhelmed with the combination of pain and pleasure; the best kind of ache. The little, breathy moans must freak him out, however, because his fingertips caress your waist as he checks in: “This okay?”
Your limp arm lifts off the mattress, which you’ve melted fully into, and you form a circle with your index finger and thumb to indicate that you’re okay. The light is bright fucking green; you’ve just maxed out your capacity for speech.
Vernon continues his slow thrust forward, giving you ample time to adjust to his size.
“Oh my god,” he grunts, “This is — shit, I can’t believe we haven’t done this before. If I knew how good you’d feel like this, I wouldn’t have waited around for you to ask me.”
That hits like a truck.
He was waiting on you.
You spent months convincing yourself that he’d need to be convinced, and chickening out before you could raise the idea. Months, and months, and months, of craving him during your werewolf transformation; wasting away over a shitty assumption that Vernon is anything like the people you’ve been with before.
Christ.
His credit for putting up with you is long overdue.
Too tongue-tied to speak any of that out loud, you settle for a summary that you hope conveys the message: “I love you so fucking much.”
Mindful of how deep it will push him into your cunt, he leans down over you carefully. Weight balanced on his knees and forearms, he envelopes you in his body heat, trails kisses across your shoulder, and echoes your words back at you between each one.
“Is this too much?” He whispers, rolling his hips slowly.
You feel him everywhere, with every drag of his cock along your walls; and you can’t tell where that throbbing sensation is coming from, him or you.
You shake your head and sigh, “‘s perfect. You’re perfect.”
Like he knows it’ll unravel you, his large hand comes to rest over the back of yours. His fingers slip through the spaces between and squeeze you much more gently than the vice grip you hold on the bedding below you. He keeps holding you — just like this — through every movement.
The sensation of being this surrounded, this loved, this whole crashes over you like a wave and knocks you off balance.
“I’m so close,” you pant, voice as ragged as your breathing. There’s nothing that he isn’t already giving you with every deep, deliberate thrust into your heat; but you beg nonetheless, “Please, please, please —”
His speed doesn’t increase, but the intensity does. The smack of his hips colliding with your ass does, too, and you feel it reverberating in your bones. Buried as far inside of you as he can be, cock tip kissing your cervix with every high tide, length rolling across your g-spot with every low.
You cum so hard — so completely, invoking every single muscle you have — that you forget how to breathe. With a choked-out gasp, you squeeze your eyes shut and let your orgasm devastate you.
“Fuck!”
Vernon gets caught up in the current, too, grinding desperately against you until he’s swept up in your wake. You feel him twitch inside you as his release floods, leaving you so lost in his warmth that you feel boneless underneath him.
His face winds up hidden in the crook of your neck, somewhere amidst the baby hairs that cling to the sheen of your sweat. You feel his lips fluttering against your skin when he laughs, “Oh…my god.”
“Mmphf.” You nod weakly in agreement. Beyond blissed, your body still tingles too much to move.
Slurring, you add, “‘s good. ‘s really…”
The rest of that thought dissolves into something between a moan and a yawn.
Just as tired, Vernon pats your ass cheek affectionately and mumbles, “Well said. No notes.”
You tilt your head far enough to free your face from the sheets. When you do, you find your boyfriend fighting a losing battle to keep his eyes open. In the rare seconds he can, he looks back at you in a daze that seems even more adoring than it does fuck-drunk.
“I think I need to hibernate now,” you announce. “Think you just fucked me so well that I need to take a sabbatical.”
He counter-offers, “Shower first, then sabbatical?”
You wiggle so that you can pull your joint hands to your mouth. You can’t kiss him properly while he’s laid out on top of you, but you can press your lips to the back of his hand and hope he feels how much of you that you pour into it.
I love their conversations and him lovingly calling Y/N a sex-crazed monster. I can so clearly see his face when he realized a white towel was a bad idea. Unfortunately I can’t find the gif that I know exists with the appropriate facial expressions, so I’m settling for him in “Anyone” (what a pity 😉)
in limine (latin): at the threshold, in the beginning
synopsis: you think that by remaining single this year, you’ve found a loophole in your string of shitty valentine’s days. the universe thinks you should lose your paralegal on the eve of a major trial and see if you wouldn’t rather have all of those untimely breakups and missed dates instead.
pairing: wen junhui x reader
au: law firm, coworkers to something
genre: fluff, minor angst, smut
word count: 12.5k
rating: 18+ (minors, do not interact)
content/warnings: attorney!reader, attorney!junhui, pov switches, civil litigation (derogatory), forced proximity, discussions of shitty relationships, i haven’t practiced in this field of law in years, recreational drinking, explicit sexual content (v fingering, p in v penetration; use of protection isn’t referenced — the smut is v prose-y —but these two would not fuck without a condom!!).
reader notes: afab, no pronouns used, no descriptions of hair/complexion/body/ethnicity/nationality/etc., canonically queer, has at least one (small, nondescript, hidden wrist) tattoo.
a/n 1: this fic is part of the lonely hearts club café collab, hosted by @camandemstudios! please check out the rest of this masterlist, as well as their previous collabs! 💕
a/n 2: everything here is based on u.s. law, even though the setting is nondescript. family law attorneys: i’m sorry. this is based on my one (1) month in that practice area.
a/n 3: smooches to the (w)hor(e)anghae beta gang — @jihopesjoint, @daechwitatamic, and @sailorsoons
svt masterlist. svt permanent taglist. multi permanent taglist.
If you had a dollar for every exasperated sigh you’ve let out during this seemingly never-ending phone call with your mother, you’d be able to pay off your student loans in an instant. Though the frustration is palpable to you, causing your already elevated blood pressure to spike further, it’s invisible to her.
Or worse, inconsequential.
“I’m just saying!” She offers, as if this takes the edge off. As if she’s ever said anything just to say it. “It wouldn’t kill you to give Mika another chance. It’s Valentine’s Day, after all.”
The next time you hear her voice, it doesn’t come from the phone pinched between your ear and shoulder; it materializes in the back of your brain and lingers like a poltergeist.
Don’t roll your eyes like that unless you want them to get stuck that way.
Across the counter, the person subbing in for your usual barista shoots you an impatient glare, then flicks his gaze to the growing line behind you.
“Mom, I have to —”
“— You really should return her calls, dove. Bitterness causes premature wrinkles, and you can’t afford —”
At this, the thread you’re dangling by snaps. Squeezing your eyes shut, you try your best to keep your voice down. “I don’t have time for this. I’ll talk to you later.”
When you hang up on her, the forceful tap against your phone’s screen sounds more like a rock against a window. Already wind-bitten from the walk here, your cheeks burn even more harshly when you note the multiple pairs of eyes watching you with poorly disguised interest.
Not wanting to make an even bigger spectacle out of yourself, you hurriedly shove your phone in your pocket and accept the drink being handed to you, even though you can tell by the blatant lack of ice that it’s wrong.
“Thank you,” you mutter with a curt nod.
The second-string barista doesn’t acknowledge that you’ve spoken. That said, the throbbing vein in his temple disappears the second you back away from his counter.
With the americano you didn’t order burning a hole through your palm, you turn swiftly and head for the door. You barely make it two steps before your phone starts screaming from the inside of your coat pocket.
Leaning hard against the glass door, you force it open with your body alone and use your spare hand to instead grasp the source of all your morning’s problems. The pressure of that godforsaken brick shoves the post of your earring painfully into your neck.
You growl, “When I said later, I didn’t mean by thirty seconds.”
A voice that is distinctly not your mother’s stammers, “Um — hello — This is Tom from Amato, Shapiro, and Santi.”
Never have you ever encountered a firm of assholes so aptly named.
He waits a beat, no doubt expecting you to apologize for your rude non-greeting, but you don’t. In fact, he could wait forever and still not get a mea culpa.
It’s only fair, you think.
Just last month, the serial sex pest he represents escaped liability for harassing your client, due in large part to Tom’s bullshit antics. If that poor woman couldn’t even get an apology for what she went through, Tom certainly won’t now.
“Yes, I know where you work, Tom.”
You roll your eyes again. It’s a reckless decision, given how furiously you’re charging down the sidewalk. A dog-walker scrambles to get both himself and his tiny, white dog out of your way.
“Do you need something? I don’t chat for free.”
The shitty little laugh you get in response makes your skin crawl. He doesn’t drag it out, though, immediately simpering, “But do you make use of the time you bill for?”
“What are you — ?” You begin to ask.
Tom cuts you off, his tone jovial and no less fake than his back alley Gucci loafers. “I’m inquiring about your witness and exhibit lists for the Qian divorce in two weeks. Really waiting until the last minute, huh? Trying to keep me on my toes?”
Though he can’t see you do it, you shake your head with a patronizing smile.
“Nice try, Tom,” you sigh. “Judge Ito continued that to May. She’s the keynote speaker for that cancerous children charity gala, or whatever.”
You weave through two old women with a muttered apology. Both are too busy gossiping about their grandsons to hear you, which is no surprise. They didn’t notice the queue of pissed-off pedestrians stuck behind their roadblock, either.
“No,” Tom corrects you. “She issued an entry a month ago, advising the parties that the conflict was no longer conflicting; and the original trial date would stand.”
The block heel of your boot catches in a divot in the sidewalk. Although you don’t trip, you may as well have. The coffee you didn’t want sloshes violently, goaded by your sudden, harsh squeeze of its cup; and it splatters all over your top, burning your chest through sticky, soaked fabric.
Because why not, you rue, the heel that did you in clatters separately to wet concrete when you lift your foot, having ripped itself from your sole.
Rather than lie down on the concrete and wait for death in the way you crave, you swallow hard and choke out, “I never got that entry.”
“It sounds like you never got competent support staff.” He laughs too loudly, making your blood boil. “Ultimately, it’s up to you which is more pressing: cleaning house or the Rules of Civil Procedure.”
Your mouth opens instinctively to tell him all the million ways he can fuck off and die. He cuts you off again before you can start:
“Just know that I will make it a problem if you can’t get your shit together in time for court. My client is sick of yours dragging this out. Frankly, so am I.”
And without another word, Tom hangs up on you.
Whatever.
Anything else he might’ve said would’ve been drowned out by the hammering pulse in your ears, anyway. What you did hear loops through your brain with every uneven step you take down the warpath, bringing your office building closer and closer into view.
Trial in two weeks.
Competent support staff.
As much as you hate to admit it, Tom has a point. You’ve been making excuses for your paralegal, Dev, for months, but this kind of fuck-up can’t be overlooked. No matter how endearing he is, Dev’s a goddamn disaster. Put simply, you can’t keep sticking your neck out for him only to have it trampled, time and again.
Dread churns in your stomach for the remainder of your commute, although the full-blown nausea doesn’t hit you until you exit the elevator and wobble out into your firm’s waiting area. A deep breath in through your nose is followed by a shaky exhale through your mouth.
Neither helps.
You make a mental note to tell your therapist that she was wrong, then another one to actually schedule an appointment.
Despite your unflinching exterior — and the profession you’ve willingly chosen for reasons still unknown to you — the simple fact remains that you don’t seek out confrontation. Nothing ruins your day quite like having to ruin someone else’s. Unfortunately for Dev, you don’t have a choice not to go nuclear. Likewise, you don’t have much time left to get your shit together prior to trial. All you seem to have is an ultimatum to present him for consideration:
Stay late with me tonight to clean up this mess, or be out of the job by the end of business hours.
“Fuck,” you mutter to yourself as you make a beeline for your personal office.
There, somewhere amidst the out-of-date statutory reference books and evidence boxes, you’ve got at least one pair of spare Chelsea boots hidden for circumstances like these.
Well, that’s not quite true.
You’ve planned ahead for sudden court appearances or shitty weather, not for the abysmally bad luck you’ve experienced so far this morning. Regardless of why you have this contingency plan locked down, you’re grateful that you do. If nothing else, it will allow you to obtain some semblance of balance before potentially kicking Dev to the curb.
Upon hobbling into your office, you close the door behind you and immediately kick off your current shoes so violently that the broken boot flies somewhere out of sight. It takes several minutes’ worth of sock-footed scurrying to find their replacements. Eventually, you locate them in a far more reasonable spot than you expected: tucked neatly underneath the far edge of your L-shaped desk.
You drop yourself into your desk chair, suddenly feeling the crushing weight of your burdens against your shoulders, and begin to unceremoniously shove your feet into your boots.
It all just fucking figures, doesn’t it?
For as far back as you can remember, every Valentine’s Day you’ve experienced has been hellish. Comically cruel, like the showrunners in charge of your narrative are trying to maintain viewership, season after season; and they’re upping the ante as they go.
Last year, Mika couldn’t be bothered to remember your relationship, let alone the holiday. She spent it underneath someone else in your bed. Before that, the “first date” you had to be talked into in the first place ended the same way it started: with you sitting alone at a bar in a crowd of perfect pairs. The pattern started in undergrad, though the memories thankfully get foggier the further back you look.
By staying away from romance entirely for the last few months, you’d made yourself so sure that you’d cracked the code — that, for once, you’d make it through the fourteenth unscathed.
And yet, here you are, suffering immensely before your day even starts.
When your therapist’s bullshit breathing technique does nothing to soothe you, you close your eyes and mutter to yourself, “It cannot get worse. It will not get worse. Bad things have happened, but it is not a bad day.”
Whether the sudden sense of calm you feel is the byproduct of mindfulness or delusion, you can’t say. Whatever the source is, you’ll take it. You cling to that shred of perspective, push yourself to your feet with a grunt, and head back in the direction you just came from.
Outside your door, the hallway gives you two options: the waiting area, which you stomped through to get where you currently are, and the office shared by your firm’s two current paralegals.
Tsia, the more senior of the two, is currently on maternity leave, which means that you’ll be able to dangle Dev off the ledge without an audience. That tiny piece of consolation is enough to get you moving in his direction, although the serenity you just barely managed to scrounge up starts evaporating more and more with every step you take.
“Dev?” You call out as you approach his closed door.
This, you note, is unlike him. He’s never been productive enough to need to shut out distractions; and he’s never been shameful enough to hide the fact that he spends most days scrolling through TikTok — without headphones, no less.
“Dev?” You try again, attempting to sound much more pleasant than you feel. “Are you on the phone?”
Hearing no response, you reach for the knob and turn it slowly, offering him some additional time to at least pretend to be busy. After counting to five, you push the door open. Then, you freeze.
Dev and his blasted cell phone are nowhere to be seen. His work laptop is on, which might have suggested that he simply stepped away, but the backlit sheet of paper taped to it says otherwise. You cross to his desk and snatch the note from his screen, eyes scanning quickly through his shockingly neat script and widening with horror at every word.
Boss,
Please consider this my resignation letter. I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you in advance, but everything came about so suddenly that I haven’t had much time to wrap my brain around it. My partner’s business trip to Malta turned into a relocation offer, and now the two of us are going to –
Without bothering to finish that sentence, you crush the paper within your white-knuckled fist and squeeze your eyes shut tightly enough to sting.
FuckfuckfuckfuckFUCK.
Unable to scream out loud, you slam that same fist down onto his desk with force. The smack of your hand against the wood doesn’t distract from the panic swelling in your chest, but it does bring his laptop back to life. The sudden appearance of his desktop is especially surprising, considering you told him no fewer than ten times to password-protect his shit.
Because the hits simply will not stop coming, you see two things at once that make you want to vomit.
The desktop wallpaper is an adorable photo of Dev and his partner. Both are smiling, holding one another closely on a beach somewhere, as if the world isn’t capable of crashing down around them.
At the bottom of the screen, below sand-covered feet, is a growing list of push notifications on his minimized Outlook application.
It’s the last thing in the world you want to do, but you can’t help it; damage control is impossible if you can’t properly triage the problem. Swallowing down bile, you click on the icon and bring up your firm’s primary email inbox, which Tsia and Dev are jointly responsible for manning. Of the hundreds of untouched messages, more than half are from either local Clerks of Court or Tom fucking Santi.
Just above the notice of your now-upcoming trial, you find the only January emails that Dev did read, confirming one-way plane tickets to Malta and the booking of international movers. That motherfucker not only lied in his quote-unquote resignation letter about the amount of notice he could give you but also about the billable hours he burned, planning his escape.
All at once, you feel your internal systems crashing out. Your eyes swim, your head reels, and your stomach lurches. You don’t know whether you want to scream, sob, or send yourself flying out of the nearby window. All of them — preferably at once.
The only reason you don’t do any of these things, no matter how strong the urges are, is the fact that your professional reputation is at stake. Your abject refusal to appear incompetent kicks you into overdrive. It kicks you so far, in fact, that you find yourself in your co-worker’s office with no real memory of walking there in the first place.
Yuki jolts when she looks up from her monitors and finds you looming over her with your eyes too wide to be normal. She gets up immediately and gestures for you to sit on the plush loveseat underneath her window. You don’t – rather, can’t – move, so she places her hands on your shoulders and ushers you onto a cushion herself.
“Dear god,” she mutters. “Are you okay?”
She should know by now that this is the worst possible question to ask you under circumstances like this. Of course, you weren’t okay when you barged in here to begin with. You’re even worse off now because your weakness is being perceived.
Embarrassment and self-loathing bubbles under the surface of your skin, making you hot. Both threaten to leak out through your eyes.
You don’t want to have to ask for help, period, but you’re out of options; and Yuki is the only person here who’s allowed to see you anywhere near a breakdown. That, and you’re certain she’d be available. Having drafted the shared parenting agreement for her and her ex-boyfriend, you know for a fact that their daughter will be with him tonight.
“If I buy you takeout, would you be willing to stay for a while after work to help with some last minute trial prep?” You can’t even bring yourself to meet her eyes when you explain, “Dev bailed, and I’m so, so, so fucked now.”
Yuki grabs your hand from your lap and squeezes. For a split second, you feel relieved. Then, you hear her sigh, and your hopes are dashed just as quickly as they were raised.
“Kimiko’s kindergarten class is having a daddy-daughter dance for Valentine’s Day tonight,” she starts.
The pained look on her face tells you everything you need to know. Nevertheless, she continues, “Ty flaked, as usual. I had to be the one to decide what would be more humiliating for her — being the only kid there with their mom, or the only kid who doesn’t get to go at all.”
“I’m so sorry, Yuki.”
You mean it, wholeheartedly. The only victim of your shitty love life is you. Yuki, on the other hand, has a six-year-old to protect from becoming collateral damage.
She simply shrugs, too used to this sort of letdown to let it ruin her day. “Kimiko bounced back fairly quickly, which is pretty sad, in and of itself. She asked if we could wear matching outfits.”
You crack a smile for the first time all day. Gesturing to her entirely black, incredibly chic outfit, you tease, “Is she dressing for a funeral, too?”
“I wish!” Yuki throws her head back and whines, “The vibes tonight are tragically bright pink, and I have to leave early to shop before the dance starts.”
“Well…” You give her hand a squeeze, then let it go entirely. “I’m sending you thoughts and prayers, buddy.”
She swats at you, tells you kindly to fuck off, and then wishes you good luck while you head back out her door.
As you trudge back towards your office, you run through your list of contingency plans.
The firm’s owners, Zavier and Jaein, are both out of the question. If they’re not spending the night with their respective spouses, they’ll be continuing their not-so-secret affair with one another. Even if they weren’t, you’d rather stand in front of an oncoming train than give them any reason to doubt your abilities.
Next.
With Yuki out of commission, there are three other associate attorneys left for you to consider.
Dani is engaged and definitely has plans with his smoke-show of a fiancé; there’s no point in asking him for help. You’d never hear the end of it if you did, anyway. He’s so committed to his one-sided rivalry with you that he’d probably make a plaque to commemorate your failings.
Pass.
Sana and her wife are on a cruise somewhere far more pleasant than here, so she’s out. Thank god. Beating your head against a wall would be preferable to spending several hours in a room alone with her. Sana’s only personality trait is married, and she’s entirely incapable of talking about anything else.
Hard pass.
The relatively new hire, Junhui, is still an unknown factor. In the few months he’s worked here, you’ve met him exactly once that you can recall. It was a brief encounter in the break room; and his mouth was so full of whatever he’d brought for lunch that he couldn’t respond beyond simply waving when you’d introduced yourself.
He seemed perfectly nice — and from what you hear, he’s perfectly competent — but yours is far too big a burden to shove onto a virtual stranger.
Besides, there’s simply no way that someone who looks like that doesn’t have better places to be tonight.
Junhui doesn’t realize that he’d nodded off until his bleary eyes travel down from his half-finished report and spot the time in the bottom corner of his screen. Apparently, it’s already a quarter to six. If he hadn’t fallen asleep at some point in the recent past, he’d be stepping off the train home by now.
Of course, he isn’t. Now, with all the other commuters flooding public transit, the trip home will be at least twice as long.
Damn it.
He scrubs his hands over his face in an attempt to get the exhaustion off of it, though he doesn’t manage without yawning into his palms.
Figuring that he’s already behind schedule, he slowly rises to his feet and stretches his arms over his head with a groan, dreaming all the while of the caffeine he can down before heading out. With no one left in the office, he’ll be able to fail his way through this acquisition without anyone knowing how completely inept he is at using the firm’s espresso machine.
As expected, Junhui’s walk to the conference room is lonely. Each of his colleagues’ doors are closed, making it clear that they all bolted the second they could. Even the cleaning staff managed to come and go without him noticing; all the trash and recycling bins have been emptied.
Thankfully, he notes, someone forgot to turn off the conference room light before they dipped. If they hadn’t, all his steps would be taken in total darkness — because, even after three months of working here, he still doesn’t have a clue where the switches are.
As soon as he crosses the threshold into that sole, lit room, Junhui stops. The massive table that normally occupies the center of it has been shoved up against the interior wall, along with all its chairs. In its place, evidence boxes form a haphazard little fairy circle on the rug. You sit cross-legged in the middle, nose all but buried in a case file, wearing leggings and a crewneck instead of the suit you likely came here in.
“You look comfortable,” he muses.
It becomes abundantly clear very quickly that you, too, thought you were here alone. You jolt at the sound of his voice. All the papers you were holding drop and scatter, both across your lap and the floor you’re monopolizing.
Junhui’s hands fly up. “Whoa, sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.”
The look on your face is far from startled, though. Even from a few meters away, he can see how tightly your jaw is clenched. If he listens closely, he’d likely hear your teeth grinding one another into dust.
He can also sense how stiff your posture is, now that you feel his eyes on you. His gaze shifts to the piles of paper near your knotted limbs; and he tells himself that he’s averting his eyes out of respect, not the tiny tremble of intimidation he feels working its way down his spine.
At this point, Junhui knows you by reputation only. He’s rarely at any of the courthouses you frequent, and his specific line of work keeps him out of the office, more often than not. Whenever he is here, you’re not — too busy with that massive caseload of yours to catch much of a breather.
The two of you may be passing ships in the night, but you have a lot of people in common. He can’t say that he’s made much of an impression on them so far. You, on the other hand, are both widely known and discussed.
So far, anyone that’s ever mentioned you to him speaks about you as if they’re describing a force of nature. It’s the kind of awe people usually save for something fearsome yet worthy of respect, like a tsunami — with the sole exception being that sanctimonious cunt, Tom Santi, who most recently described you as a nightmare bitch from hell.
Of course, Junhui has no firsthand knowledge to back any of these claims up, but he figures it can’t be that far out of character for you to be here now, working too hard. For all he knows, it could also be on-brand for you to snap his neck for distracting you.
“Do you…?”
One of your eyebrows arches quizzically. His question dies on his tongue, halfway finished, because he doesn’t know where it was headed in the first place. Just the same, he can’t tell if that expression on your face is due to stress, annoyance at being interrupted, or some secret, third thing.
…Want me to leave?
Junhui points awkwardly to the espresso machine in the corner, which you’ve unintentionally barricaded behind the conference room table. Like a fucking buffoon, all he says is: “Espresso?”
Your face scrunches a tiny bit. For the second time, he finds himself completely unable to read you. Is it disgust? Suspicion?
No, he realizes, it’s neither. He sees the tiniest flicker of it when the corner of your lips twitch: amusement. While the smile doesn’t overtake your mouth, there’s a glimmer of it in your eyes. It’s reason enough for Junhui to breathe for the first time since he walked in.
“Yes, I do espresso.” You nod with your lips bitten between your teeth, like you’re seconds away from laughing.
Too eagerly, Junhui nods, too. “Right. Got it. Order up.”
Order up?
Running away isn’t an option; and he can’t dig a hole to hide in without a shovel. All he has left to do is shuffle over towards the corner and slink through the obstacle course you’ve built. With what he feels is impressive agility, he makes it all the way to the machine before pausing suddenly.
Under his breath, he curses, “Fuck.”
The jig is up now. Junhui has no idea which buttons to press, or even where the espresso beans are. Unfortunately for both of you, the only way for him to find out is to interrupt you further.
Whoever handles his eulogy better leave out how little time it took him to provoke you into killing him.
Bracing himself for impact, he squeezes his eyes shut and smiles sheepishly. “Do you happen to know how to… use this?”
There’s a groan from the center of the room. Junhui cracks one eye open and searches for the fist coming his way. Instead, he finds you on your feet, twisting at the waist and stretching.
While twisting, you lock eyes — well, eye — with him, then you freeze with your torso still rotated in his direction. Your hinged arms stay where they are, held up at your sides.
“I’ve been sitting here like a goblin for too long,” you explain, tone self-conscious. “If you just heard every joint in my body pop…. no, you didn’t.”
Before Junhui can think of a quip in response — he’s capable of coherent speech, he swears — you step over the shoes you’ve discarded and make your way over to him, patterned socks clashing with the neutral carpet below. He steps back on instinct, although there isn’t really anywhere left for him to go.
You either don’t notice how close you get to him, or you don’t care. Entirely unfazed, you set to work, grinding and tamping like it’s all second nature to you.
Junhui knows he should use this time to observe your processes carefully, but he doesn’t. That’s not to say the learning opportunity is entirely squandered, though.
And he’s a quick study.
In less than a minute, he learns more about you than he has in the last three months. His first discovery is that you’re wearing a watch on your dominant wrist, which is weird as hell — until he spots the small tattoo hiding beneath it. He catches the very faint notes of patchouli at the base of your perfume, too, underneath the cassis and freesia.
It’s nice, he thinks, even better than the overwhelming scent of coffee that swoops in to drown it out.
“This goes here —”
The silver piece in your hand twists into place with a click, drawing his attention back to where it should’ve been all along.
Fuck.
Have you been talking this entire time?
“— and then you press the start button to release the hot water.”
You glance up at him then to confirm that he understood you. Junhui blinks, buffering while he tries to play this out.
“You’re good at this,” he improvises, although he admittedly has no idea if this is true.
“No compliments until you survive drinking it.” You offer him a wry smile to go with the drink you’ve made him. “I’ve quite literally never touched this thing before in my life.”
With your vaguely expectant eyes on him, he takes a small sip, then he murmurs with his lips still hidden behind the glass, “I don’t think I believe that.”
“Why?” You smirk and tilt your head to the side. “Because it’s just that good?”
No, in fact, it’s terrible, but you don’t need to know that.
Junhui nods his head towards the center of the room. His reply is simple, and despite not being the full truth, it’s not a lie: “I’d expect more practice from someone who seems to live here.”
For the first time since he walked in, you offer a full reaction — not just a hint of one. He would’ve preferred a laugh, or even a genuine smile; however, that’s not what he gets. Instead, your face becomes pinched.
“Fucking Dev.”
Whatever thought you might have had about making your own shitty drink disappears. You stalk back over to your shrine of documents and drop once again to the floor, legs knitted. In the split second you’re not looking at him, Junhui spits out the bean shards you missed while grinding and tosses them in the nearby trash can.
Although he’s curious, he hesitates to ask what it is you’re working on. Clearly, whatever it is has got you stressed to the point that caffeine is no longer a priority. Based on personal experience, that’s a bad sign.
Still, Junhui can’t seem to stop talking to you, even though he’s sure it’s a bother. He takes a second look at the sheer amount of paper surrounding you and ventures a guess: “Class-action suit?”
“That would honestly be preferable,” you mutter, looking up from your notes long enough to glance over your shoulder at him.
He takes this as a sign that his presence isn’t entirely unwelcome. At least, it’s a good enough omen to draw him closer. He skirts back around the mess of chairs until he’s standing across from where you sit, and then he leans back against the table.
You look back down again, leaving Junhui to wonder if he made the wrong call. For what it’s worth, he also wonders what it really is about you that’s making him act so awkwardly all of the sudden.
“What are you still here for?”
His heart drops into his stomach, which is about ready to fall right out of his ass. His mouth opens, though nothing comes out.
Sensing the way he’s quietly spiraling, you look up at him. “In the office, I mean,” you amend quickly with a shake of your head. “We don’t really run into each other during business hours, so I didn’t expect to see you here after, you know?”
Ah, fuck.
Junhui swallows.
The truth — that he’s only here because he dozed off on the clock — is offensive, even to him. Here you are, working hard enough for two people; and in stomps the clown whose tasks bored him right to sleep. While he doesn’t want anyone to know about his unprofessional little snooze, the thought of admitting it to you feels…
Nope.
He’s not going to unpack this, not now. It doesn’t matter if it’s a desire to not look dumb in front of a colleague or one to be a little more impressive to you, specifically.
“I was working on an investigatory report,” he eventually says, conveniently leaving out the fact that his impromptu nap kept him from finishing it.
You arch an eyebrow again, which he’s beginning to believe is an unconscious tell of yours. Yet another quiet invitation.
“Investigatory report? Is that… common?”
The two of you look at each other. Now, he’s confused.
“You do immigration law, don’t you?” You gesture over his shoulder, out the door. “You’ve got five different name plates outside your office, written in as many different alphabets —”
Oh.
“— I kind of just assumed —”
Junhui laughs, which causes your other eyebrow to rise up and join the other. “I mean, I dabble. It’s all soul-crushing, though, so I try not to take those cases unless they’re, like, dire.”
Too many of them are.
You hum in acknowledgment. “So, what do you do?”
“Guardian ad Litem work, mostly,” he replies with a shrug. “The name plates are —“
He gestures vaguely, but then all that suppressed, systemic frustration starts to bubble up, unbidden. He’s never been great at withholding his little rants, so he starts talking a little too quickly, a little too loudly.
“There are a lot of immigrant families in the area, right? Whether or not they should, a lot of them wind up court-involved, especially where their kids are concerned.”
As aware as he is that his hands are moving too much with each word, he’s unable to stop.
“I noticed that absolutely nobody on the local courts’ appointment lists was multilingual, which is just fucking negligent —”
When you finally speak, it’s with your head tilted and eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Sounds to me like someone found their calling.”
And against his better judgment, Junhui takes his balled up fist, extends his thumb and pinky finger, and holds it up to his ear. “Might have been a wrong number, but it’s worked out well enough so far.”
And you laugh, sincerely and squeakily in a way that nearly makes him laugh, too.
“You’re weird. You know that, right? Like weird weird.” You grin as you say this, leading him to believe it’s a compliment of the highest order. “I never would’ve guessed.”
Junhui looks at you, looking at him, and he feels the charge your shitty espresso couldn’t muster. He feels bolder. Gesturing to your mountain of documents, he finally brings himself to ask why you’re still here. The second he does, he regrets it; he watches you deflate in real time, smile warping downwards.
“It’s a clusterfuck.”
You take your eyes off of him and plant them back on the file in your hands.
“I found out that a nasty trial of mine is taking place in two weeks, rather than twelve, and I have to get shit together tonight or I’m fucked – genuinely, irrevocably fucked. I can’t file a Witness and Exhibit List until I get through all of this discovery–”
You shift your extended left leg to give one of the boxes a half-hearted kick.
“– and if I don’t submit that for electronic filing by midnight, all my shit will be excluded.”
Junhui nods his understanding, then pushes himself off the table he’s been leaning on. You watch him carefully, waiting for him to excuse himself and walk out the door, but that was never his intention. Instead, he sits cross-legged on the floor across from you and grabs a packet of exhibit stickers off one of the nearby boxes’ lids.
“Letters or numbers?” He asks, holding the packet aloft.
You blink before you splutter, “Oh, wait, no. No, you really don’t have to. I couldn’t ask you to –”
“Letters or numbers?” Junhui repeats himself, softer but no less seriously.
“You seriously don’t have other plans?”
Now, it’s his turn to balk. Unlike you, his shock is entirely manufactured. “On a work night? In this economy?”
“On Valentine’s Day,” you correct him with emphasis.
Rather than feigned horror, it’s earnest embarrassment that floods his face. The tips of his ears start burning, too, in a matter of seconds. Smiling sheepishly, he admits, “Guess I forgot. Don’t really have much to celebrate, you know?”
You raise the manila folder in your hand and reach over to tap it against the packet of stickers in his.
“Cheers to that,” you scoff.
Junhui, it turns out, is even more productive than you are. He falls into lockstep with you the moment he sits down, and other than asking him to hand you things that are closer to him than to you, you don’t need to direct him.
Better still, he anticipates. Every time you finish reviewing one exhibit, he’s holding another one out to you – pre-marked – with a packet of post-it tabs for you to mark especially relevant pages. Though you certainly didn’t ask him to, the tabs he gives you follow a color-scheme, creating a key for easier reference.
Green for financial records, red for social media posts and other electronic communications, blue for your clients’ extensive medical and therapy records.
In only a handful of hours, you comb through everything you need to in order to truly start preparing. The sinkhole that’s been occupying your stomach since this morning disappears. In its place, all that’s left is a void of a different kind.
“I’m starving,” you announce suddenly and dramatically, flopping onto your back with your arm flung over your forehead. “Are you?”
When you don’t get a response, you pull your arm away from your face and crack one eye open in the face of the overhead fluorescents. If your vision wasn’t already blurry from all the time spent reading, this stupid decision likely would’ve blinded you. Thankfully, your eyes still work well enough to look over at Junhui.
Where Junhui was, rather.
You blink, dumbfounded. You didn’t see or hear him leave, which begs the question: were you too locked-in to hear his goodbye, or did he slip past you like Casper the Selflessly Helpful Ghost? You don’t know when it was that he even left, or why it is that you’re frowning now for the first time in six hours.
You reach for your phone to text him and ask. It’s in your hand before you realize that you don’t have his number and back in your pocket before you feel yourself truly start to pout. Although he was putting in unpaid labor on your behalf, you’d gotten the impression that he was enjoying himself. You were, anyway.
Deciding that you can manage lonely better than hungry, you force yourself to sit up, then to your feet. Without bothering to put your shoes back on, you step over the paper fortress you’ve spent all night building and shuffle off with heavy eyelids towards the door.
Someone in this office has to have snacks, whether they’d be okay with you sniping some or not. You cross your fingers while you head for the breakroom and hope for a nice, unexpired yogurt, at the very least. Maybe a leftover packet of oyster crackers if you’re lucky – ones that aren’t stale if you’re especially so.
Before you can step foot into the breakroom, a sudden, muffled shout snaps you out of your famished, fugue state.
“Hot!”
Your gaze snaps from the floor to Junhui, who stands in front of you with both of his hands full. His eyebrows now occupy the space immediately below his hairline; his eyes are wider than you would’ve previously thought humanly possible. Relief splashes over you. If you’re being honest, it doesn’t have a damn thing to do with the two steaming bowls of buldak ramen you just narrowly avoided crashing into.
With two, paper-wrapped pairs of chopsticks held between his teeth, Junhui can’t say much of anything. That doesn’t stop him from trying, though. “Ih ooh mih meh?”
“What?” You snort.
Realizing how truly useless that question is, you reach up and carefully pluck the chopsticks from his mouth. A heart-shaped smile takes their place.
“I asked if you missed me,” he simpers. “I told you I’d be right back.”
You blink twice, quickly.
Did he?
He jerks his head in the direction of the conference room. “C’mon. You’re hungry, and I’m burning through my epidermis.”
As soon as you side-step out of his way, Junhui takes off at a laughable pace, footsteps measured and careful to avoid sloshing hot soup as he goes. You have to bite down on your lips to keep from telling him how much he looks like those sprint-walkers turning laps at the local mall. All he needs is a tracksuit.
When you finally catch up to him, you find that he’s already set both bowls onto the table and pulled up a chair. One chair. You open your mouth to ask him about this, but he senses your question coming and waves it away with his hand.
“There’s only ten minutes left to file your Witness and Exhibit List,” he points out.
You don’t doubt him enough to check your watch, but you’re surprised to learn that he’s kept track of your deadline, even when you haven’t. Both of you move at once, nearly colliding a second time on your respective routes to your laptop.
Oh.
That single chair is for you.
“Seriously, eat,” Junhui urges. “I’ve got this.”
He sits down on the floor and hauls your computer into his lap without another word. You can’t seem to move, though. You simply stand there, watching him, and try to fight the very unexpected urge you suddenly feel to cry.
In fact, you’re still standing there when he calls out to you without looking up. “Case parties and who else?”
“The fertility –” You swallow thickly then clear your throat. “The fertility doctor, Eve Nguyen. She’s testifying to the in vitro hell my client put herself through while her husband was withholding the truth about his vasectomy from her.”
Junhui types furiously as you talk, face scrunching up in disgust without turning away from your screen.
“Her therapist, too: Phoebe Miller. She’ll testify to the impact of the hormone treatments on Ms. Al-Hamin’s mental health, and the sheer amount of time she spent sobbing on Ms. Miller’s couch when she finally found out about her shitbag husband’s useless balls.”
“Eat,” Junhui urges again, more emphatically this time. He gestures with his head to the table, where the ramen he made for you is still waiting. “I mean it. I’ll figure out a more court-appropriate way to phrase shitbag husband’s useless balls.”
You do as he says and sink down into the chair he pulled out for you, pulling the food toward you eagerly. Thankfully, he doesn’t glance over at you to confirm that you are in fact eating. Though you’ve bonded quickly in this little trench of yours, he doesn’t yet have the kind of security clearance a person would need to see you scarf down noodles with reckless abandon.
Maybe eventually the two of you will get to a point where he can perceive you unhinge your jaw like a snake just to devour a meal.
Today is not that day.
Without needing to be asked, Junhui switches his focus to the stack of numbered exhibits to his left. As he thumbs through them, he adds each one to your Exhibit List in order, then quickly shuffles the one he’s identified to the bottom of the stack. He does it all so effortlessly that he finishes that task before you’ve finished your food.
Unfortunately for you, that means he looks up in time to see the massive, final bite you stuff into your gaping maw. It’s not disgust that you’re met with, though. It’s something soft, a smile that’s entirely present in his eyes. You freeze and thaw at the same time, not giving a shit that those things should be mutually exclusive.
“Do you want to look this over before I e-file it?”
You shake your head, mouth too full to tell him that you trust him. Setting the empty cardboard bowl down on the tabletop, you offer him a thumbs up instead, which makes him laugh; then a finger-heart, which makes him laugh harder.
Although he could, Junhui doesn’t stand up right away. He goes right back to typing, throwing you for a loop.
“Hey,” you say. When he doesn’t stop, you do your best to mimic his softly commanding voice. “Eat.”
He shakes his head. When he speaks, he sounds a thousand miles away; too focused to be fully present. “I’m already over here. I might as well file these subpoenas.”
Now, you really want to cry.
“I don’t even know how to thank you.” You laugh to hide how close to tears you are. “Seriously. I don’t think I’m the kind of person who’d stay this late to help someone, let alone someone I hardly know.”
Junhui presses down on the trackpad, definitively hitting submit on the last of your work for the night. He closes your laptop, sets it back down on the box to his left, then turns to you.
“I think you would,” he disagrees with a gentle shake of his head. “Besides, I can’t say that I hardly know you anymore. I got paid for my labor with lore.”
You snort out a laugh. The buldak sauce lingering in your throat burns your sinuses, prompting you to close your eyes tightly and laugh even harder. When you reopen your eyes, it’s impossible to tell whether the tears on your lash line are steeped in mirth, spice, or bone-deep gratitude.
“Don’t say that like it’s just compensation,” you warn.
Junhui tilts his head to the side, his stare innocent and not at all challenging. “Isn’t it?”
Outwardly, you roll your eyes. Inwardly, there’s a war amidst the butterflies in your stomach; the majority love the way he looks at you when he’s perplexed, while the rest scream not to fall into the same old trap for the millionth year in a row.
You force a change in subject lest you start to choke on all the honey dripping from your eyes.
“How about you actually eat this ramen you made while I clean up the mess I made of this room?”
Junhui sighs like he’s truly put-upon. Nevertheless, he holds one hand out to you, silently requesting that you haul him to his feet. Figuring it’s the very least you can do, you oblige. He’s towering over you in no time, shooting you a tiny, thankful smile that sends your brain into a tailspin.
He eats, and you busy yourself with the numerous trip hazards around him: first, shuffling your case files and boxes to the side of the room, then wheeling both Junhui and his chair back where the latter belongs. He protests all the while — not because you scoot him without his consent, but because you wave off every single suggestion he makes about waiting until he’s done so he can help.
“You’ve done enough!” You grunt as you forcibly drag the table back into place. “There’s above and beyond, and then there’s you — way past that.”
His cheeks go pink while he goes quiet. You bravely decline to stare at that dusty rose color and instead hop foot to foot while you tug your boots back on.
“I feel awful that you’re going to get, like, five hours of sleep before you have to come back here. Do you have —”
You lose your balance and the rest of that sentence, but you gain Junhui’s hands on your upper arms, preventing you from falling over entirely.
“— court in the morning?” You supply breathlessly, a little too shocked by his quick reflexes and concerned eyes to function.
Junhui waits for you to let go of the back of your boot and regain your footing before peeling his hands off you and shoving them quickly into the pockets of his coat. His response comes a bit clumsily, though you don’t have much room to talk.
“Nope,” he says, shaking his head and shrugging. “My schedule is pretty light this month, actually.” Then, he smiles sheepishly. “Especially compared to yours.”
He pauses for a second then asks, “Is it couth with you if I walk you out?”
Your jaw damn near drops. His response is so stupid, so hopelessly devoid of rizz despite the beat he took to think of it, and yet you’re powerless in the face of it.
This man is a loser; and even though there are a million Human Resource-related reasons why you shouldn’t, you kind of want him.
No, you do want him.
Badly.
You swallow that burgeoning need like a shot, then you let out a measured, cooling breath.
“I’ll allow it,” you sniff.
The subsequent walk to the elevator, as well as the ride down, aren’t quiet. You’re grateful, but you can’t take credit; Junhui keeps the conversation going easily, notwithstanding your distinct lack of input.
If he notices how quiet you’ve gone, it doesn’t seem to bother him. Just the same, if he notices how intently you watch him while he talks, he gives you the benefit of the doubt.
Before tonight, it never really occurred to you how pretty he is. Of course, you haven’t been blind. Your few passing encounters clued in you in that he was good-looking, at least from a distance, but he’s something else entirely when he stands as close to you as he is now. You can’t even pretend to look anywhere else.
No matter how many sharp angles he has — the high bridge of his nose, the L-shape of his jaw, and the peaks of his cheekbones — there’s softness to balance it out. You see it in the heart-shaped curve of his mouth when he smiles; the faint freckle directly above it; and the cat-like, slow blink when he occasionally glances down at you. It’s present in the almost breathy tone of his voice, the one that makes it sound like he’s reaching you through some dreamlike haze.
But then you realize how fucking stupid it is for you to look at anyone the way you currently are, let alone a co-worker.
You made a pact with yourself after breaking up with Mika to keep to yourself for the foreseeable future — to protect yourself from the series of unfortunate romantic events you can’t otherwise seem to avoid. For eight months, you’ve stuck to it, even though you’re lonely. It’s been working, too. Nobody’s been able to shatter you because you haven’t given anyone the hammer or the opportunity.
And your avoidance isn’t just for your own good, either. Something about you either draws shittiness out of people or grows it where none existed before. Everyone you’ve dated in recent years was fine until they got too close; they all seem to be better off now that they’ve gotten away from you. In fact, if your social media creeping has taught you anything, it’s that Mika is the only one of your exes not happily in a relationship.
The pattern is too significant at this point to be a coincidence, and though you try to pass it all off as shitty luck, you’re the common denominator amidst all these disasters.
Shouldn’t you be held accountable for that?
“Look alive, sunshine.”
You snap back to attention with a jolt.
Junhui stands in the opening of the elevator with his hand on the frame, actively preventing the door from closing on you. You didn’t hear the bell go off when it opened; you have no idea how long you’ve been standing there, zoned-out stare fixated on the floor.
He sees what must be a bewildered expression on your face and laughs. “Did you fall asleep with your eyes open? I apparently do that sometimes, too.”
“No, I —” You shake your head while you start to explain, but then your brain stops buffering. “I’m sorry, you what?”
“I didn’t say anything. Out you come!”
You let Junhui usher you out of the elevator, but as you do, you crane your neck to look up at him with unabashed wonder. “Like a prey animal?”
He holds his left index finger up to his lips to silence you, then goes as far as actually shushing you. The tips of his ears peek out from his wavy hair, bright red against the dark.
“Like a little bunny?” You tease, tugging at the hem of his coat.
He rolls his eyes, though no part of him seems annoyed in the slightest. He doesn’t even move away from you. Instead, he rebuts you while lingering at your side, “No.”
You take your fist and rest it on top of your head with your middle and index fingers extended upward, smiling brattishly while you wait for Junhui to look back over at you.
His gaze is locked on the door ahead, however. He raises his arm and points, drawing your attention. “What is that?”
The second you see it, you drop your head back and groan with everything you’ve got. “Fuuuuuuck.”
That would be the security gate, which the building security staff lowers over the front doors when they leave for the night. It’s electronic and can be easily opened with a passcode — which you don’t have.
“Oh, my god.” You shove your face into your palms. “Oh, my god. I’m so sorry. I completely forgot about the fucking gate. I don’t even know what time they close it.”
“There’s a pin pad over there.”
You can’t see him, but you’re sure he’s pointing.
“You’ve worked here for a while. They gave you the code, right?”
You will yourself to shrink, to turn into a speck of dirt on the floor and be promptly kicked away. If he can’t see you, he can’t hate you for getting him locked in the goddamn building after donating hours of his time to help you.
Oh, you fucking clown.
Swallowing harshly, you whisper, “I’ve never stayed late enough to need it. I’m seriously so sorry. Technically, we can get out through the emergency fire exit, but that will —”
“— Set off all the alarms and sprinklers,” Junhui correctly assumes, prompting you to nod with your head still buried in your hands.
Silence creeps in then and settles over the two of you, suffocatingly thick like a fire blanket. It’s fitting, given how badly embarrassment burns your cheeks. You want nothing more than to curl up and die — right here, where security can find you in the morning and atone on their knees for trapping you like a rat.
But then Junhui laughs — really, truly, deeply laughs — so hard that you feel him momentarily double over at your side.
You part your fingers and peek over at him through the gaps. With his eyes screwed shut, the mirthful tears have nowhere to go except the far corners of his eyes. They streak down his temples, glowing a hazy shade of blue due to the colored security lamps overhead.
“I’m sorry.” His apology comes out squeaky on the tail of a wheezing laugh. “No one should have to spend this many consecutive hours with me. God, you were so close to freedom.”
You buy into the bit, rather than admit to the tiny thrill spinning dizzy circles in your brain. “It is a tremendous burden, yes. Of all today’s trials and tribulations, you will be my undoing.”
Junhui wipes his cheek, then glances over his shoulder at the elevator. He stares at it thoughtfully for a moment, gears turning, before he turns back to you with his head tilted sideways.
“If I can bother you for a little while longer, I think I have a way to pass the time.”
In the far corner of the conference room sits a bar cart, weighted down with more bottles and glasses than is even remotely necessary for a place of business. Artfully curated for trial and settlement victories, it boasts at least six different kinds of liquor. Each one is more expensive than the last.
“You sure this is a good idea?” You ask, gesturing to the bottle of gin in Junhui’s hand.
He can’t make heads or tails of your hesitation. You strike him as the type to apologize later, rather than seek permission first. Even if his assessment of you is wrong, he knows without a doubt that neither Zavier nor Jaein would ever draw a sword on their most objectively successful associate.
“Why wouldn’t it be?” He asks, tone laden with amusement. “You’re the reason we have this cart in the first place.”
You shoot him a warning look that lacks heat. He hopes you don’t intend to rebut him; there’s no need to be humble, especially when what he said is true. Without you, there’d be a hell of a lot less to celebrate around here.
Come to think of it, the only thing more impressive than your trial record is the long list of happy client reviews that come up in internet searches.
Not that Junhui has Googled you.
Okay, not that he’s Googled you more than twice.
He twists the cap off the bottle and pours matching amounts in two glasses, keeping his eyes focused on his ministrations instead of on you.
“Don’t tell me you’re scared of getting in trouble. What would Tom Santi think?”
Two seconds after he adds a splash of tonic, your hand appears from his peripheral vision and grabs the nearest glass from its spot on the edge of the cart. When Junhui’s eyes travel down the length of your arm and up to your face, he spots the innocent, bewildered way you’re blinking back at him.
Cotton-candy sweet, you lilt, “I’m just worried that you can’t keep up.”
You tilt your glass — a silent cheers — before taking a sip, a devilish smile appearing as soon as the cup leaves your lips.
His stomach flips excitedly even though he’s aware that it shouldn’t. There’s a fence of red tape building a perimeter around you, and it’s dotted with hundreds of warning signs: off-limits, trespassers will be prosecuted, etc.
He needs to get a grip — quickly. Entertaining the idea of you finding him attractive, too, is idiotic in more ways than one, and he knows it. Not only are you astronomically out of his league, but you’re also his colleague.
Assuming for the sake of argument that you did stoop to his level, you’d eventually come to your senses and realize that he’s nowhere near your caliber. When that inevitably happens, Junhui will still have to work down the hall from you. He doesn’t have the confidence to bounce back from something like that, not since his ex put his self-image in a blender half a year ago.
“Did you fall asleep with your eyes open again, bunny?”
He blinks rapidly, and you come back into focus. You’ve moved from his side since he zoned out. Now, you sit on the edge of the conference room table with your legs knotted, not unlike the way he found you on the floor several hours ago. Though you tease, there’s a distinct hint of concern in your narrowed eyes while you assess him.
Junhui’s instinct isn’t like a prey animal’s at all, but he knows better than to act on it, so he finishes pouring his own drink and recaps the bottle. Rather than put it down, he keeps it in his hand, grabs his drink with the other, and heads off for the door.
“Come with me,” he tells you.
You follow without question, footfalls sounding off quietly behind him as he leads you through the dark back to his office. Before you can get the wrong impression — or the right one, if the circumstances themselves weren’t wrong — he flicks on the lamp near the door and ushers you inside.
You’ve never been in his workspace, just like he’s never been in yours. Your office, he imagines, is as immaculately organized as you seem to be. That said, he wouldn’t be surprised if you had opposing counsels’ severed heads mounted on the wall.
His office, however, has a wildly different vibe. It seems to surprise you, so much so that you freeze halfway inside with wide eyes and a partially open mouth.
“You have kids?”
Apparently, it’s Junhui’s turn to be surprised. He glances over to where you’re pointing and laughs.
On the wall directly behind his desk is a full collage of drawings and handwritten notes, most of which were done by kids under the age of ten. Though their backgrounds, ages, and abilities vary significantly, they all have one thing in common: they all got really attached to their court-appointed Guardian ad Litem, Wen Junhui.
He shakes his head, although you don’t see him do it. You have your back to him, too focused on reading the various letters to react when he finally speaks.
“In a way, they’re kind of mine, just not… literally.”
You maintain your respectful silence, as if you’re wandering through a museum exhibit. He watches while you lift a hand and let your fingertips run gently overtop an especially artful tribute from a six-year-old named Iseul.
“Big fan of glitter and googly eyes, that one,” he muses, chuckling softly. “You have no idea how long it took me to clean up the visitation room at the community center when our meeting was over.”
You point to three stick figures, who hold hands in front of a large, grey building. Above them, a gigantic sun fills the corner of the page. It wears black sunglasses, the irony of which seemingly didn’t occur to Iseul.
“Who are they?” You ask.
Junhui points to each person as he explains:
“The — uh — wonky-looking one with what seems like a bloody neck is me in a red tie. In the middle is the artist herself, Iseul. She took some liberties; in reality, she has all ten fingers and isn’t known to wear a crown. To her right, that’s her foster mom, who she calls ‘grandma’, even though she’s only 45.”
“Is she still with grandma?”
“Yeah, actually.” He grins, unable to help it. “That stately, grey blob behind us is the probate court. We finalized her adoption last month.”
“Cute. I wish my clients would send me celebratory masterpieces,” you hum.
Junhui snorts. “Are you sure you want that?”
He can’t even imagine what kind of shit newly-divorced adults would send you. Nothing cute, he’s sure.
“No, actually. I take that back.” You shake your head and laugh. “I just want them to pay their legal fees on time.”
“You’re really asking for the world, aren’t you?”
You take another sip of your drink, then shrug, smiling impishly. “A nightmare bitch from hell’s gotta do what a nightmare bitch from hell’s gotta do.”
Before he can start ranting about Tom fucking Santi and his shitty opinions, you change focus again and begin to drift towards the bookshelf on the opposite wall. The top half of it is lined with statutory volumes, while the lower half has books and activities for the kids who occasionally come with their parents and caregivers to meet with him here.
You grab a deck of cards off one of the shelves and turn back to him with a vaguely menacing look.
“You brought me in here so I could beat you, didn’t you?”
“I brought you in here so I could beat you,” he rebuts.
In the time it takes Junhui to cross over to you, you drop your work bag to the floor, move the two child-sized chairs out of the way, and sit directly on the floor without a second thought. He sits on the other side of the small table and reaches for the deck only for you to shake your head vehemently at him.
“Nope,” you state emphatically, popping the second consonant. “I don’t trust you to shuffle these. You have clearly stated ulterior motives.”
He opens his mouth to argue otherwise but is shut down.
“Despicable,” you tut.
Once again, he tries to defend himself. “Excuse me? Your intentions aren’t any better —”
But you block him, grinning wickedly.
“— I’m a guest here and will not have my ambition questioned, thank you! Now, would you prefer to be destroyed by luck or skill?”
He has the feeling you’re going to destroy him in any and every way, so he says, “Dealer’s choice”, and takes a pointed swig of gin.
You think on this while you shuffle, making a big show out of it with your eyebrows furrowed and bottom lip pinched between your teeth. Then your eyes light up to broadcast that an idea has come to you.
Dutifully, you split the deck between you, doling out one card at a time to ensure the numbers even out. You slide your half over to you, face down, and gesture with feigned impatience for Junhui to do the same.
When he obeys, you look him dead in the eye. “I declare War.”
Four games and three drinks later, all your laughter finally catches up with you. With your abdominal muscles aching and eyes swimming, you tip over backwards and land on your back with a muffled thump.
“Okay, that’s bad, but I still think I can top it,” Junhui states with a shake of his head.
Your head lolls to the side so you can squint up at him properly. Once you catch his eye, you petulantly insist, “No way.”
There’s a flash in his eyes that says challenge accepted.
You like it.
In fact, you like this side of him: the version that isn’t intimidated by you, that isn’t afraid to be bold. Neither of you is drunk by any means, but your respective masks are off now, and you have gin to thank for introducing you properly.
“I can’t believe I’m telling you this out loud, on purpose,” he starts, then takes a deep breath. “This is perhaps the stupidest way anyone’s relationship has ever ended.”
He sits cross-legged next to you on the floor, perfectly within range. Without sitting up, you swat his knee. “Stop stalling! I don’t have all night.”
You do, but that’s neither here nor there.
“So, the last girl I dated had this… kink, I guess? Where she wanted to tell me she loved me during sex. We’d only been seeing each other for a few weeks at that point, but I figured, why not? What’s the harm?”
Your eyes widen. “Famous last words.”
“See?” He snaps his finger and points at you, grateful to be understood. “That’s the thing. She dumped me not long after that because things were —” The reveal comes with air quotes. “— moving too fast.”
You set your glass down somewhere above your head. Even though it’s empty of liquor, melted ice spills onto the carpet. You ignore the mess you’ve made and throw out both fists, thumbs down. “Boo!”
“Thank god I didn’t like her much,” he sighs.
“You dog.”
Junhui levels you with a playful glare, so you withhold further jokes and simply ask, “What was wrong with her, other than the attachment issues?”
He doesn’t answer immediately. In fact, he takes his time in finishing the last few sips of his drink, then he sets the empty glass down on the table. Unburdened, he lowers himself onto his back next to you with one bent arm underneath his head. From there, he concentrates on the ceiling above.
“It wasn’t her so much as us.”
“Oh?”
Junhui heaves a sigh. “Maybe I’m wrong, but I feel like there needs to be some sort of announcement during law school about how fucking hard it is to practice law and date.”
He’s not wrong.
Your career has impacted every single one of your relationships, no matter how hard you try to keep them separate. You’ve never figured out how to manage it — to split yourself successfully between two spheres, both of which demand one-hundred percent of you.
None of your other attorney friends have ever brought this up, though, leaving you to feel like the broken one.
Still staring thoughtfully at the ceiling, he fills the silence you’ve left. “I don’t think most people get it, you know? Not that they should have to — nobody should accept something they’re not comfortable with — It’s just hard to make things work with someone who doesn’t understand what this is like. What it costs.”
You’re well acquainted with that massive fucking toll.
The struggle to find community in an inherently adversarial system, the second-hand trauma that comes with managing the worst moments of people’s lives, the burnout, and all the shitty coping mechanisms these things lead to if you’re not careful.
You don’t need to speak on any of this now, though. For the first time in an abysmally long time, you’re sitting with someone who doesn’t need an explanation.
Junhui, however, seems to interpret your silence as discomfort. You don’t blame him. He still hasn’t noticed the heart-eyes you’ve been staring at him with since he started talking, so he has no idea
“Ah, nuts. I’ve made things too serious.” He screws his eyes shut then yells, “Aaaah!”
You crack up, fully and immediately, which only prompts him to do the same. Never has there ever been a loser so endearing.
Turning his head now to look at you, he urges with a grin, “Quick, say something stupid!”
And goddamn, if the first thing that comes to mind isn’t exactly that…
“Kiss me.”
Junhui doesn’t react, save for the grin slowly disappearing off his face. He doesn’t even speak. For a moment, all he does is stare right back at you, straight through the full-body cringe you’re experiencing.
Fuck.
Maybe now’s the time to use that emergency exit, fire alarms and sprinklers be damned.
You open your mouth, armed and ready to explode into awkward apologies; and you suck in the breath needed to do so, but not a fucking word comes out.
His gaze shifts from your eyes, to your lips, then back again. The expression he wears all the while looks something akin to tortured — but you’re clearly batshit insane, so your judgment is questionable at best.
A beat passes again in silence. You’re ready to crawl out of your skin, an urge that only grows when he finally murmurs, “It’s a bad idea, isn’t it?”
Terrible.
Perhaps the worst you’ve ever had, second only to you blurting it out just now.
You have nothing better to say now, but that’s not what keeps your big mouth shut. It’s the fact that his question doesn’t seem to be directed at you at all.
Something about that tone of his comes across as rhetorical, like he’s got to work this shit out separately from you.
But he doesn’t stay separate. The hand not being used to prop up his head reaches out and gently encapsulates your chin between his thumb and index finger. His thoughtful eyes narrow, searching yours.
“Why doesn’t that make me want to any less?”
All at once, your heart skips; your breath hitches. You don’t have an answer to his question, just an inkling that you have as much to gain as you stand to lose. That cost-benefit analysis, coupled with the insatiable need you have to be kissed before you fucking expire, make you reckless.
Leaping past the point of no return, you grab him by the tie and pull him along for the ride.
Any timidness he showed you earlier is forgotten in an instant, replaced entirely by an assertiveness you didn’t know to expect from him. He gets you on your back without resistance, then settles himself above you with his weight balanced on a single hand beside your head and his knees on either side of your thighs.
His other hand slips to the nape of your neck, deepening the kiss and keeping you where he wants you: well beyond the professional boundaries you’ve both crossed to get here.
You could be embarrassed by how quickly you melt, seep, spill, but your better judgment is discarded alongside your sweatshirt without a second thought. Junhui’s jacket, button-up, and tie are tossed into that same void, not long after.
Absolutely fucking none of them are missed.
Lost under the warmth of his bare skin on yours, your brain is far too occupied to worry about which articles of clothing ended up where. All you're capable of caring about is his mouth on your throat; his hand between your thighs, slick fingers dragging you slowly out of your mind.
The orgasm his hand steals from you leaves you half-dead, but that doesn’t stop you from clinging tightly to him, begging for more, please, everything.
And that’s precisely what you get, though you shouldn’t be surprised. If this day has taught you anything, it’s that Junhui is synonymous with acts of service.
“Kiss me,” he commands breathlessly with his tip waiting at your entrance.
You do, eagerly, unaware at first that this is an act of service, too — a distraction, more specifically, to take your mind off of the stretch he brings. Nails pressed into his back, you whimper against his lips and let that pressure melt into something perfect.
“I can’t tell if you’re sleeping or not,” you whisper.
His eyelids may feel like lead, and you look like a dream, but Junhui is wide awake, laying half-dressed at your side.
Of course, you knew this when you asked. You keep opening your eyes to look at him secretly only to find him watching you, amusement growing each time he catches you.
Even though his voice is rough from exhaustion, he musters the strength to tease you, “Why aren’t you sleeping?”
“My co-worker dicked me down to hell and back, and I’m recovering, obviously.”
You roll your eyes but can’t keep up your nonchalance for long. You bury it, along with your face, into his shoulder. When you finally tell the whole truth, it comes out rushed, as well as muffled.
“I spent most of the day wishing it was over. It was nightmarish, right from the jump. All I have to do is fall asleep, and it will be over…” Your shoulders sag under the weight of your sigh, which is delivered warmly against his skin. “But I don’t want that anymore.”
Junhui hums in acknowledgement. He pauses for a moment to consider what to say next, then decides to take a page out of your book. He’s an attorney, after all; he doesn’t ask questions he doesn’t already know the answers to.
“What changed?”
A lot.
“My co-worker dicked me down to hell and back, and I’m recovering,” you repeat.
Your laugh makes his body move, too. Just the same, the smile he feels forming against his bicep mimics the one on his own mouth. “You know, you keep saying that, but it doesn’t seem accurate.”
This prompts you to pull away from him, prop yourself up on your elbow, and stare at him incredulously. “Excuse me? Need I remind you how many times you just made me cum?”
He makes a big show of counting on his fingers until you swat at him. Then, he gets back to the point:
“What I meant was, is it co-worker or Valentine?”
You blink, no doubt stunned that someone was finally able to catch you off guard. Junhui doubts that this happens often. If that’s the case, he’ll keep this image of you, surprised into silence, in his back pocket for later.
“I’ll concede that those things aren’t necessarily mutually exclusive,” you eventually demur with a haughty shake of your head.
Junhui grabs your hand, pulls it to his mouth, and kisses the back of it. “Your concession is noted for the record.”
You wake up to a city that has completely stopped moving, cars frozen in the middle of the road and streets empty like everyone just disappeared overnight. When you find a newspaper dated yesterday with the headline “TRUE LOVE CAN SAVE THE DAY,” you keep it even though it feels ridiculous, because it’s the only thing that suggests time didn’t break for no reason. You spend weeks living in your own thoughts before you run into a man at the newspaper stand. A real man. As the two of you try to understand what happened, you start to realize the world only holds itself together when you’re together and you both wouldn't want it any other way.
Pairing: Jeon Wonwoo x f!Reader
Genre: sci-fi-ish, angst, true love, dystopian-ish world, NO SMUT!, wonwoo is so whipped for her, happy ending!, true love, found lovers, lost souls, right person right time, idiots in love, awwww love love love love
Word Count: 11.6k
Warnings/Things to make note of!: mention of suicide attempts, mention of abandonment, mention of abuse, heavy topics, use of perscription medication, anxiety, angst, panic attacks, i dont know if im missing anything but let me know LOL
A/N: hello!!! This is such a different story for me, i did a lot of unnecssisary scientific research for this story because i wanted to tap into the sci-fi elements in it! This is like loosely kinda sorta based off of the last of us / a quiet place like that kinda vibe. Wonwoo is such a sweetheart in this too like omfg im melting help. Anyway i hope you love it im really proud of it! i also didnt proof read oopsies sorryyyY!
The thing that you gave but never seemed to get back. The thing your mother said she hated you gave too much of, before she left.
You couldn’t help but blame yourself for her leaving. You were overzealous, ambitious, she wanted no part of the big life you had planned for yourself.
Abandonment.
After your mom, your dad cut contact. You never got along with him, he hated you from the start. It was better off this way.
Or at least, that was the story you told yourself.
When there was nothing left to hold you where you were, you packed what little mattered and moved to the city. You told everyone it was for opportunity, for work, for the future. The truth was less inspiring. You left because every street carried a memory, every familiar face knew a version of you that you couldn't stand to look at anymore. The city was loud enough to drown out the echoes.
Deep down, beneath the ambition and stubborn determination, there was a hatred you never spoke about. Not for your parents. Not for the town. For yourself. You would never admit it out loud, never give it shape with words, because saying it would make it real. So you buried it instead. You carried it quietly through every achievement, every stupid relationship, every sleepless night. It sat inside you like a slow poison burning you inside out, unseen by everyone but you.
There were years when the weight of it nearly won. Years marked by hospital rooms, rehabilitation, concerned voices, and moments you rarely allowed yourself to remember. More than once, you had tried to disappear entirely, convinced the world would keep turning without noticing the absence. Somehow, you survived each attempt, though survival never felt like victory. It felt like being handed another day you weren't sure you wanted.
So you ran.
Not because you believed a new city could heal you, but because distance was the closest thing to mercy you knew. If you couldn't become someone new, maybe you could at least leave the old version behind. The girl who spent her nights wondering why she wasn't enough. The girl who blamed herself for every goodbye. The girl who looked in the mirror and saw someone impossible to love.
You left her there, or at least you tried to.
April 16, 2026. You woke up late.
Sunlight spilled through the blinds, warming the floor beside your bed. Your head throbbed faintly, full of memories from the night you spent alone prior. For a few seconds, everything felt normal. Another workday. Another morning spent pretending you were someone who belonged here.
You reached for your phone. Dead. The screen stayed black no matter how many times you pressed the power button.
"Great."
You rolled out of bed and shuffled toward the kitchen. Something felt off, quiet.
The neighbors upstairs weren't stomping around. Nobody was arguing in the hallway. No distant sirens drifted through the city air. No music from the apartment next door.
Nothing.
You frowned and walked to the window.
The city beyond the glass stole the breath from your lungs.
Cars sat motionless in the middle of intersections. A city bus was frozen halfway through a turn, blocking multiple lanes at an awkward angle. Near the curb, a discarded coffee cup lay on its side while dark liquid hung suspended in the air beside it, droplets frozen as if time itself had forgotten to let them fall.
The street was empty.
Not early-morning empty.
Not holiday empty.
Empty. No pedestrians. No drivers. No movement anywhere.
And no sound. That was what truly terrified you.
A complete and unnatural silence that pressed against your ears until your own heartbeat sounded impossibly loud.
Within minutes, you were outside. The apartment lobby stood abandoned. The front desk sat unattended. The revolving door groaned beneath your push before releasing you into a city that looked less like reality and more like a photograph.
You started walking. Then jogging. Then running.
"Hello?"
No answer.
You searched block after block. Restaurants stood open with meals left unfinished. Storefronts remained unlocked. Traffic lights cycled endlessly above empty roads. It looked as though the entire world had been interrupted in the middle of a sentence.
Then, finally, you saw someone.
A figure stood at the far end of a crosswalk. Your chest tightened with relief.
A person. An actual person.
"Hey!"
The figure remained still.
You broke into a sprint. "Hey! Wait!"
At the sound of your voice, they turned.
For a moment, you thought you saw their face.
Then reality came apart.
Their features twisted and distorted like a corrupted video file. Their body fragmented into jagged pieces that flickered in and out of existence. The image of them stretched, warped, and collapsed as though something unseen was struggling to render them correctly.
You stumbled to a stop.
The figure glitched once. Twice. Then vanished.
One moment they were standing there.
The next, they simply weren't, as if they had never existed at all.
The crosswalk stood empty, the city remained silent.
And for the first time since waking up, you felt genuine fear.
Because this wasn't an evacuation.
It was something wrong with reality itself.
You ran back to your apartment, panic setting into your chest rapidly.
The empty crosswalk blurred beneath your feet as you sprinted through silent streets. Every reflection in every darkened window made your pulse spike. Every shadow looked wrong. By the time you reached your apartment building, your lungs burned and your hands were shaking so badly you nearly dropped your keys.
"Get it together."
The words came out breathless.
You slammed the apartment door behind you and locked it. Then locked it again.
The panic attack arrived like an old friend. Your chest tightened. Your heartbeat accelerated. The room suddenly felt too small. Too hot. Too loud despite the silence.
"No. No. No."
You knew the routine. You'd learned it years ago. Before the city. Before the new life. Before you'd convinced yourself the past was buried.
You stumbled into the bathroom, opened the medicine cabinet, and grabbed the orange prescription bottle waiting exactly where it always was. The familiar rattle was strangely comforting.
One pill. A glass of water. A shaking hand.
Routine. The same ritual you'd repeated so many times it no longer felt alarming. Just maintenance.
Eventually your breathing slowed.
Your thoughts followed. You sat on the edge of your bed staring at the wall for nearly an hour before making a decision.
Sleep.
This had to be a dream. A breakdown. Some bizarre neurological event.
You pulled the curtains shut, crawled beneath the blankets, and forced your eyes closed.
When you woke up, the sunlight had shifted. Your phone was still dead. The apartment was still silent. And outside the window, the coffee still hung in the air.
Exactly where you had left it when you closed your eyes. Reality hadn't fixed itself.
Whatever had happened was still happening.
The next time you went outside, you moved carefully. You stopped yelling for help. Stopped expecting answers. Instead, you started looking for information.
What day was it? What time was it? What had happened?
The city offered nothing.
Days passed. Or what you assumed were days.
Without working phones, broadcasts, internet, or people, time became slippery. You tracked it with sunrise and sunset and marks scratched into the wall beside your bed.
On what you estimated was the fourth or fifth day, you found the newspaper stand.
Most of the papers had spilled onto the sidewalk.
At first you almost ignored them.
Then something caught your eye.
The date.
August 16, 2026.
You grabbed another copy. Every paper dated August 16, 2026.
For the first time since waking up in the silent city, you'd found something current. Something recent. Something connected to the last normal day on Earth.
You unfolded the nearest copy. The headline stretched across the front page in absurdly large letters.
TRUE LOVE CAN SAVE THE DAY
You stared at it.
Then laughed.
The sound startled you. It was the first time you'd heard yourself laugh in days.
"What kind of stupid headline is that?"
It looked like one of those ridiculous human-interest stories newspapers ran when nothing important was happening. The kind of article people skimmed while drinking coffee before forgetting it existed five minutes later.
But your smile faded as your eyes drifted back to the date.
Carefully, you folded the paper and tucked it beneath your arm.
Not because you believed the headline. Not because you thought it meant anything.
But because it was a piece of the last day. A message in a bottle from a world that no longer existed. That night, back in your apartment, you read the article.
Then you read it again. And again. Not searching for truth, just searching for something human. Something alive.
In the weeks that followed, the newspaper never left your side. You carried it through empty streets. Kept it beside your bed while you slept. Read it whenever the silence became unbearable.
The folds softened. The corners bent. The ink slowly faded beneath your fingers.
Yet somehow, it became the closest thing you had to company.
You called your mother despite knowing she wouldn't answer. You called your father despite not speaking to him in years. You left voicemails. Sent texts. Called again. Then again. When that failed, you started driving. You drove through every district of the city, screaming for people through rolled-down windows. You searched hospitals, police stations, subway tunnels, government buildings, office towers, anywhere an explanation might be hiding. You kicked in locked doors. Pulled open emergency exits. Dug through abandoned desks and filing cabinets.
You found nothing.
No notes. No warnings. No evidence anyone understood what had happened. Just absence.
The second week became survival.
The panic burned itself out and practical concerns took over. Food. Water. Electricity.
You started treating grocery stores like your own pantry. The first time you took supplies, you left cash at the register. It felt wrong not to. The second time you did the same thing. The third time too.
Then one afternoon, while setting a twenty-dollar bill beside an abandoned cash register, you stopped.
You stared at the money.
The money stared back.
"Who's taking it?"
Nobody.
Nobody was counting inventory. Nobody was checking security cameras. Nobody was here.
You left the bill there anyway. The next day you didn't. For some reason, that hurt more than breaking into the store.
The third week became experimentation. If there was a cause, there had to be a solution. You spent days trying to force reality to react.
You shut down sections of the power grid and turned them back on. You moved frozen vehicles from intersections. You smashed clocks. Collected watches. Compared timestamps. Stayed awake for nearly forty-eight hours. Slept through entire days. Read scientific journals. Religious texts. Philosophy books. Cached conspiracy forums on dead computers.
Nothing worked. Nothing changed.
The coffee still floated in the street. The city remained silent.
The fourth week was acceptance.
Not peace. Just acceptance.
You stopped expecting answers. Instead, you built routines.
The apartment building across the street became Marley. The abandoned bank became Kim. The bookstore with the shattered front window became Greg.
Every morning, you greeted them. Talking to buildings should have felt insane.
Instead, it helped.
The silence felt smaller when someone was speaking, even if that someone was you.
Every morning, you visited the same coffee shop. The machines still worked. You made the same drink. Sat at the same table. Stared through the same window. Not because coffee mattered. Because routine mattered. Routine made you feel human.
The newspaper became part of the routine too. Every night before bed, you unfolded it.
TRUE LOVE CAN SAVE THE DAY.
The headline had become burned into your memory. You reread the article so many times you practically knew every sentence by heart. The smiling faces in the photographs. The ridiculous optimism.
You didn't believe it, but it was the only thing in the world connected to the last normal day.
So you kept reading.
Some nights you searched for hidden meanings. Other nights you laughed at yourself.
"Maybe the answer really is true love."
The joke never landed.
There was nobody around to hear it.
And during that month, strange things kept happening. Every few days, you would see someone. A figure standing at the end of a street. A silhouette reflected in a storefront window. A person waiting at a bus stop. Always distant. Always alone. Your heart would leap into your throat every single time.
At first you ran after them. Always. The result never changed. The figure would disappear before you arrived. Sometimes they vanished around corners. Sometimes they flickered first. Sometimes their bodies distorted like damaged footage before collapsing into nothing.
Once, you watched a man standing beneath a traffic light fragment into static and disappear so completely it felt like your brain had imagined him.
After enough encounters, you stopped running immediately, because disappointment was exhausting.
But deep down, a part of you wondered if someone else was out there.
Someone who hadn't disappeared. Someone who was seeing the same impossible things. Someone who was still surviving. You just hadn't found them yet.
The worst part wasn't the fear anymore. It was the isolation.
You had spent most of your life convincing yourself you preferred being alone. You told yourself people left eventually, so it was safer not to need them too much.
Now you understood the difference between being alone and being the only person in existence. The silence wasn't peaceful, it was suffocating.
You talked to yourself more than you would like to admit. To the non-existent people in the driver’s seats of cars, the humans in the ads in store windows.
One afternoon you spent nearly twenty minutes telling a mannequin about your childhood before realizing what you were doing.
You laughed. Then cried. Then laughed again. The line between the two was becoming difficult to find. The thoughts you'd spent years outrunning started catching up.
Old thoughts, old habits, old wounds. The version of yourself you had tried so hard to leave behind when you moved to the city began resurfacing piece by piece.
You remembered hospital rooms. Therapists. Long nights spent fighting your own mind. You remembered what it felt like to hate yourself. Really hate yourself.
Some days the loneliness became so overwhelming you found yourself slipping back into destructive patterns of thinking you hadn't struggled with in years. It scared you how familiar they felt, as though those parts of you had never truly disappeared.
You'd sit on the floor of your apartment staring at nothing for hours hoping you would regret the things you had done. The newspaper resting in your lap. The headline staring back.
TRUE LOVE CAN SAVE THE DAY.
"What does that even fucking mean?" You laugh lightly to yourself, smile on your face tears streaming from your eyes.
Manic.
That's what the psychiatrist said to you in middle school. You were manic. Destructive.
And now you were feeling the exact same way. You were being handed another day you knew you didn’t want.
The seasons still changed. Somehow, everything natural kept obeying its rules. Trees filled out with leaves. Light lingered longer in the evenings. The air softened in a way the frozen city never could.
But the city itself never moved.
You were exhausted by now. Not in the way sleep could fix.
Something deeper had worn you down—days of searching every possible place, every office, every station, every building that might hold an answer. There were none. Only silence. Only absence.
So you walked again. Same route. Same habit. Same pull toward the newspaper stand you no longer believed would change.
Not hope. Just routine.
The folded paper was still tucked under your arm. The same headline you’d memorized weeks ago. TRUE LOVE CAN SAVE THE DAY. You didn’t even look at it anymore. You just carried it because it was something that still belonged to the world that used to exist.
The stand came into view at the end of the street.
And you stopped.
Someone was there.
A man stood with his back to you, completely unaware of you. He was reading a newspaper from the stand, holding it casually in both hands. He didn’t flicker. Didn’t distort. He was just… there.
Your breath caught painfully in your chest.
Slowly, carefully, you moved forward. Each step felt louder than it should have in the silence. You didn’t call out. You didn’t risk it. You stopped just behind him.
Your hand lifted.
You hesitated.
Then you placed it gently on his shoulder.
Warm. Solid. Human.
Under your palm, you could feel him immediately—the weight of muscle, the tension of a living body, the undeniable fact of someone occupying space in the same world as you.
Real.
The moment your hand made contact, he whipped around.
“Hey—!”
It was sharp. Instinctive. Startled.
He stumbled back into you without meaning to, and the sudden movement knocked you off balance. Your feet slipped and you fell hard onto the pavement, breath punching out of your lungs as the impact echoed too loudly in the empty street.
For a second, neither of you moved.
Then you looked up.
He was standing over you, breathing fast. Chest rising and falling sharply like he couldn’t decide whether to run or fight. Shaggy black hair slightly messed from the sudden turn. Perfect glasses still somehow sitting straight on his face. A black shirt clinging slightly from tension, dirty jeans scuffed like he’d been living through the same abandoned world for just as long as you had.
His eyes locked onto yours.
And neither of you disappeared.
That realization hit both of you at once.
His voice came first, cautious, broken with disbelief.
“…You’re real.”
It wasn’t a question.
You swallowed, still sitting on the ground. “So are you.”
He stared harder, like he was trying to find the trick. “No, that’s not—” He stopped, shaking his head once. “I’ve been alone. For weeks. Months. I don’t even know anymore.”
Your laugh came out uneven. “Yeah. Same.”
A pause.
The silence between you felt different now. Not empty. Just heavy.
He slowly crouched down a little, still not fully trusting what he was seeing. “You touched me.”
“I had to,” you said quietly. “Everything else… disappears.”
His expression tightened at that. “I know.”
That made you freeze slightly. “You’ve seen them too?”
He let out a slow breath, eyes flicking briefly past you down the empty street. “People. Figures. Whatever they are. They don’t stay. They glitch, or vanish, or… I don’t know. Like the world rejects them.”
Your throat tightened. “Same.”
For a moment, neither of you spoke again.
Finally, he shifted his weight, still crouched slightly in front of you. “I thought I was the last one.”
Your voice came softer than you expected. “I thought I was too.” You felt tears prick at your eyes.
Behind him, the newspaper still lay half-unfolded on the stand, pages rustling slightly in a breeze that felt suddenly too real.
Neither of you were alone in it. You knew that now.
You brought him to the coffee shop without really thinking about it. It was just where you went. Every morning. Same route, same silence, same routine that had started to feel less like comfort and more like something you were trapped inside of. He followed you through the frozen streets without asking questions.
Inside the café, nothing had changed. It never did. You moved behind the counter automatically, muscle memory taking over as you made two coffees. The machine hissed and clicked in a way that felt almost too loud now that there was someone else here to hear it. When you turned around, he was sitting near the counter, posture a little too straight, hands loosely folded, eyes tracking you whenever he thought you weren’t looking.
You noticed it immediately. Every time you glanced away, his gaze flicked toward you, quick and careful, like he was still half-expecting you to glitch out of existence the way everything else in this world eventually did. And you hated that you were doing the same thing. Watching him. Checking. Making sure he was still real.
Eventually, you walked over and sat down across from him. Then, after a second of hesitation, you shifted your chair closer instead of staying across the table. The distance suddenly felt unnecessary.
Neither of you spoke for a while.
Just looked.
It wasn’t comfortable silence. It was the kind that came from too much disbelief packed into too little time.
Finally, he let out a breath and leaned back slightly. “Okay,” he said quietly, like he was trying to convince himself more than you. “This is… actually insane.”
A small laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it. “Yeah. That’s one way to put it.”
His eyes stayed on you for a moment longer than necessary before he nodded once, like he’d made a decision. “I’m Wonwoo.”
You hesitated for half a second, like saying your name out loud would make this real in a way you weren’t ready for. “Y/N.”
“Y/N,” he repeated softly, like he was testing how it sounded in a world that had almost forgotten how to say anything at all.
Then he reached into his back pocket and pulled out a worn notebook and a pen. It wasn’t dramatic. It was just… natural, like this was something he’d been doing for a long time. The notebook looked overused in a way that made you realize he hadn’t just been surviving this alone, he’d been working through it.
He opened it and slid it slightly toward you.
Pages filled with equations, diagrams, timing logs, maps of the city, notes layered over notes. Some pages were carefully structured, almost elegant in their logic. Others were frantic, overwritten, like they belonged to nights where he hadn’t slept in too long.
“I tried to treat it like a system,” he said, tapping a page with the pen, voice calm but tired in a very specific way, like someone who had explained this to himself so many times he could no longer tell where certainty ended and coping began. “At first I thought it was some kind of temporal stasis field or perception lock. Then I tried entropy mapping, then gravitational inconsistency models, then—” he paused briefly, almost embarrassed, “I even tried tracking decay rates of ambient objects to see if anything was still aging normally.”
He glanced up at you quickly, like he was checking if that was too much. Then added, softer, “Nothing worked.”
He flipped a page. More notes. More spirals of logic.
“I kept thinking if I just added one more variable, it would click,” he said. “Like the world was a puzzle I hadn’t assembled correctly yet.” A faint, almost sheepish exhale left him. “At some point I realized I was just… documenting my own breakdown with better handwriting.”
There was a small pause. He leaned back slightly, running a hand through his messy black hair, glasses catching the light as he did. He looked annoyingly put together for someone who was describing the end of the world, like his brain had decided chaos still needed structure.
“I’ve been feeling absolutely fucking insane,” he admitted more honestly now, voice quieter. “Like I was the only person left who didn’t freeze, and maybe I just… wasn’t processing it right.”
His eyes flicked to you again, sharper this time, but not in accusation. More like curiosity mixed with relief he didn’t fully trust yet.
“And then you were just there,” he said. “So I guess either I’m not crazy… or we’re both equally crazy.”
A beat.
Then, almost awkwardly, like he hated how sincere it sounded, he added, “I’m leaning toward the first option.”
You took the notebook more carefully than you meant to, like it might still be tied to the strange rules of the world itself. The paper felt worn in a way that made it obvious he’d been using it constantly—pages softened at the edges, ink layered in different pressures, some sections neat and structured, others messy from long nights of thinking too much.
As you flipped through it, your expression slowly changed. At first it was curiosity, then confusion, then something closer to disbelief. He wasn’t just guessing. He had actually been trying to understand it in a structured way.
You frowned slightly, flipping another page. “This doesn’t make sense,” you murmured, more to yourself than to him. “How did none of this lead anywhere?”
That was what unsettled you. Not that he was wrong, but that he had been this thorough and still ended up with nothing concrete.
You lowered the notebook and finally looked up.
Wonwoo was already watching you.
His expression had shifted while you were reading. Still cautious, but softer now. Concern threaded through it in a way that felt uncomfortably gentle. His eyes moved over your face like he was trying to figure out whether what you were seeing was helping you or breaking you further.
“Are you okay?” he asked quietly.
It wasn’t intrusive. Just careful.
You closed the notebook a little too quickly and slid it back toward him. “Yeah,” you said too fast, then corrected yourself, forcing it steadier, “I’m fine. It’s just… a lot.”
He didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t push.
You shifted slightly, needing something else to focus on. “I’m from North City,” you said.
That got his attention immediately.
“North City?” he repeated.
You nodded. “Yeah.”
He leaned back slightly, processing it. “I’m from South City,” he said after a beat, like he was double-checking it in his head. “Grew up there.”
That landed between you in a strange way. Like geography still mattered even when reality didn’t.
“So…” he added quietly, eyes flicking up to you again, “you weren’t that far.”
You gave a small, uncertain shrug. “Doesn’t feel like it matters anymore.”
“It does to me.” He gives a light, charming smile.
You didn’t argue. He looked at you for a moment longer, quieter now, and you realized, uncomfortably, that while you had been reading his work, he had been trying to read you too.
At first it was careful—small questions, fragments of back-and-forth about the city, about routines, about what life had been like before everything stopped. Then it drifted into everything and nothing at once. Random thoughts, shared observations, ridiculous theories that didn’t need to be true just to be said out loud. A few light laughs slipped in without either of you really noticing at first. Then more. It felt strange, almost disorienting, how natural it was to talk to someone again.
There was a point where the exhaustion and loneliness seemed to blur at the edges, replaced by something warmer, almost intoxicating in its own way. Like your brains were overcorrecting for weeks of silence, suddenly flooding you both with noise that wasn’t empty. You both started laughing harder at things that probably weren’t that funny, until it spiraled into genuine fits of laughter neither of you could really control.
Wonwoo leaned back in his chair, still catching his breath, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe it. “You are really funny, you know?” he said, smiling in a way that looked unpracticed but real. “How did I never stumble upon you in the city?”
You let out a breathy laugh, shrugging. “I don’t know. Guess we just missed each other.”
He tilted his head slightly, still looking at you like he was trying to make sure you were actually there. Then, a little softer, a little braver, he added, “And you’re really pretty too.”
You blinked at him for a second, caught completely off guard. The fluster came too fast to hide, creeping into your face before you could stop it. “No one’s ever been that forward with me before,” you admitted, half-laughing as you looked away for a moment like it might reset your brain. Then, quieter but still smiling, you added, “You’re… kind of pretty too, actually.”
That did it.
For a second there was silence, and then both of you broke at the same time, laughter spilling out awkward and genuine, building on itself until it turned into something almost uncontrollable. It felt ridiculous and light in a way neither of you had felt in a very long time, like your bodies had forgotten how to do anything except exist in that moment.
Eventually, it settled, the laughter fading into soft breaths.
Wonwoo tilted his head slightly, still smiling a little. “Where did you grow up?”
The shift was subtle, but you felt it immediately. Something in your expression changed before you even answered. The air didn’t feel as light anymore.
“About five states over,” you said slowly, picking at the edge of your sleeve. “I left because I needed a fresh start.”
He didn’t interrupt. Just listened.
You hesitated, then kept going anyway, like once the words started they didn’t really belong to you anymore. “My mom left when I was younger. Said I was… too much, I guess. My dad cut contact after that. I don’t really blame him.” You gave a small, humorless breath. “After that it was just… endless nights. Hospitals. Mental rehab stays. More hospital visits. Trying to get through one day at a time without everything falling apart.”
The words hung in the space between you.
Wonwoo went quiet.
Not awkwardly. Just… still. Like he hadn’t expected you to hand him something that heavy so easily.
You looked down at the table, suddenly aware of how much you’d said. “Sorry,” you added quickly, voice softer. “That was a lot. I just— I don’t know. I hope I didn’t make you uncomfortable.”
He shook his head slightly, but it took him a second to speak.
“No,” he said quietly. “No, you didn’t.”
A pause stretched out before he leaned back a little, looking at his hands for a moment like he was organizing his thoughts.
“I get it,” he said finally. “Not exactly the same, but… I’ve had my own stuff.”
You looked up.
He exhaled, slower now. “I didn’t really know how to deal with my head most of the time, so I just… went into math. Science. Anything that had answers. If there was a problem, there was a solution. That made it easier to breathe.”
His fingers tapped lightly against the edge of the notebook on the table.
“But when the world stopped like this,” he continued, voice quieter, “it didn’t have a solution anymore. And I kept trying anyway. Kept building models, theories, anything that made it feel like I still had control over something.” A faint, almost tired laugh slipped out of him. “And when none of it worked… I started losing myself in it a bit.”
He glanced up at you then, more honest now.
“I think I was just trying not to feel hopeless but… after meeting you, I don’t feel too hopeless anymore.”
The rest of the day didn’t feel like time passing so much as time dissolving.
You talked about everything again, then nothing again, then somehow looped back into things that made you laugh until your stomach hurt. The kind of laughter that came easier the longer you forgot to be alone.
At some point, neither of you noticed when afternoon became evening.
The light outside dimmed slowly, painting the empty street in soft gold and then deeper blue. Shadows stretched across the café floor. The world outside didn’t move, but the sky still changed like it was trying to pretend things were normal.
Eventually, the silence between sentences grew longer. Not uncomfortable. Just full.
And then it was dark.
Wonwoo was the first to stand. You followed a moment later. Neither of you said anything as you stepped out into the street together. The frozen city looked different at night, colder somehow, even though nothing had actually changed.
You walked a few steps in silence before both of you slowed.
Then stopped.
You turned to face each other at the same time.
For a second, neither of you spoke, like you were both waiting for the other to break something that felt too delicate to touch.
Finally, Wonwoo exhaled. “I should probably head back to mine.”
You nodded slowly. “Yeah. Same. Mine’s… that way.”
Another pause. It didn’t feel like goodbye. But it felt like something close enough to it that it hurt anyway.
Then Wonwoo stepped forward.
Without warning, he pulled you into a hug.
It wasn’t hesitant. It was firm, immediate, like something in him had decided words weren’t enough anymore. For a second, your entire body locked up in surprise—then it melted, because suddenly there was weight. Real weight. Another person. Another heartbeat against yours. Something warm and solid and undeniable.
And it wrecked both of you instantly.
The silence you’d lived in for so long made the contact feel overwhelming, like your nervous systems didn’t know how to process it anymore. Your hands gripped the fabric of his shirt before you even realized you were moving.
After a moment, his arms tightened slightly, like he didn’t want to let go just yet. Like letting go would mean going back to being alone again. You could feel his chest rising unevenly against you, breath unsteady in a way he couldn’t hide anymore.
And then he started crying.
Quiet at first. Barely there. Like he hadn’t meant to.
That was what broke you.
You tried to hold it together for half a second longer, but it didn’t last. The soundless weight of everything you’d both been carrying just came out all at once.
You were both shaking slightly by the time it settled into something real.
Eventually, he pulled back just enough to breathe. He took off his glasses with one hand, wiping his eyes quickly, awkwardly, like he was trying to fix something that couldn’t be fixed. Then he put them back on, exhaling shakily as he looked at you again.
He didn’t let go of your hands when he reached for them.
Both of them, gently held in his.
Facing you properly now, still a little unsteady, he said quietly, “Thank you for finding me.”
Your throat tightened immediately.
You squeezed his hands back. “Thank you for finding me too,” you said, voice breaking just slightly. Then, softer, like it mattered more than anything else in the world right now, you added, “You know where to find me tomorrow. Or… when we wake up.”
A small, shaky breath left him. He nodded once. Neither of you wanted to be the one to let go first.
it became routine without either of you ever deciding it would.
You started meeting at the café every day when you woke up, and somehow—almost unnervingly—you always arrived at the same time. No matter how irregular sleep had become in a frozen world, your rhythms synced. It was like your days had quietly agreed to align around each other without asking permission. The first thing you’d see each morning was him already there, or you arriving just as he pushed the door open, both of you stopping for a second like it still surprised you.
From there, you stopped staying in one place.
You explored the city together, block by block, building by building, still trying—out of habit more than hope—to understand what had happened. You checked abandoned offices again, revisited frozen intersections, studied the same impossible stillness from different angles like perspective might change the answer. But even as the mystery stayed unsolved, something else started filling the space it left behind.
Being around him felt… easy.
Not because the world made sense, but because he made it quieter inside your head.
There were moments that stayed with you in a way nothing else did. The way his eyes scrunched up when he laughed, soft and unguarded, like a cat reacting to something warm. The way he’d look at you sometimes like he still couldn’t quite believe you were real, even after days of proving it. The way he started reaching for you without thinking when you ran through the empty city at night, pulling your hand into his so you could both move faster between buildings, breathless and half-laughing as your footsteps echoed through streets that never changed.
It didn’t fix anything.
The world was still frozen.
The mystery was still there.
But it didn’t feel like drowning anymore.
It felt like two lost souls who had found each other at the worst possible time—and somehow decided to stay anyway.
A full month of waking up into the same frozen city and still choosing to meet each other anyway. June 16th arrived like all the other days—silent, suspended, unchanged—but it still felt marked in a way neither of you said out loud.
You met at the café like always, arriving at the same time without ever planning it. Wonwoo reached for the door handle out of habit, but before he could open it, you grabbed his hand. “I’m bringing you to my place,” you said.
He paused, then smiled a little, soft and easy. “Okay.” No questions. Just agreement, like he trusted you more than the world made sense.
The walk back felt different this time. Less like surviving and more like existing alongside someone else. When you got to your apartment, you opened the door and led him in, suddenly aware of how strange it felt to show someone your space after so long of it only belonging to you.
Above your bed hung a slightly crooked paper banner.
HAPPY TWO MONTHS GETTING STUCK-AVERSARY!
Wonwoo stared at it for a second before laughing, genuinely surprised. “You made a banner?”
“It felt important,” you said, defensive but smiling anyway.
He shook his head, still laughing as he sat on the edge of your bed, palms pressing into your comforter like he was checking if it was real. The way he relaxed without thinking made something warm settle in your chest. The bed smelled like you, and he noticed, even if he didn’t say it.
You sat beside him after a moment, picking at the blanket. “I kept the newspaper,” you said suddenly.
He looked over.
“The one with the headline,” you added. “TRUE LOVE CAN SAVE THE DAY. I thought it was stupid. Like actually stupid.”
He gave a small nod. “It is kind of stupid.”
That made you laugh quietly, but it faded fast. “I’ve never been in a real relationship,” you said after a pause. “And I don’t think I’ve ever really been… loved. My mom used to say I was unlovable. And I guess I just believed it for a long time without even realizing it.”
The air shifted immediately, not dramatically, just enough to feel heavier. Wonwoo’s expression softened in a way that erased any remaining humor. He took your hand gently and started rubbing slow circles on the back of it, steady and grounding like he was trying to undo years of silence through touch alone.
“That’s not true,” he said simply.
You didn’t respond, just swallowed and looked away for a second.
Then you pulled the folded newspaper out and showed it to him.
He looked at it, then after a beat, reached into his pocket and pulled out an identical copy.
You froze.
He noticed immediately. “I kept it too,” he said quietly. “At first I thought it was just noise. Something my brain clung to because I needed meaning somewhere. But it was the only thing from the last normal day that felt real.”
He turned it slightly in his hands. “Before I met you, it was the only thing keeping me from losing it completely.”
His gaze lifted to yours. Softer now.
“And then you showed up,” he added, “and I didn’t need it the same way anymore.”
The newspaper still sat between you for a moment after that, both copies folded loosely now, no longer feeling like proof of anything—just something you both had carried too long alone.
You traced a finger along the edge of yours before looking at him. “Have you ever been in love?”
The question landed softly, but it changed something in his expression immediately. Not defensive. Just thoughtful, like he was actually sorting through memories he didn’t often open.
“There have been… two times,” Wonwoo said slowly. “Where I think I actually felt it. Love.”
You stayed quiet, letting him take his time.
“The first was in high school,” he continued. “My first girlfriend. It was… real, in that way you only realize later. First everything. First person I ever really let myself care about like that.” A faint, almost nostalgic exhale left him. “But we were different in ways we didn’t know how to fix. It didn’t work out. We let it end before it got worse.”
He glanced down at your hands still loosely held in his, then back up.
“The second time…” He paused, a little longer this time. “Is more recent. So recent I don’t really know what to do with it yet.”
You blinked at him, not fully sure how to hold that answer, your chest tightening in a way you didn’t want to name. But you didn’t push it. Instead, you just nodded slightly, like you were giving him room to leave it there if he needed to.
And then, because silence suddenly felt too heavy, you started talking.
“I really love coffee,” you said, a little too quickly at first, then settling into it. “Like, actually love it. Not just because I need it. The smell, the routine, the way it feels like a start to something even when nothing changes.” You glanced around his apartment absentmindedly, then back at him. “And movies. I love movies. And music, especially physical copies. Like CDs, vinyls, anything you can actually hold. Streaming feels… temporary.”
He was watching you closely now, but not in a way that interrupted. In a way that made space.
You kept going.
“I love poetry too. And songwriting is honestly the coolest shit in the world,” you said, a small laugh slipping out as you leaned back a little. “Like how someone can just… turn a feeling into something you can hear. That’s insane to me.”
As you spoke, Wonwoo didn’t look away once.
Not even for a second.
It wasn’t intense in a way that made you nervous. It was quiet. Anchored. Like every word you said was something he was choosing to keep.
His eyes softened the longer you talked, shoulders relaxed, expression shifting into something almost unguarded. Like he wasn’t just hearing you—he was seeing you.
Not because you were the only person in the world.
But because, in that moment, that was how he was looking at you.
Like if the city was full again, if time started moving properly again, if everything went back to normal, it wouldn’t change the fact that this was where his attention would always land.
On you.
And you didn’t know it yet, but he was pretty sure that wouldn’t change even if they weren’t stuck at all.
The city stayed frozen, the routines stayed familiar, but something between you and Wonwoo started to feel… different. Conversations had a lingering edge to them now, like they didn’t fully end when the words stopped. They hung around in the silence afterward, warm and strange, like unfinished thoughts neither of you wanted to close.
You noticed more things about him without meaning to.
The way he talked faster when he got excited, words slipping out like his brain couldn’t keep up with itself when he was explaining something he cared about. The way his handwriting was ridiculously neat, especially when he was writing out equations in that notebook of his—precise lines, careful spacing, like even his thoughts needed to be organized before they were allowed to exist on paper.
Now you were sitting in his room, watching him.
He was at his desk, slightly hunched over a sheet of paper, sketching something absentmindedly while thinking out loud under his breath. You weren’t really listening to the content anymore. At some point, your attention had shifted without permission.
You were just looking at him.
The way his hair fell slightly over his forehead when he leaned forward. The quiet focus in his expression. The small pauses he made when he was thinking too hard. The way even his stillness felt… intentional.
It hit you slowly, like something you weren’t supposed to notice.
He was beautiful.
Not in a loud way. Not in a way that demanded attention. In a way that made you realize you’d been paying attention without realizing it. And kind. Genuinely, quietly kind in a way that didn’t ask for anything back.
You weren’t sure when that realization turned into something heavier.
Something warmer.
Something that made your chest feel tight in a way you couldn’t explain yet.
You laughed softly to yourself before you could stop it.
Wonwoo paused mid-line, looking up slightly. “What?”
You blinked like you’d been caught doing something you weren’t supposed to. “Nothing.”
He didn’t look convinced.
You reached into your pocket out of instinct and pulled out the folded newspaper again, like it could anchor you back into something simpler. You unfolded it halfway and glanced at the headline you already knew by heart.
TRUE LOVE CAN SAVE THE DAY.
“I was just thinking about this,” you said casually, trying to smooth out whatever had just happened inside your head.
He watched you for a second, then gave a small, soft smile—one of those ones that didn’t feel like it was fully controlled. A “pretty” smile, unguarded in a way that made your stomach drop slightly.
“Oh?” he said lightly, turning back to his paper, pen moving again. “Still trying to figure out if it’s propaganda or destiny?”
You let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “Something like that.”
He hummed, clearly amused, not looking up this time. “Careful. You’re starting to sound like me.”
That made you smile before you even realized it.
And as he went back to his drawing, pen scratching softly against paper, you stayed sitting there a little longer than necessary, pretending you were still thinking about the newspaper when really you were just trying to understand why looking at him felt like that now.
The rest of the night settled into a quiet kind of rhythm. You stayed on his bed with a notebook in your lap, writing poetry in scattered lines and half-finished thoughts, while Wonwoo sat at his desk working through equations and diagrams like he could reason the world back into motion if he just didn’t stop trying. The room wasn’t loud, but it also wasn’t empty anymore. It felt shared in a way neither of you had experienced since everything stopped.
Every so often you’d glance up at him without meaning to. He was completely focused, glasses slightly slipping down his nose, pen moving carefully across the page, hair falling forward in soft, messy strands that made him look less like the person trying to solve the impossible and more like someone just trying to hold on. And every time you looked away again, your chest felt strangely full in a way you didn’t want to name yet.
At one point he leaned back in his chair and tilted his head toward you. “What are you writing?” he asked, already half-standing like he was going to come over.
“Nope,” you said quickly, swatting at him before he got too close. “Don’t even try.”
He leaned in anyway, and you instinctively pushed his head back gently, your fingers catching in his hair for a second longer than you intended. It was softer than you expected, slightly messy in a way that made your heart react faster than your brain could explain. You pulled your hand away too quickly, pretending it meant nothing, and went back to your notebook while he cleared his throat and sat down again like nothing had happened, though the faint color on his cheeks betrayed him.
After that, the room fell into silence again. Not uncomfortable, just steady. You writing. Him thinking. The world outside completely still.
Then, after a few minutes, the silence shifted.
You heard him breathe differently.
You looked up.
Wonwoo wasn’t writing anymore. His shoulders were tense, head slightly bowed, and when he finally lifted a hand to his face you saw it—he was crying, quietly, like it had slipped out of him before he could stop it.
You moved immediately. “Wonwoo?” you said softly, sliding off the bed and kneeling in front of him. Moonlight from the window spilled across both of you, catching on his face, on the tear tracks he tried to wipe away too late. Your hands came to rest gently on his legs, grounding him. “Hey, look at me. What’s wrong?”
He shook his head at first, like he didn’t want to say it, but then it all came out anyway.
“I can’t do it,” he said, voice breaking. “I keep trying and nothing works. Every model, every equation, every theory—it always ends the same. I can’t fix it. I can’t understand it. And I feel like I’m losing myself trying to solve something that doesn’t want to be solved.”
His breath stuttered.
“And I feel like I’m letting you down.”
That hit harder than anything else.
He looked at you then, really looked at you, eyes red and exhausted. “All I want is for you to get out of this,” he said more quietly. “That’s it. If I can’t fix it, then I should at least—”
“Don’t say that,” you interrupted softly, shaking your head.
He paused.
You tightened your grip slightly on his legs. “Don’t talk like that.”
“It’s true,” he said anyway, voice unsteady but honest. “You’ve helped me so much. The least I can do is get you out of this.”
You stared at him for a moment, then leaned in a little closer, your voice softer but firm. “You’re not letting me down.”
He blinked at you like he didn’t know how to believe that.
Wonwoo looked at you through glassy, tear-lined eyes, still breathing unevenly like he was trying to steady himself in real time. For a moment, he didn’t speak. Just stayed there, hands hovering uncertainly before slowly settling over yours where they rested on his legs, like he needed to anchor himself to you to stay present.
His voice came out quiet, almost unsure of itself. “Can I kiss you?”
The question hit you harder than anything else that night. It didn’t feel like impulse—it felt like something careful, something honest, something he’d thought through even in the middle of everything breaking down inside him. And for a second, you didn’t think at all. Your body moved before your mind could catch up, closing the small space between you.
The kiss wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t uncertain. It was real in a way everything else in this frozen world had stopped being. Like all the silence, all the waiting, all the searching finally collapsed into something simple and undeniable.
It just made sense.
You shifted slightly on your knees to meet him properly, and his hands instinctively found your waist, holding you there like he was afraid you might disappear if he loosened his grip. Your fingers moved into his hair without hesitation this time, no second-guessing, just instinct and feeling and warmth where there hadn’t been warmth in too long.
And when you finally parted, it wasn’t distance that remained between you.
It was understanding.
Wonwoo pulled you into a tight hug first, like he couldn’t stand the space between you anymore. His arms wrapped around you firmly, pulling you into his chest as if the world outside of this moment didn’t exist. “I don’t want to let you go,” he said quietly, voice still rough from everything that had just happened.
That cracked something open in you again. You clung to him, tears slipping down before you could stop them. “Then don’t,” you said, voice breaking. “I don’t want you to leave either. You don’t have to let me go. Not ever.”
For a while, neither of you moved.
Eventually, you pulled back just enough to breathe. The night had grown later without either of you noticing, and the exhaustion of everything settled in all at once. “I should go,” you said softly, even though you didn’t want to. “It’s a twenty-minute walk.”
Wonwoo hesitated, then nodded. He understood, even if he didn’t like it. He walked you to the door, hands lingering like he was memorizing the moment. Neither of you spoke much—there wasn’t anything that needed to be said right then.
You stepped outside alone.
The city was still frozen, still impossibly quiet, but the air had changed. Heavy clouds had gathered overhead sometime while you weren’t looking. A few minutes into your walk, the first drops of rain started falling, slow at first, then all at once.
Within minutes, you were completely soaked. Hair dripping, clothes clinging, shoes heavy against the pavement. The cold didn’t matter as much as it should have. It just blurred into everything else.
You were about ten minutes in when you heard it.
“Y/N!”
You froze.
The voice cut through the rain like it didn’t belong in this world anymore. You turned around quickly, heart snapping in your chest.
Wonwoo was running toward you.
Soaked completely. Hair damp and clinging to his forehead, glasses streaked with rain, shirt darkened by water, breath uneven as he closed the distance like he couldn’t afford to lose you even for a few minutes.
When he reached you, you grabbed him immediately—hands on his shoulders, then his waist, checking him like he might disappear again. “Are you okay?” you asked quickly, breathless, searching his face.
He was smiling.
Wide. Relieved. Almost breathless with it.
“I figured it out,” he said.
You blinked through the rain. “Figured out what?”
He lifted the folded newspaper in his hand. It was soaked too, edges curling from the water, ink blurring slightly. “This,” he said like it was obvious.
You let out a short laugh, shaking your head. “Wonwoo, it’s just a stupid headline.”
He shook his head immediately. “No. Listen.”
You stared at him, rain dripping down your face.
“What if it wasn’t just a headline?” he said, voice rising slightly over the storm. “What if we’re the only two people still here because everything else requires connection to persist? Not in a magical way. In a cognitive way. In a relational way. Reality stabilizes through perception, through emotional anchoring—through people being meaningfully recognized by others.”
You frowned slightly. “I don’t—what?”
He stepped closer, excitement and urgency blending together in his expression, but softer too, like he wasn’t afraid anymore. “I know it sounds insane, but think about it. Everything else is frozen, erased, or collapsing. But we’re not. We only became real when we found each other. When we were seen. When we mattered to someone else.”
You shook your head slightly again, confused but listening.
Then his expression softened completely, the intensity giving way to something simpler, something honest.
“I’m in love with you,” he said.
Your breath caught.
He didn’t hesitate. “I am so in love with you that I can’t think straight anymore. And I think you feel it too. I know you do. I think that’s why this works. That’s why we’re still here. Because we’re connected.”
The rain poured around you, soaking everything, but neither of you moved away.
For a second, you just stared at him.
Then you laughed once, disbelieving, shaking your head—but your eyes were wet for a different reason now.
“You’re insane,” you whispered.
“Probably,” he said immediately, stepping closer again.
He grabs both sides of your face pulling you in tightly like he doesn’t want to let go, crashing your lips together once more. You wrap your hands around his neck playing with the wet strands of hair on the back of his neck. He snakes his arms down from your face to wrap around your back, once again pulling you in closer.
When you finally pulled apart, both of you were still smiling like you couldn’t believe any of it was real.
“Come on,” you said breathlessly, grabbing his hand. And together, you ran back toward your apartment through the rain, like the world had finally started moving again just to keep up with you.
When you got back to your apartment, you both took off your soaking wet shoes, leaving them at your front door.
You made it back to your apartment soaked through, both of you laughing a little breathlessly as you stumbled inside. The warmth hit immediately, muffled and soft compared to the rain outside. Shoes came off at the door almost in sync, wet footprints left behind on the floor as you kicked them aside.
“Okay,” you said, brushing damp hair out of your face, “you’re gonna be so uncomfortable if you stay in that.”
Wonwoo glanced down at himself like he’d just realized how completely drenched he was. “That’s… fair.”
You gave a small nod toward your bedroom. “I have clothes you can change into. They’ll be big on you, but they’re clean.”
He followed you without hesitation, still a little dazed, like the last half hour hadn’t fully settled into reality yet. You moved to your closet immediately, rifling through it with quick, familiar motions while he stood a few steps back, dripping water onto the floor and trying very hard not to make a mess of anything.
“Found it,” you said, pulling out a soft hoodie and a pair of shorts for yourself, then another set of oversized clothes you didn’t care about as much. You turned and tossed his clothes lightly toward him. “Here.”
He caught them a little awkwardly, nodding. “Thanks.”
You were already halfway out of your wet shirt, switching quickly into the dry hoodie, movements practical and unbothered. Wonwoo immediately turned slightly away out of instinct, giving you space even though the room was already casual and familiar in its own way.
Still, despite looking away, his thoughts betrayed him. He found himself thinking—almost frustratingly simple and clear—that you were the most beautiful person he had ever seen. Not just right now. Not just in the rain. Just… always. Like it wasn’t something the world had to be frozen for him to notice.
When you finished changing and turned back around, the air between you felt warmer than before.
“Okay,” you said, pulling your hoodie sleeves over your hands. “You good?”
Wonwoo nodded, still a little quiet, but softer now. “Yeah. Better.”
When you finally settle under the covers, he follows, and somehow you end up tangled into the same space without really discussing it. You end up resting against his chest, and after a second of hesitation, his arm settles around you like it belongs there.
His fingers move into your hair gently, slow and absent-minded, while the other hand traces steady circles on your back. It grounds you more than you expect.
After a while, you ask quietly, “Do you really think you’re right about all of this?”
He lets out a small breath, almost a laugh. “About reality being held together by emotional attachment and us being the center of some cosmic relationship experiment?” He pauses. “I’ve definitely gone insane, so I’m not the most reliable source.”
That makes you smile into his shirt.
But his hand doesn’t stop moving as he continues, softer now. “But I do think something changed when we found each other. Whatever this is… I don’t feel like I’m alone in it anymore.”
You go quiet after that.
You shift slightly so you can look up at him. The dim light from the room softens everything about his face—his eyes, his expression, the way he looks at you like you’re something he still can’t fully believe is real.
“I love you,” you say before you can second-guess it. Your voice doesn’t shake, even though everything inside you does. “I love you in ways I don’t even know how to say properly. More than I’ve ever loved myself. You brought back something in me I thought I lost a long time ago.”
He doesn’t answer right away.
His hand pauses in your hair like he needs a moment to process it. Then he leans down and presses a soft kiss to your forehead—careful, steady, real.
“I love you too,” he says quietly.
You exhale slowly, letting yourself settle back into him as his arms tighten just slightly, like he’s afraid you might disappear if he relaxes too much. His hand resumes its slow rhythm on your back, steadier now, calmer.
At some point, you stop thinking about the frozen world outside.
And at some point after that, you fall asleep without meaning to—still held by him, still real enough to stay.
The next morning doesn’t feel like waking up—it feels like being pulled out of something too deep too fast. You wake to noise. Not silence.
A car horn cuts through the air, sharp and real, followed by another, then overlapping voices rising from outside the window. For a few seconds you just lie there, staring at the ceiling, your brain refusing to connect the sound to anything it remembers.
Then you sit up.
You rub your eyes hard, like that might reset the world, but the noise doesn’t go away. It only gets clearer. Louder. More layered.
You move fast.
You run to the window.
And you freeze.
The world outside is moving.
Cars are driving again. People are walking on sidewalks. A couple passes holding hands. A group of friends laughs at a crosswalk. Everything is alive in a way that feels almost overwhelming after so long without it.
Your hands press against the glass.
“Oh my fucking god,” you whisper.
You stare harder, like it might break if you look at it wrong, but it doesn’t. It stays real.
“Wonwoo,” you say suddenly, spinning around, relief hitting you all at once. “Oh my god—Wonwoo! It worked! You were right it—”
You stop.
The bed is empty.
No movement. No warmth. No trace of him.
Your stomach drops immediately.
“Wonwoo?” you say again, quieter now. Confused.
You rush out of the bedroom, checking the apartment quickly, moving from room to room, your bare feet hitting the floor too loudly in the new world of sound. “Wonwoo?” you call, louder this time. “Hey—are you here?”
Nothing.
The apartment feels wrong without him in it.
You step into the hallway, and suddenly everything is too loud. Neighbors talking. Doors opening. Life spilling back into the building like it had never stopped. It overwhelms you all at once, crashing in after months of silence.
You call his name again, voice breaking as it echoes down the hallway. “Wonwoo!”
Still nothing.
You move faster now, checking stairwells, corridors, every space you can think of, panic rising with every empty second. The world is full again, but he isn’t in it.
“Wonwoo…” you whisper, barely audible now, before it breaks completely.
Your knees weaken as you sink against the wall, sobs finally spilling out while everything around you keeps moving forward.
You stand up too fast.
The second you’re on your feet, you’re already moving, already running out of the building like your body has decided before your mind can catch up. The air outside is full of sound—cars passing, people talking, life everywhere—and you’re yelling his name before you even realize you’re doing it.
“Wonwoo!” you scream, voice cracking as tears blur your vision. “Wonwoo!”
People turn to look at you.
Some slow down. Some stare. A few step out of your path as you push past them, not gently, not carefully—just desperately. Your shoulder bumps into someone, then another, but you don’t stop. You don’t apologize. You don’t care.
“Wonwoo!” you shout again, louder, like volume could force reality to give him back.
But he isn’t there.
He isn’t anywhere.
You keep running anyway, breath tearing in your chest, until your legs carry you back to the only place that ever felt consistent—the newspaper stand.
The stand is still there.
Still absurdly normal.
Still unchanged.
A boy stands behind it now, different from the ones you remember from the frozen time. He looks up immediately when he sees you, startled by how wrecked you look.
“Hey—are you okay?” he asks quickly. “Do you need help? My name’s Chan, I can—”
“What day is it?” you cut him off, breathless, shaking, barely holding yourself up. “Just tell me what day it is.”
Chan hesitates, clearly worried. “Hey, I think you should sit down first, you look—”
“That’s not what I asked,” you say again, voice breaking harder now. “I asked what day it is.”
He pauses, then answers carefully. “June 28th, 2026.”
Something in your chest drops.
You turn without thinking, grabbing a newspaper from the stand. Your hands shake so badly the paper crinkles immediately. The date is clean. New. Real. And the headline stares back at you in bold print:
Researchers Confirm Reality Stabilized Following Reconnection of Isolated Cognitive Nodes.
Your vision blurs instantly.
“No,” you whisper.
Then again, louder, breaking apart completely as tears spill onto the paper. “No—Wonwoo. Wonwoo, no…”
You say his name like it’s something that might still answer you if you repeat it enough times. Like a prayer. Like repetition could rebuild him into the world.
“Wonwoo… Wonwoo…”
Chan watches you helplessly, unsure what to do.
You force yourself to breathe, wiping your face quickly even though it doesn’t help. “Thank you,” you manage, voice barely stable. “I’m sorry.”
He nods slowly, still concerned, but doesn’t stop you as you turn away.
You walk back toward the crosswalk, toward nothing in particular, just trying to figure out where to put yourself now that everything is moving again without him.
And then—
A hand lands on your shoulder.
You freeze so hard it feels like the world stops again.
For a second, you can’t breathe.
You turn.
Slowly.
And the moment you see him, you already know.
Black hair slightly messy. Glasses catching the light. The same quiet expression that looks like he’s just barely holding onto disbelief.
Wonwoo.
Standing there like he never left at all.
And said with that same cat like smile that you thought you had lost,
Pairing: mingyu x reader
Summary: After a painful four-year relationship, you aren't looking for love. Unfortunately for you, your best friend has other plans. Enter Kim Mingyu—the architect with too many flowers, too much affection, and absolutely no intention of leaving.
Warning/s: -
Note: This is part of my you seem pretty sad for a girl so in love series!
Song: honeybee by olivia rodrigo
drop dead | stupid song | honeybee
SOMETHING NEW
You lay in bed while staring up at the ceiling. You were still hurting from your relationship. After all, four years was no joke. You were numb and you were sick and tired of everyone telling you that it'll pass.
There were only so many times someone could tell you that you'd be okay before those words lost its meaning. It had been three months since the breakup. Three months since you packed the last of his things into a box. Three months since you watched him walk away. You never asked him to stay. Three months was long enough for everyone around you to assume you'd moved on.
You haven't. Not really.
You were inconsolable before, but now, you were sort of a functioning citizen. You went to work, answered messages, laughed at the right moments, and even remembered to water your plants by the windowsill. But every now and then, usually when you were alone, you'd catch yourself wondering when your heart would stop hurting.
A knock on your door echoed through your apartment, making you slowly sit up. You doubted it was him, but you still kind of hoped it was. The person knocked again and with a heavy sigh, you got out of bed and answered the door. As soon as you unlocked it, Seungkwan was already inviting himself inside with a bunch of stuff (i.e., food, drinks, care kits you might need, etc.).
"You look alive," he announced, slipping off his shoes. "That's an improvement."
You blinked. You weren't expecting him. Heck, you weren't expecting anyone. "Well, hello to you, too."
"I'm serious." He glanced around the apartment before setting everything on the coffee table and dropping onto your couch. "You've officially spent enough time moping."
"I haven't been moping."
"You reorganized your bookshelf alphabetically and by color." Seungkwan nodded towards your bookshelf.
You sat next to him. "It was therapeutic."
"It was concerning."
You rolled your eyes, but a small, reluctant smile tugged at your lips. Seungkwan noticed immediately. "There she is," he pointed dramatically. "I knew my best friend was still in there."
"I hate you."
"No, you don't."
He fully turned to you. "So."
You narrowed your eyes. "No."
"I haven't even said anything!" Seungkwan whined.
"You've got that scheming look on your face. What are you plotting, Boo?" You eyed him suspiciously.
"Fine!" Seungkwan said exasperatedly. He leaned over the coffee table, grabbed a bag of chips, and opened it. He grabbed a piece and ate it while you stared at him, waiting for whatever scheme he had to say. "I want you to go on a blind date. I swear, I think I've hit the jackpot this time. So much so, you'll name your first born after me."
"Absolutely not." You shook your head.
"Aw, c'mon. Don't be like that!" Seungkwan huffed, eating another chip. "He's tall, ridiculously handsome, a great cook, he's such a giver! Give him a chance!"
"Seungkwan, please." You groaned. "I'm not ready. Besides, what if he's just like—"
"Don't compare him to Jeonghan, Y/N. They're different guys." Seungkwan said, leaning back and continued eating chips. "I'm a Jeonghan anti, but I guess he's not totally evil. He's just... built different."
"The answer is no."
-
"I want you to go on a blind date. I swear, I think I've hit the jackpot this time. So much so, you'll name your first born after me." Seungkwan smiled, repeating the same spiel to Mingyu.
Mingyu looked up in thought. "Okay, but what if our child is a girl? We can't name her 'Seungkwan'."
Seungkwan's eye twitched. The different answers he got gave him whiplash. "Then name her Boo Youmi."
"Boo Youmi?" Mingyu made a face. "Shouldn't it be 'Kim Youmi'? I'm the dad, not you."
Seungkwan pursed his lips, "Boo Youmi is a cute name. 'Kim Youmi' sounds incomplete. Name her 'Kim Boo Youmi'."
"Absolutely not." Mingyu shook his head.
"How about 'Kim Youmi Boo'?" Seungkwan asked.
"Kim Youmi is final, Kwannie."
"Ugh, we're getting sidetracked!" Seungkwan exclaimed. "So, go on this blind date with my best friend. She's—"
"Sure." Mingyu said with zero hesitation. Seungkwan was expecting Mingyu to whine. He didn't expect such a direct answer.
"...That's it? You're not going to make me beg?" Seungkwan eyed him suspiciously.
Mingyu shrugged. "Yeah, that's it. Unless..." Mingyu smirked. "...Unless begging is a kink of yours that you weirdly want me to fulfill. If so, I'm honored, Kwannie."
"Ew! Shut up, himbo!" Seungkwan said, causing Mingyu to laugh. Seungkwan gave Mingyu a dirty look. He tried to keep it that way, but it's been a while since he heard Mingyu laugh. Like you, Mingyu's heartbroken, too.
When Mingyu's laughter died down, he cleared his throat and looked at Seungkwan. "I think I'm ready to meet someone."
Seungkwan gave him a small smile. "Yeah?"
Mingyu nodded. "I mean, I don't think I'll ever be ready." He rubbed the back of his neck. "But I don't want one relationship deciding what the rest of my life looks like."
"You're SO gonna love me for this, Kim Mingyu."
-
Saturday arrived faster than either of you expected. You didn't know how Seungkwan was able to persuade you into going on this date with some rando, but here you were. You stood in front of your closet with your arms crossed, staring at the clothes hanging inside.
"...Seriously?" You sighed. "So many clothes, yet nothing to wear."
Nothing looked right. You pulled out a sweater, too casual. A dress, too much. A blouse, too boring. With a sigh, you tossed everything onto your bed until half your wardrobe was scattered across the comforter. Somewhere in the pile, your phone buzzed.
[kwannie 🍊]: don't cancel.
You rolled your eyes.
[y/nie <3]: I'm genuinely thinking about it.
Three dots appeared almost immediately.
[kwannie 🍊]: no, you're not :p
-
Across town, Kim Mingyu was experiencing a crisis of his own. Three shirts were laid neatly across his bed. He held up the first one.
"...No."
The second.
"Ew, definitely not."
The third.
"...Maybe."
Unsure, he snapped a picture and sent it to Seungkwan.
[mingoo]: quick! blue or white???
The reply came within seconds.
[seungkwannie]: white.
Mingyu stared at the message.
[mingoo]: that's what I was thinking, too!
[seungkwannie]: asdfghjkl then why'd you ask?!
[mingoo]: for emotional support, ofc!
-
You settled on something simple. Cute enough to make an effort. Comfortable enough to leave in if the date went terribly. Standing in front of the mirror, you adjusted your sleeves before letting your hands fall to your sides. You looked... fine. Not amazing. Not terrible. Just fine. That would have to do.
-
Mingyu buttoned the last button of his shirt before taking a step back from the mirror. He frowned.
"...Maybe I should change."
Five minutes later... He was wearing the exact same shirt.
One spray of cologne. He paused. "...Too much?"
He sniffed his wrist. "...Maybe one more."
Another spray. A beat. "Okay, that's definitely too much."
-
You grabbed your bag, checked for your wallet, keys, and phone. Everything was there. Good.
You reached for the doorknob. Stopped. Exhaled. You could still text Seungkwan that you weren't coming. You could crawl back into bed. Pretend this never happened. Your phone buzzed again.
On his way to the restaurant, Mingyu slowed down when he spotted a small flower stall on the corner. He walked past it. Kept walking. Stopped. Turned around and walked back to the flower stall.
"Would flowers be weird?" He asked himself as looked at the wide array of flowers.
The elderly florist smiled knowingly. "First date?"
Mingyu scratched the back of his neck. "Is it that obvious?"
"A little." She laughed.
He left the stall with a small bouquet wrapped in brown paper. Halfway to where his car is parked, he looked down at the bouquet and turned back around.
The florist looked at him from across the stall. "You're not returning those, are you?"
"I... wasn't?"
The florist shook her head, "Keep them, and give it to your date. It's never too much to give flowers on a first date."
"Okay." Mingyu said, turning back to walk to his car. He turned to face the florist and walked backwards, "Thanks, wish me luck!"
-
You arrived first. Of course you did. Better to wait than make someone else wait. You sat near the window, fingers wrapped around a glass of water you hadn't touched, rehearsing all the ways this evening could go wrong.
-
Mingyu took a deep breath before entering the restaurant that Seungkwan ever-so-kindly booked for the two of you. Mingyu looked around and spotted you before you spotted him. Well, he's never seen you before, but his gut was telling him that it was you.
He approached the table with a small smile on his face while smoothing out imaginary wrinkles on his shirt. "Y/N?"
You looked up and nodded. "Mingyu?"
"Hi." Mingyu smiled.
"Hi."
A beat. Then, he awkwardly held up the bouquet he'd been hiding behind his back. "I, uh... these are for you."
You blinked.
"For me?"
"Unless Seungkwan set me up with someone else, then this could get awkward."
A laugh escaped you before you could stop it. "No, I'm definitely Y/N."
"Good," he sighed dramatically before taking a seat in front of you. "That would've been embarrassing."
You accepted the flowers carefully, fingertips against the brown paper wrapped around the stems.
"They're beautiful."
"I'm glad you think so." He said, his shoulders visibly relaxing. His eyes sparkled and you almost forgot what it felt like to be on a first date. For the first time in months, you stopped wondering how long it would take for someone to leave.
-
Dinner was... easy. Much easier than you expected. Mingyu talked enough to fill the silence but never so much that you couldn't join in. He asked questions, actually listened to your answers, and somehow turned even the most ordinary stories into something worth laughing over.
By the time the waiter cleared your plates, you realized you hadn't checked the time once.
Seungkwan wasn't lying," Mingyu admitted, leaning back on his chair.
You tilted your head in wonder.
"He said you laugh with your whole face."
"...He said that?"
"Mhm."
You looked away, smiling despite yourself. "I'll have to yell at him later."
"He'll probably thank you."
The evening stretched naturally into a walk. The city had quieted by then, leaving only the occasional passing car and the glow of streetlights overhead. Mingyu matched your pace without thinking.
"So..." he glanced over. "How bad do I rank on the blind date scale?"
You pretended to consider it. "Hm."
He gasped. "The hesitation already tells me everything."
"I was going to say you're somewhere in the top two."
"...Out of?"
"Two."
He laughed so loudly that a couple walking past turned to look. Worth it.
A cool breeze drifted between the buildings. Without thinking, you rubbed your hands together. Mingyu noticed immediately. "Here."
Before you could protest, he slipped his jacket over your shoulders.
"Keep it." He smiled while he adjusted his jacket on you. Your eyes widened in shock, "What?"
He gave you a small smirk, "I'll get it the next time I see you."
A memory surfaced before you could stop it.
"I'm freezing." You shivered. Your teeth chattering so hard, you were scared that it would fall off.
Jeonghan glanced at you briefly before stuffing his hands deepers into his own pockets. "You should've brought a jacket. You didn't even wear gloves, Y/N. You knew it'd be cold outside tonight."
The memory disappeared as quickly as it came. You looked down at Mingyu's jacket around your shoulders.
"...Thank you."
"No problem." He smiled.
By the time your apartment building came into view, neither of you seemed particularly eager for the night to end.
"Thanks for driving me home," you said.
"I was going this way anyway."
You raised an eyebrow. "Weren't you parked in the opposite direction?"
"I didn't know you paid close attention to me, Y/N." Mingyu teased.
You laughed.
"There it is again."
"What?"
"That laugh."
Heat crept up your neck. "Oh."
"I like it."
For a second, you forgot how to respond. Then your phone buzzed in your pocket, pulling you back to reality. You glanced at the dark screen before looking up again.
"...I should head inside."
"Right."
He took a good look at you and smiled. "Goodnight, Y/N. It was a pleasure being your date tonight."
"Likewise. Goodnight, Mingyu." You got out of his car, and watched him turn the corner before unlocking your apartment.
Your flowers found a home in the only vase you owned. Mingyu's jacket still carried a faint trace of his cologne. You caught yourself smiling. Then, another uninvited memory.
It was all over the internet. 'Just because' flowers are now making rounds on social media. You weren't fond of flowers yourself, but seeing all those people receiving flowers made you happy for them. You wondered if Jeonghan would buy you 'just because' flowers. After all, you've been together for so long. Surely, he'd thought of that, right?
"Hannie?"
"Hm?"
"Would you ever buy me flowers?" You asked.
He looked at you with knitted brows, "What's the occasion?"
"Nothing." You shrugged, trying to act nonchalant. "It's just a question. Would you ever buy me flowers even if there's no occasion?"
Maybe it was your fault for being hopeful because your heart sank when he laughed at your face.
"Baby, they're going to die in a week or less. It's not practical." Jeonghan chuckled, shaking his head.
"But Seungkwan buys me flowers sometimes. He even bought me a small bouquet for Valentine's Day." You said.
"Then go date Seungkwan." Jeonghan said. His tone was light, but you knew it was off. You stared into each other's eyes and you knew it was time to drop the subject. You gave him a tight-lipped smile, "You're right. It'll just die. Waste of money, am I right?"
Jeonghan's eyes lit up. "See? I knew you'd understand. You're so smart, baby. Anyway, what's for dinner?"
You looked up at the bouquet sitting on your kitchen counter. Maybe the flowers would die less than a week, but they were beautiful and goddammit, you deserved it, anyway.
Your phone buzzed.
[Mingyu]: Hi!
You smiled.
[Y/N]: Hi
Three dots appeared almost immediately. Disappeared. Appeared again. Finally—
[Mingyu]: I'll just shoot my shot here 😅 Can I see you again?
You stared at the message longer than you'd like to admit. Your fingers hovered above the keyboard. Maybe this was the part where you should slow down. Maybe this was how people got hurt.
But then... you thought about the way he'd looked at you across the dinner table. The flowers. The jacket resting over your hair. The way he'd never once made you feel like you had to earn his attention.
Your thumbs moved before fear consumed you.
[Prettiest Girl]: I'd like that, actually :))
[Mingyu]: 🥰♥️
You couldn't help but smile. Maybe, just maybe, this could be something new.
STICKY SWEET LIKE HONEY
Somewhere between coffee dates that stretched well past sunset, late-night drives with nowhere in particular to go, and Mingyu insisting on driving you to your apartment every single time, the two of you had quietly become inseparable.
One month became two. Two became three.
Neither of you could remember whose idea it was to stop calling them dates and simply start calling each other boyfriend and girlfriend. Your first outing as an official couple came sooner than you expected.
"Just a few friends," Mingyu assured you while driving to the restaurant. "Nothing scary."
You chuckled nervously, "You say that now."
He laughed as he parked his car. He removed his seatbelt and fully turned to you, "I promise they're nice."
As soon as the two of you entered the restaurant, five heads turned toward your direction. Your eyes widened. You immediately leaned over to whisper to Mingyu. "You never told me your friends were all models."
"Hm?" Mingyu looked at them before looking back at you. "They're not, hon."
"Gyu, they're literally glowing!"
He let out a laugh before leading you over to the table. "Y/N, this is everyone." He gently rested a hand against your lower back. "Everyone, meet Y/N. My prettiest girlfriend ever."
A chorus of greetings followed.
"Hi!"
"It's nice to finally meet you."
"We've heard SO MUCH about you."
You smiled nervously before bowing your head slightly. "It's nice to meet all of you, too."
Then you leaned toward Mingyu again.
"Mingyu-yah," you whispered, "if I'd known your friends looked like this, I would've dressed up better."
The entire table erupted into laughter as you both sat down. Mingyu frowned, "Why?"
"Because they're all ridiculously attractive."
He blinked before looking around the table. "...Them?"
"Yes," you nodded. "them."
"Nah." He waved his hand dismissively. "They're just normal guys with normal jobs."
You looked at him. Then at them. Then back at him. There's no way these people had normal jobs. "You're telling me none of you are CEOs? Models? Nepo babies?"
"Absolutely not," Jaehyun laughed. "We hate nepo babies."
Mingyu nodded in agreement and let out a small "true" before moving his seat closer to yours and putting his arm around your shoulder.
Seokmin pointed at himself. "I'm Seokmin, an elementary school music teacher."
Your jaw dropped, and you shook your head. "No, you're not."
"I am." Seokmin laughed. "I spend my weekdays convincing eight-year-olds that the recorder is a real instrument."
Minghao raised his hand next. "I'm Minghao, and I own a pottery studio."
"Oh? You make bowls and stuff?" You asked, causing Mingyu to chuckle next to you.
"I make aesthetically pleasing bowls and stuff." Minghao corrected. He took a sip of his tea before smiling, "But thank you for assuming I'm a model. I'll take that as a compliment."
"Jungkook. I'm a physical therapist," Jungkook said, taking a bite of the appetizer.
"Seriously?"
"I help people recover from injuries." Jungkook nodded.
You looked at Mingyu, and he nodded. You looked back at Jungkook and gazed at his muscles before looking at his face, "I thought you lifted buildings for a living."
Jungkook chuckled, "I only lift patients who have trouble walking."
Your gaze landed on a quiet man, "Please tell me you at least work in fashion."
He smiled and shook his head. "I'm Eunwoo, and I'm actually a librarian."
Your eyes widened in shock, "You're kidding, right?"
"Nope." Eunwoo shook his head. "I spend most of my day reminding people to whisper."
"I'm Jaehyun, and I work in finance." Jaehyung grinned.
"You... willingly stare at spreadsheets?"
"Unfortunately." Jaehyun chuckled. "I like it, though. Besides, I handle these guys' finances. I can do yours too, if you want. Totally free. These guys just buy me samgyeopsal, or they treat me to a buffet every six months."
"Yah, she doesn't need it." Mingyu pouted. "She has me. Besides, we'll be having a joint account when we get married."
The table fell silent. You slowly turned to look at him.
"What?" Mingyu blinked innocently.
Jungkook looked at him over the rim of his glass. "It's only been three months."
"So?" Mingyu frowned. Minghao sighed into his tea, choosing not to say anything. After all, he meditated earlier that day.
Seokmin sighed. "Ignore him. He's always been like this. Once he likes someone he's all in."
"No, I don't!" Mingyu defended.
"You do," Jaehyun nodded. "It's actually kind of impressive."
You laughed as Mingyu reached for your hand.
"Anyway," he smiled sheepishly, "I'll handle everything. Don't want your pretty mind to be tired."
Seokmin lightly nudged Jaehyun. "Tell her."
Jaehyun sighed dramatically. "My parents couldn't afford college, so I studied hard to get a full-ride scholarship."
"Wow!" You nodded, impressed. "You must be pretty athletic, too, huh?"
Mingyu laughed, "Honey, he's not athletic enough to get through at least one sport. Not even table tennis."
"It's true," Jungkook nodded in agreement, cheeks full of food. "He's terrible at sports."
"I was dirt poor before I became a teacher," Seokmin said with a big grin. "Worked my ass off and everything."
"Same," Minghao nodded. "We all worked our asses off to get where we are."
"Amen." Mingyu raised his glass before drinking. "There are times when I'd hate my fucking job, though. Being an architect is a pain in the ass, but then I realized that this is literally what I prayed for, so I'd cut myself some slack."
You looked around the table once more as Mingyu fixed your hair for you. "So... no trust funds?"
Five heads shook.
"No secret billionaire parents?"
"I wish," Seokmin said.
"No hidden royal family?"
"Unfortunately." Eunwoo sighed.
You laughed. "I seriously can't believe any of you."
"Neither can we," Jungkook muttered, grabbing a piece of kimchi.
Everyone started eating, then another question popped into your head. "How did all of you become friends? I mean, I doubt you were co-workers, given that your line of work is completely different."
Silence. Everyone looked at each other.
"...College?" Jaehyun answered uncertainly.
Minghao nodded, "Technically."
"I honestly don't remember," Jungkook admitted.
"I do!" Seokmin announced proudly. Everyone turned to look at him. "I collected them... like Pokémon."
Jaehyun nodded. "You did."
Without warning, Seokmin shot up from his seat. He pointed dramatically toward absolutely nothing. "GOTTA CATCH 'EM ALL!"
He even threw in a fist pump for good measure. The entire restaurant fell silent. A little kid from another table gasped excitedly, while their mother sighed.
Minghao closed his eyes. "I don't know him."
"You've known me for almost ten years." Seokmin laughed as he sat down again.
"I've tolerated you for almost ten years." Minghao corrected.
Jungkook rubbed his temples. Eunwoo offered an apologetic smile to the surrounding tables. You looked at Mingyu, "Is he always like this?"
Mingyu smiled as he reached under the table to intertwine his fingers with yours. "This is actually one of his calmer days."
"You're joking, right?"
"I wish I were, baby."
You couldn't help but laugh. And just like that, the nerves you'd carried into the restaurant quietly disappeared. As all of you fell into casual conversation, a memory resurfaced again. As much as you want to shake it off, it started playing in your head.
The first time you'd met Jeonghan's friends. Joshua and Seungcheol had welcomed you politely enough.
"It's nice to meet you."
"You too."
For a moment, you'd thought the night would go well. Then the conversation shifted. University stories, military enlistment, old classmates. Inside jokes that had everyone at the table laughing.
You smiled whenever everyone else did, hoping it looked natural. Every now and then, Joshua would glance your way with an apologetic smile, almost as if he realized you'd been quiet for a while.
Seungcheol tried once. "So, Y/N, what do you—"
Before you could answer, Jeonghan interrupted with a story of his own. The conversation drifted away again. You spent the rest of dinner pushing your food around your plate, wondering if anyone had noticed you'd barely spoken at all. By the time you got home, you couldn't remember if Joshua and Seungcheol knew anything about you other than your name.
"Y/N, you're coming next week, right?" Jaehyun asked.
"Sorry, what's next week?" You asked, turning to Mingyu. He smiled and held your hand, "We do this every week, baby. It's okay if you don't want to go, but just know that the invitation is always open."
"You're so whipped." Jungkook teased, handing his card to pay the bill.
Seeing this, you quickly grabbed your wallet, but Mingyu stopped you. "Don't. Jungkook is paying this week. Next week is on Seokmin." He turned to Jungkook and said, "Also, I don't care. She's my person."
You smiled to yourself, quietly slipping your wallet back into your bag. It wasn't just the way Mingyu said things. It was how naturally they came to him.
"My prettiest girlfriend."
"She's my person."
He never hesitated; not once. Never second-guessed himself. If there was one thing you'd quickly learned after dating Kim Mingyu, it was that he loved loudly. Within an hour of making things official, his lockscreen had changed. By dinner, his profile picture followed. By the end of the night, his Instagram bio proudly read: ♥️ @yourusername.
Seungkwan kept telling you that you shouldn't compare Mingyu and Jeonghan, but you couldn't help it. They were just... different. Seungkwan would argue that they both loved differently and the way you love is just more in tune with Mingyu. He'd often tell you, "You and Hannie hyung are just way too different."
"What if we matched profile pictures?" You asked Jeonghan.
Jeonghan glanced up from his phone. "...Why?"
"I don't know." You shrugged. "It'd be cute. Besides, everyone would know that we're together."
"Y/N, I don't really see the point." Jeonghan huffed. "I mean, everyone knows we're dating. There's no need to publicize it on Instagram. I'm barely online, anyway. What matters is I love you, and you love me, right?"
Not wanting things to escalate, you gave him a small smile and decided to tease him, "Okay, Barney the Dinosaur."
Jeonghan laughed. "Wow!"
You were dropped off by Mingyu an hour ago. You were just grabbing a snack when you received a notification that Mingyu changed his profile picture. To your surprise, it was a picture of the two of you at dinner a while ago. The picture was taken by Jungkook, and it was a great candid shot.
[Prettiest GF]: Kim Mingyu
[Handsome]: ♥️♥️♥️♥️
[Prettiest GF]: You're unbelievable. Can't believe your pfp is a candid photo of us 😭💀
[Handsome]: HAHAHAHA, but I'm YOUR unbelievable, though. I'll pick you up at work tomorrow, okay? Get some sleep, pretty. Good night. I love you so much ♥️
Your smile slowly faded. Then, before you could stop it, another memory surfaced.
It had only been a few months into your relationship with Jeonghan. You'd spent the entire evening convincing yourself to say it. When he walked you to your apartment, you took a deep breath.
"Jeonghan?"
"Hm?"
"I... I love you." You stuttered.
The words slipped out before you could lose your nerve. Jeonghan looked at you. Then, he smiled. A small, almost amused smile.
"You do?"
You felt your cheeks warm and nodded. "I do."
He tucked his hands into his pockets and looked down for a second. "I think," he started, searching for the right words. "it's still a little early for me to say that."
Your smile faltered for the briefest moment. "Oh."
"It's not that I don't like you." He was quick to clarify. "I just don't say things unless I'm completely sure."
You nodded. "Right."
"I don't want to tell you I love you because it feels like the right time." He reached over and gently squeezed your hand. "When I say it, I want to mean it."
You smiled. "I understand."
And you did. You really did. It just didn't stop your heart from sinking when you got home.
You stared at your phone. Your thumb hovered over the keyboard. I love you, too. The words came so easily in your head. Your fingers, however, refused to type them. Instead...
[Prettiest GF]: Good night, Gyu ♥️
HERE'S TO HOPIN'
Being loved by Kim Mingyu was easy.
He'd show up outside your office with an iced coffee before work because he'd remembered you mentioning you were tired the night before. If you forgot an umbrella, he'd somehow already have one waiting in his car. When you complained about skipping lunch, he'd quietly drop off your favorite food with a sticky note that simply read: eat ♥️
He loved loudly. Somehow, that scared you more than you'd ever admit. It wasn't because he was too much. It was because every day, he gave you another reason to believe he'd stay. And a tiny part of you kept wondering what it would feel like if one day, he didn't.
The following Friday came around quicker than expected. Like clockwork, Mingyu was waiting outside your office building. The moment he spotted you walking out, his face lit up.
"There she is." Mingyu smiled, jogging over to you.
You smiled despite yourself. "Have you been waiting long?"
"Nah." Mingyu shook his head, grabbing your bag from you.
You took a good look at him, squinted your eyes suspiciously. "You've been here for twenty minutes, haven't you?"
"Hm," Mingyu scratched the back of his neck. "maybe."
You laughed before slipping your hand into his. "You're unbelievable."
"But I'm your unbelievable." He grinned, swinging your hands as you walked, making you laugh.
Dinner with the boys felt as chaotic as ever. Seungkwan somehow invited himself this week. No one really minded. They all liked Seungkwan, anyway. He was their gossip dealer, and what's life without any gossip?
"I'd just like everyone to know," he announced proudly while taking a seat, "that this relationship exists because of me."
"Here we go," Jaehyun sighed.
"I changed two lives." Seungkwan said, pretending to cry.
"You set up one blind date, Seungkwan-ah." Jungkook corrected. "You didn't cure cancer."
Minghao took a sip of his tea. "The Nobel Peace Prize committee must've missed your email."
"I deserve a medal!" Seungkwan exclaimed, while grabbing some food to put on his plate.
"I'll buy you dinner, Kwannie," Mingyu offered.
"I want a statue." Seungkwan said, taking a bite of food.
You laughed, looked at Mingyu, and then at Seungkwan. "I'll name our first born after you."
Seungkwan gasped dramatically, giving Seokmin whiplash. Seungkwan was practically shaking in his seat. "You mean it?"
"No." You said. The table erupted into laughter. Mingyu quietly placed another piece of grilled meat onto your plate.
"You haven't eaten enough," Mingyu said quietly.
"You worry too much." You chuckled lightly. Mingyu pouted, "I know. Sorry."
You looked at him and cupped his face with your hands. "Don't apologize for caring. I appreciate that you worry about me."
His smile returned instantly.
After dinner, the two of you sat on the hood of Mingyu's car overlooking the Han River. The city lights danced across the water. Neither of you spoke. It wasn't awkward. It never was.
Mingyu was staring at the river. "Can I ask you something?"
You turned toward him, and nodded. "Of course. Ask away."
He stayed quiet for another moment. You waited patiently. He took a deep breath and looked at you. "Do I... love you more than you love me?"
Your stomach dropped. "What?"
He laughed softly. "I know how that sounded, and I'm not asking because I'm upset."
"Mingyu..."
He rubbed the back of his neck. "I've just been thinking." He looked over at you. "You never say that you love me back. I mean, you smile, you hold my hand, you kiss me, you call me when you get home, you do all these things..." He smiled. "but you never say it."
Your chest tightened. You didn't know what to say, truly. He quickly shook his head. "I'm not keeping score, I promise. I just..." His smile faded. "Sometimes it feels like you're always waiting for something bad to happen."
"Gyu, I..."
"Honey, I don't know how to convince you that I'm not already halfway out the door. I feel like you're already grieving something that hasn't happened yet, like you're waiting for me to leave before I've even gone anywhere." Mingyu said sadly.
Your eyes immediately welled with tears. "No, Gyu..."
He reached for your hand instinctively. "I know you care about me."
"I do."
"I know." Mingyu gave you a small smile before he looked away. "I just... sometimes I wonder if I'm loving you too loudly."
The words shattered something inside you.
"No." Your voice cracked. "It's not you, Gyu."
He looked back. You took a shaky breath. "It's me."
He looked at you and patiently waited for you to explain your side.
"I know you're not Jeonghan."
His expression softened immediately.
"I've never compared you to him because I wanted to." You said, another tear rolled down your cheek. "I compare you because... I'm scared. So, so scared."
You laughed weakly through your tears. "I didn't think I'd survive that. I barely did. I mean, that was four years of my life."
Mingyu nodded in understanding.
"Then you came along." You smiled at him. "You loved me so easily, so openly, so fearlessly. It's all so new to me because it wasn't like that with Jeonghan."
You looked down at your intertwined hands. "Every time you tell me you love me, a tiny part of me keeps thinking, 'what if this is the last time?", and I don't want to know how you'll leave me. I don't ever want to know what you'll look like when you leave."
Your voice was barely above a whisper. "I love you a lot, Mingyu. I've been too scared to say it out loud."
For a long time, Mingyu didn't say anything. He simply looked at you. Then, he cupped your face with both hands. His thumbs brushed away your tears.
"I'll stay with you," His forehead rested against yours. "for as long as you want me to be."
You closed your eyes.
"I can't promise that we'll never fight. I can't promise I won't disappoint you. I can't promise that life won't get hard." A tiny smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "But I can promise you one thing..."
"Yeah?"
"I'm not looking for an exit."
A sob escaped your lips. You wrapped your arms around him. "I love you."
You felt him smile against your hair. "I know."
You pulled back just enough to look at him. "No, you don't."
His eyebrows lifted as you laughed through your tears. You took a deep, trembling breath, "I love you so much."
For the first time since you'd known him, Kim Mingyu was speechless. He simply pulled you into another hug. Holding you as though you had all the time in the world.
"For the record," he smiled. "I also hope I never see what you look like when you leave either." He gently tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.
"I mean, the Lord knows I've memorized your face so well, and I'd search for it everywhere until my next life." A tiny laugh escaped him. "You're it for me, honey."
a/n: tysm for all the love you've sent my way for the hoshi installment of this series! i hope you give mingyu's installment the same love i gave while writing it xo
Series taglist: @joongtime @neotannies @seungkwanglazer
a/n: pt ii to this. i guess im going with the moving feat. sex theme right now? i just filled up my car with my stuff and i had to sit down because its fucking HOT outside and then this was born. warnings: gn!reader, car/kind of public sex, smut - minors dni. 1k.
your car is full of boxes and clothes and kitchen appliances that are squished together so tightly that you’re surprised the doors haven’t popped open. moving has been an overwhelming task, but you’re finally on the road towards your new home and you’re excited and nervous and your stomach is full of butterflies from the anxiety.
and also from the way chan is pushing you into the steering wheel as he chases your lips in a kiss too dirty for where you are. the horn blares behind your back for a second and you startle, pushing him back so there is enough space between you and the wheel; you’re already in a public space, and even though it seems empty there’s a possibility that someone could walk by and see you.
the last five minutes feels like it’s passed by in flashes, from parking in the garage at the hotel you’re staying at on your way to your destination to him turning off the ignition and finally landing at you swinging over the middle console to straddle his hips.
the dim lighting from the garage lights makes it hard to see his face, but it doesn’t matter since your eyes flutter closed as his lips travel down your jaw towards your neck. he bites at your skin gently, pressing a fond shaped kiss to the burning spot before he pulls back.
“that eager that you couldn’t wait until we got to our room?” he asks, and you know his ears are burning red even though you can’t see them well.
“check in isn’t for another 15 minutes,” you don’t defend yourself because you kind of are eager, and instead you settle your hips down further into his. “what else are we going to do with that time?”
“i don’t know, wait in the lobby- mmph-“ you cut him off, returning your lips to his and starting a frantic rhythm that threatens to knock you off balance before he wraps his arms around you and pulls you closer into him.
you can feel his smirk against your mouth and you tilt your head just enough to bite at his lower lip, sucking it into your mouth a little too harshly and letting it go with a wet pop. you almost feel guilty when a whine escapes the back of his throat but you stop yourself from saying sorry.
he always prefers his pleasure with a cherry of pain on top, after all.
you reward his good behavior of shutting up and letting you have your ways with him with a slow roll of your hips. you can feel his growing length through his sweatpants between your legs and your body responds in kind, pulsing around nothing as you move.
“fuuuck,” he groans when you start up a steady pattern of movement, throwing his head back and exposing the milky column of his throat. you take his unspoken invitation and mouth at his pulse point, enjoying the way his heart beat jumps every time you grind against him. you’re throbbing alongside him, a growing wetness hidden in your pants, but you ignore it for now. as much as your body wants you to, you aren’t getting off right now; you refuse to take off your clothes in the middle of the day in a public space, but you know that chan is ready and willing to do any humiliating thing at a moment’s notice. he doesn’t even get off on it, he’s just weird like that.
“that’s it, channie,” you coo, your mouth close to his ear as you nose at his cheek. “let me make you feel good. i bet you’ve been thinking of doing this all day.”
“n-no, you freak,” he stutters out, and his hips jerk up to meet yours. “you’re the one who comes up with these weird ideas. i was going to-to fuck you in the- ah, the hotel bed like a normal pers-ah-“
the way he’s trying to talk with his mind clouded in pleasure is unbearably cute. so cute that you forgive him for the blame he tries to place on you for having a dirty mind. before you met him you were as vanilla as plain ice cream, he’s the one that made you like this with his weird smooth talking and long list of kinks you’ve slowly been discovering together.
“keep talking and i’ll leave you like this,” you reach a hand between your legs where your body meets his and wrap a hand around his hard cock through his clothes. you bet he’s leaking, already on edge enough to come soon, and even though you started it you’re grateful that he decided to wear black today.
you don’t know if you could have had the strength to suffer that kind of embarrassment if he had been wearing something lighter that would show undeniable proof of what you were doing minutes before entering the lobby.
“no,” he uses his grip on you to pull you impossibly further into him, crushing your hand between your bodies and sending a shuddering gasp through you both. “you’re finishing this.”
his hands move to your hips and he curls his fingers into your skin as if he thinks you’ll run away if he doesn’t hold on hard enough. he starts moving you back and forth, setting his own rhythm without any help from you, grinding you back and forth as if you were inanimate. no matter how many times you’ve been intimate with him, the moment when he switches from subby and pliant to taking what he wants has always given you whiplash.
you wrap your arms around his shoulders and enjoy the ride, a little overwhelmed by how good it feels and too lightheaded to really argue. it doesn’t take him long to reach his climax with the way he’s bucking up against you and panting into your shoulder. he jerks you towards him in one final pull before his entire body tenses and goes taut and his breath catches in his throat.
you can feel his dick twitch in your hand once, twice, before he relaxes into a puddle against the driver’s seat. his breaths are slow and heavy and his heartbeat is still pounding, and there’s a small line of sweat that trails from his temple to his jaw that you lean in to lick away.
“you’re going to have to go check us in, baby,” he thunks his head against the headrest, sighing deeply. “i can’t feel my legs.”
↳ summary: ten years of platonic safety, completely incinerated over cold kitchen marble. a frantic morning-after argument about a drunken confession turns into a dangerous game of chicken. you think you're being the smart one, desperately trying to protect a decade-long friendship from total wreckage—until a single, devastating kiss proves that neither of you can afford to stay just friends anymore.
↳ friends to lovers!au;
↳ pairing: idol!jeongguk x f!reader
↳ warnings: shameless smut, heavy praise and unprotected oral. features a completely undone, whiny, and pathetically submissive jeongguk who is brought entirely to his knees, begging for a taste before fucking you through his own overstimulation. brace yourselves........ :)
↳ word count: 13.1 k
a/n: this is actually my first ever request. here is the the original ask! the person who requested didn't reply anymore, so i took it upon myself to just run with it—yay for creative freedom and what not. hopefully i delivered question mark?
i’m a bit anxious about this ngl since it is a bit out of my comfort area so please lmk your thoughts :')
we absolutely love subkoo propaganda in this house. though i must admit, i could've made him even more sub, but baby steps am i right?
—
ONE SHOT
STARRING JEONGGUK
You’re very good at making bad decisions.
You and Jeongguk have been friends for a very long time. Platonic friends, of course. The kind of bond forged in the messy, unfiltered trenches of youth long before the rest of the world decided he belonged to them.
You remember every single time he’s been there for you, steady as an anchor. He was the one who sat on the kitchen counter at three in the morning, quietly listening to you cry over a brutal breakup, holding the pint of melting ice cream while you ranted. He was the one who dragged his exhausted body out of bed in the dead of winter just to jump-start your dead car battery, completely uncomplaining as his hands turned bright red in the freezing air. When you failed that massive university exam, he didn't offer empty platitudes; he just showed up at your door with a bag of cheap convenience store snacks and your favorite video game, sitting in silence with you until the heavy cloud in your chest lifted.
And you’ve been there for him just as fiercely. You were the one who held his hair back in a cramped, dimly lit bathroom after he drank way too much at a party, rubbing his back while he muttered pathetic apologies. You were the one who helped him pack up his entire life into mismatched cardboard boxes when he finally left his small hometown, taping the edges shut while he nervously paced the room. You even let him experiment on you with a box of cheap, questionable hair dye on a random Tuesday, resulting in a green-stained forehead and a frantic midnight run to a 24-hour pharmacy, laughing so hard your stomachs ached in the fluorescent aisles.
However, you didn't take into account that he would get famous at some point. Obviously, he had all the cards to do so, you weren't blind.
He’s attractive. He’s sweet. He has a good heart that bleeds through everything he touches.
And then there are the physical realities you've forced yourself to ignore for years. He has impeccable, impeccable hands—veiny, strong, and large enough to completely swallow yours. He has a fiercely toned body, hardened by years of relentless dance practice and gym sessions, a sharp contrast to the gentle soul inside him. And, of course, those sweet, round eyes you melt for every single time he looks up at you, completely disarming whatever defenses you try to build.
So when he texted you saying he was back home for a little while before heading out on the massive world tour again, of course you said yes.
Why would you not? He was your best friend.
Except you completely forgot that during his brief stints of downtime, Jeongguk had a tendency to pick up hyper-fixated new hobbies. Which is exactly how you found yourself standing in the doorway of his private garage, completely frozen.
He was entirely underneath the chassis of a sleek, vintage car, legs sprawling out across the concrete floor. He was straining against a stubborn bolt, and the physical effort caused his dark t-shirt to ride up drastically, exposing a wide strip of his lower abdomen.
Your eyes trapped themselves right there, staring directly at his happy trail. It was a sharp, dark line of hair cutting perfectly across his toned stomach, disappearing straight into the low waistband of his grey sweatpants.
Avert your gaze? Maybe you should. You absolutely had to.
Instead, a stray, dangerous thought crossed your mind, wondering exactly where that trail led and if it really was a happy place. You would certainly guess so, taking into account the sheer volume of women who willingly flung themselves at him daily on global television.
Jeongguk, meanwhile, was acutely aware of the shift in the room's atmosphere the second you walked in. From his vantage point beneath the metal frame, he heard your footsteps halt. He could feel the phantom heat of your eyes burning into his exposed skin. His heart did a violent flip in his chest, his fingers tightening around his wrench. He purposely stayed still for a beat longer than necessary, his breath hitching, secretly thrilled by the weight of your undivided attention.
To break the suffocating silence, you finally spoke, semi-yelling over the clinking of his tools, "Yo! Koo, what the fuck are you doing?"
Hearing your voice, Jeongguk finally kicked against the floor, sliding himself out from under the car on his mechanic's creeper.
When he fully emerged, the sight of him made your throat go completely dry. He had grease smudged across his jaw, a dirty shirt clinging to his frame, and a sweaty forehead. A few moist, dark hair strands were sticking directly to his skin, and the tiny silver hoop of his lip piercing glinted sharply in the garage lighting.
You gulped. Hard. Maybe it was just because you hadn't seen him in a while, or maybe it was because the platonic shield you usually wore was rapidly cracking to pieces.
Jeongguk blinked up at you, tracking the slight bob of your throat as you swallowed. A quiet wave of satisfaction washed over him, melting his internal nerves into something warm and soft. He let his head fall back slightly, looking up at you through his lashes with the sweetest, most innocent smile he could muster.
"Hi," he replied softly, his voice a low, raspy rumble that did absolutely nothing to help your racing pulse.
He laughed, a bright, breathless sound, and stepped toward you with his arms wide open. It was clear he wanted nothing more than to throw his arms around you after being separated by a massive ocean for months, but you immediately took a sharp step back, hands raised in a defensive barrier.
"Don't even think about it," you warned, eyeing the black grease smudged across his arms. "I am not getting engine oil all over my clothes."
Jeongguk paused, his arms still half-extended, his lips pouting into a familiar, dramatic frown. "So?" he asked, tilting his head with an entitled little whine. "It's just a shirt. I haven't seen you in forever."
Before you could reiterate that you actually liked your outfit, he reached down, gripped the hem of his dark t-shirt, and pulled it over his head in one fluid, practiced motion. Your breath caught awkwardly in your throat. Now, the toned lines of his chest and abdomen were fully on display, glistening with a light sheen of sweat under the garage lights. He didn't even seem to notice your sudden internal panic as he casually crumpled the expensive fabric into a ball, using it as a makeshift rag to roughly wipe the grease off his hands.
Tossing the ruined shirt onto a nearby tool stool, he stepped right back into your space. "Better?" he murmured, a cheeky, triumphant grin spreading across his face before he locked his bare, warm arms securely around your waist, pulling you flush against him.
You let out a defeated sigh, but you didn't pull away. You hugged him back, burying your face against the warm crook of his shoulder, the familiar, comforting scent of him cutting right through the sharp smell of gasoline and metal.
If you were being 100% honest with yourself, you did have a crush on him. You had been harboring a crush on him for a very long time.
You just never vocalized it. To you, it was always safer to remain a constant, unshakeable variable in his chaotic life rather than risk ruining something so irreplaceable. All of his past relationships had eventually crashed and burned, a pattern that only grew worse once global fame started violently colliding with his love life and relentless schedules. You had absolutely no intention of losing Jeongguk to a stupid, juvenile crush you’d developed nearly ten years ago—all because he’d sweetly given you his last cherry popsicle on a scorching summer afternoon.
Jeongguk squeezed you a little tighter before finally releasing you, though his hands lingered on your arms for a beat too long. "I want to throw a party tonight," he announced, his round eyes shining with genuine excitement as he swiped a damp strand of hair from his forehead. "Just like old times. I want to actually have fun without a million eyes on me."
You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms. "Oh? Tell me about it. Who are we inviting?"
"Only old friends," he said instantly, his tone turning protective. "Nobody new. Nobody with a hidden motive or a vendetta. Just the people who knew me before... all of this."
You smirked, a teasing glint in your eyes as you nudged his bare shoulder. "What, so you didn't bring any international flings home with you in first class?"
Jeongguk let out a self-deprecating laugh, shaking his head as he ran a hand through his messy hair. "No way. I'm going girl-sober for a while. Women completely fuck up my senses."
He wasn't lying, and you knew it. Jeongguk was a hopeless, unapologetic serial romantic. He was a boy who loved with his entire soul, completely incapable of doing anything casual even if his life depended on it. It was his ultimate Achilles' heel. He wore his heart so openly on his sleeve, entirely defenseless, and people always seemed to have other, more transactional plans for it.
"Girl-sober, huh?" you echoed, trying to ignore the sudden, dangerous flutter in your stomach at his words. "Let's see how long that actually lasts."
"Oh, it will last," Jeongguk said, his tone dropping into a quieter, more deliberate register as he looked down at you. "You'll make sure of it."
You blinked, momentarily losing your train of thought as your eyes tracked a stray bead of sweat rolling down his collarbone. "Pardon?"
"You’re the only one I can trust with my heart right now," he explained smoothly, a completely earnest, unguarded look washing over his features. He stepped a fraction closer, the heat radiating off his bare chest practically enveloping you. "So, yes. You. Making sure no one is hurting your super hot friend."
Your knees almost buckled right there on the oil-stained concrete.
Super hot?
Did he just casually drop that into conversation like he hadn't spent the last ten years being your dorky, platonic sidekick? Before you could even formulate a coherent response, Jeongguk caught the sudden shock on your face. A playful, slightly teasing glint sparked in his dark eyes, his lips tilting up at the corners.
"Am I not?" he challenged softly, tilting his head as if genuinely waiting for your assessment.
You swallowed hard, your mind scrambling to put the platonic walls back up before he noticed how fast your heart was beating. "I plead the fifth."
Jeongguk let out a breathy, dramatic groan, throwing his head back before looking down at you through his lashes. "God, Y/N, you’re so dramatic. I can openly say you’re hot."
Your brain completely short-circuited. "Sorry?"
"What?" He shrugged his shoulders, completely unfazed by the bomb he’d just dropped in the middle of his garage. "It’s not like it’s federal information. You’re attractive, I’m attractive. You should be able to speak open truths."
You gulped again, the sound loud in your own ears as you looked anywhere but at the hard lines of his chest. "Fine," you grumbled, forcing the words past your lips like a confession under interrogation. "You’re hot. Happy?"
Jeongguk’s playful smirk instantly vanished, replaced by a dramatic, exaggerated pout. He whined, the sound high and petulant, as he crossed his arms over his chest. "No, see? Now I don't even want it anymore if you don't actually believe it."
You let out a sharp scoff, throwing your hands up in disbelief. "Where the hell is that coming from?"
"I'm serious," he insisted, his voice dropping into a quieter, more vulnerable register. He stepped a fraction closer, his shoes almost touching the tips of yours. He looked down at you, completely stripped of his usual idol persona. "I don't want you to say things just because I want to hear them. I have enough people in my life for that,Y/N. Millions of them. I don't need it from you."
The sudden, raw honesty of his words hit you like a physical weight. You looked up, meeting his gaze, and swear his eyes just got ten times more sparkly and round, shimmering with a sudden, intense vulnerability.
He was practically vibrating with the unspoken urge to be perceived, truly perceived, by the only person whose opinion actually mattered to him.
The platonic armor you’d spent so long building suddenly felt paper-thin. You let out a soft sigh, reaching out to gently tap his bare chest, right over his racing heart.
"Jeongguk," you said, your voice softening, holding his gaze so he knew you meant it. "You're hot. I'm not just saying it."
The second the words left your mouth, the heavy tension broke. A massive, radiant grin split across his face, his eyes crinkling at the corners into those familiar, endearing crescent shapes.
"Thank you," he sang out in a sweet, sing-song voice, practically beaming as he swayed his shoulders from side to side like a praised toddler. The transition from a brooding, shirtless man to a needy, praise-hungry boy was so fast it made your head spin, leaving you entirely at the mercy of whatever games he was playing with your heart.
You spent the whole afternoon prepping for the said party. You were beyond glad for his shiny black card, which you used with zero remorse. It could buy the good alcohol—the top-shelf stuff his agency normally rationed him on—along with an obscene mountain of incredible snacks that you knew you would half-demolish before the guests even knocked on the door. You had bags of high-end chips, imported chocolates, and savory finger foods piled high on his marble kitchen counters, casually stealing a handful of pretzels every time you walked by.
His apartment was massive, but it was also quite dark. He had a penchant for heavy, blackout curtains and moody industrial architecture, and you laughed a ton when you tried to string up some extra LED lights around the living room and hallways. You muttered to yourself while balancing on a stool, desperately trying to ensure people wouldn't step on each other's toes in the pitch-black tomb of his very boy-coded apartment.
It was a chaotic mix of state-of-the-art gaming rigs, massive speakers, random workout equipment in the corner, and a giant plush couch that screamed bachelor pad.
His bedroom, however, was strictly off-limits. Locked and closed for the public.
As you passed the heavy wood door on your way to the bathroom, you paused. You hadn't been inside his room in a long way, and your mind naturally began to wander, curiosity pricking at your chest. You started to wonder how it had changed from the last time you were there, back when it was just a messy pile of clothes and a mattress on the floor. Now, as even a more famous star than he was at the start, did he have silk sheets? A massive canopy bed?
More dangerously, you started to wonder what women had seen those sheets. Which faces had looked up at him in the dark?
At last, you forcefully pushed the burning thought aside, shaking your head to clear the sudden spike of jealousy. It didn't matter. You had a job to do, and besides, the guests were finally starting to arrive.
The heavy front door clicked open, and the quiet tomb of his apartment was instantly flooded with chatter and laughter as his oldest childhood friends spilled into the entryway. Jeongguk was already standing by the kitchen island, the grease long washed from his skin, replaced by a soft, oversized black sweater and a fresh scent. He’d clearly been anticipating the social buffering, because by the time the first three people crossed the threshold, Jeongguk had already thrown back two heavy shots of tequila.
His round eyes were already bright and crinkling with a loose, alcohol-fueled warmth.
Throwing his hands into the air, his silver lip piercing catching the glow of the newly strung lights, he yelled at the top of his lungs, "Welcome, party people!"
The room erupted into cheers, his friends rushing forward to swarm him, throwing arms around his broad shoulders and pulling him into a chaotic huddle of loud greetings and deep belly laughs. From across the room, you leaned against the kitchen counter, watching him instantly dissolve back into the boy he used to be, completely shielded from the crushing weight of his global fame by the people who loved him first.
The party shifted into high gear with the easy, unpretentious noise of people who had nothing to prove to each other. In the hazy glow of the blue and purple lights, the living room felt less like a celebrity’s multi-million dollar fortress and more like a time capsule.
"I’m just saying," Jin-woo, one of Jeongguk’s oldest friends from his hometown, gestured wildly with a half-eaten chip, "If a zombie apocalypse happens right now, Koo is the first to die. He’s too polite. He’d try to bow to a zombie before kicking it."
"No way!" Jeongguk protested, his voice a little too loud, a little too slurred as he leaned heavily against the back of the plush couch. He poured himself another shot of tequila, his hand shaking just enough that a few drops splashed onto his knuckles. "I have muscle memory now. I’d do a 360-kick. Boom. Dead zombie."
"You'd cry if you got blood on your designer shoes," you chimed in from the kitchen island, swirling the ice cubes in your cup.
Jeongguk’s head snapped toward you instantly. His sweet, round eyes were heavily hooded, a dark, glossy sheen over them as he tracked your movement. A soft, lazy smile spread across his face, his silver lip piercing catching the strobe of the lights. "Y/N... you’re supposed to be on my side. Always."
"I am on your side. I'm just realistic," you laughed, taking a slow sip.
You were barely on your second glass of vodka cranberry, the tart liquid still mostly full as you paced yourself. You had to. Someone needed to keep an eye on the house, and more importantly, someone needed to keep an eye on him.
Jeongguk, on the other hand, was throwing them back like water. The pressure of the upcoming tour, the suffocating nature of his daily life—it was all bleeding out of him in the form of liquid courage. He was drinking to forget the idol.
An hour later, the loud, stupid arguments dissolved into the inevitable late-night deep talk. Three of his friends were sprawled on the floor, debating the existence of aliens, while Jin-woo had moved onto the balcony for a smoke.
Jeongguk somehow navigated his way over to you, his shoulders bumping into yours as he leaned heavily against the kitchen counter. He smelled like expensive cologne and sharp alcohol.
"You're barely drinking," he murmured, his voice dropping into that low, raspy rumble that always made your stomach do backflips. He reached out, his large hand wrapping around your wrist, his thumb casually brushing against your pulse point. His touch was warm, heavy, and intentionally lingering.
"Someone has to make sure you don't break your own furniture," you teased gently, though your heart was suddenly hammering against your ribs. "How many shots is that now? Five? Six?"
"Doesn't matter," he whispered, stepping a fraction closer, completely ignoring the chatter of his friends just twenty feet away. He looked down at you, his large eyes shimmering under the dim kitchen lights. "Everything feels... too loud out there, Y/N. But when I look at you, it stops."
Your breath hitched.
"Jeongguk, you're drunk," you whispered back, trying to maintain the boundary, trying not to let your ten-year-old crush completely take over.
"I am," he admitted softly, his grip on your wrist tightening just a fraction as he leaned his forehead down, almost touching your shoulder. It was that physical surrender again—putting himself entirely in your space, begging you without words to hold him together. "But I'm only brave when the sun goes down. You know that. Stay 'til sunrise. Please."
"Fine," you sighed, trying to ignore the frantic pounding in your chest as you gently patted his broad, sweater-clad shoulder. "But you’re taking the couch tonight, Koo. I’m not carrying you anywhere."
A soft, breathy laugh left his throat, and before you could even brace yourself, Jeongguk leaned in. He pressed his lips firmly against your temple, a lingering, warm pressure that smelled faintly of tequila and mint. "Thank you," he murmured against your skin, a string of another quiet, drunken thank yous spilling out of his mouth as he finally pulled back.
You stood there, entirely frozen, your brain struggling to process how to function normally. Those sweet, tactile gestures of his had remained exactly the same over the last decade. It was just a temple kiss. It was the kind of thing he’d done a hundred times when you were younger, yet now, with his shoulders framing you and his deep voice vibrating in his chest, it rattled you down to your very core.
Before you could spiral any further into your own head, Hana—one of Jin-woo’s louder cousins who had tagged along—yelled from the living room floor, clapping her hands together to get everyone's attention.
"Hey! Enough with the alien talk," Hana shouted, swirling the ice in her cup. "We should play something actually fun. Like truth or dare... or better yet, truth or drink!"
The room instantly erupted into murmurs of agreement, but nobody moved faster than Jeongguk. His face lit up, his round eyes wide and sparkling under the blue LED's as he practically jumped at the opportunity to drink more.
"Truth or drink," Jeongguk cheered, his voice loose and excited as he pushed off the kitchen counter. He grabbed the half-empty bottle of top-shelf tequila by the neck, giving you a quick, triumphant look over his shoulder. "Yes. Let's do it. I'm choosing drink every single damn time, I don't care."
He stumbled slightly as he made his way to the center of the room, dropping heavily onto the plush rug right in the middle of the circle, looking up at everyone like a kid waiting for a game to start. He was already so completely undone, and as you walked over to join the circle with your barely touched vodka cranberry, a sudden, heavy wave of anticipation settled deep in your stomach.
You knew exactly how Jeongguk played games when he was like this. He was honest to a fault, but tonight, with the alcohol running warm through his veins he might start being too honest.
The bottle of tequila sat right in the center of the hardwood floor, spinning rapidly under the flashing lights until it slowed down, its neck pointing directly at Jin-woo.
"Alright, alright," Jin-woo grinned, leaning forward on his knees. He looked across the circle at Jeongguk, who was sitting cross-legged, a little loopy, swaying slightly to the music. "Koo. First round. Truth or drink. What is the absolute worst thing about being a global superstar? Give us the real dirt."
You expected Jeongguk to reach for his cup immediately. His agency spent millions of dollars training him to handle questions like this with perfectly polished, diplomatic answers. Instead, Jeongguk just let out a soft, hazy laugh, his eyes dropping to his hands.
"The loneliness," he said, the sheer honesty of his voice cutting right through the lighthearted party atmosphere. The circle went quiet. Jeongguk looked up, his round eyes wide and entirely undisguised by his usual idol armor. "You think you're surrounded by the world, but when the stage lights go off, you're just sitting alone in a sterile hotel room in a country where you don't speak the language, wondering if anyone actually misses you, or if they just miss the guy on the posters. It's suffocating."
A collective, sympathetic hum went around the room. Jin-woo blinked, clearly not expecting him to drop something so heavy in the first five minutes. You felt a familiar twist of pain in your chest, your eyes softening as you looked at him. Jeongguk didn't take a sip, he just gave a tiny, vulnerable shrug, completely comfortable laying his soul bare in front of the people who knew him before the fame.
Hana spun the bottle next. It whirled around before grinding to a halt, pointing straight back at Jeongguk.
"Oh, my turn," Hana perked up, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Okay, Jeongguk. You said earlier today that you're 'girl-sober' right now. So tell the truth: when was the last time you actually kissed someone, and did it mean anything?"
You held your breath, your fingers tightening around your glass of vodka cranberry.
Jeongguk tilted his head back against the edge of the couch behind him, a slow, lazy smile spreading across his face. He didn't even reach for the tequila bottle. "Two years ago," he stated bluntly, his voice a low, raspy rumble. "A girl I met during a break between promotions. And no, it didn't mean anything. That was the problem. I tried to make it mean something because I hate casual stuff, but she just wanted to tell her friends she was dating an idol. It felt transactional. I hated it."
"Damn," Hana muttered, taking a drink of her own beer out of pure secondhand awkwardness. "You're really not holding back tonight, are you?"
"I told you," Jeongguk murmured, his dark, glossy eyes suddenly shifting across the circle until they locked directly onto yours. "I don't want to say fake things tonight. I'm tired of it."
Before the heavy silence following Jeongguk’s sudden drink can completely suffocate the room, Jin-woo quickly reaches out and gives the glass bottle another aggressive spin. It whirs sharply on the hardwood floor, a blur of green glass under the flashing blue lights, before slowing down and pointing its cap directly at you.
"Oh, finally! The spotlight shifts," Hana cheers, leaning forward on her elbows with a wicked, deeply intrigued grin. She doesn't hesitate for a second. "Okay, Y/N. Truth or drink. We all know you're fiercely independent in your daily life, but does that translate to the bedroom? Are you the type who likes to be completely in charge, calling all the shots, or do you prefer to submit?"
Your heart does a violent, erratic leap against your ribs. Out of the corner of your eye, you feel Jeongguk freeze.
You slowly turn your head to look at him, and the sheer intensity of his gaze almost makes you gasp. His sweet, round eyes are completely dark, his pupils blown so wide they nearly swallow the irises. He’s staring at your lips, his chest heaving under his oversized black sweater, practically vibrating with a sudden, suffocating hunger. He looks entirely undone by the question, his lips parting slightly as he waits for your answer with a desperate, breathless anticipation.
You clear your throat, forcing your voice to remain steady. "I think prefer being in charge," you reply, keeping it blunt and confident. "I like the feeling of control."
A low, collective “Ooooooh” ripples through the circle of friends, but you barely hear them. The absolute heat of Jeongguk’s unblinking stare is burning into your skin, making your throat go completely dry. Even though you answered the truth, you desperately need a distraction, so you lift your glass of vodka cranberry and take a heavy, long sip, letting the tart alcohol burn away the sudden spike of nerves.
"Knew it!" Hana laughs loudly, raising her cup to you in approval. "A total boss. Honestly, whoever ends up in your bed is a lucky bastard."
Hana grabs the bottle next, giving it a careless flick to keep the game moving. It spins and lands right back on her. Jin-woo immediately jumps in with a smirk. "Alright, Hana, truth or drink: Is it true you secretly cried when your ex got a matching tattoo with his new girlfriend?" Hana gasps, throwing a couch pillow directly at his face before grabbing her beer. "Shut up! I'm drinking, I am absolutely drinking for that one," she groans, chugging a massive gulp while everyone erupts into loud, teasing laughter.
The distraction gives you a brief moment to breathe, but when you glance back at Jeongguk, he hasn't moved an inch. He is still looking up at you from his spot on the floor, his silver lip piercing glinting.
The bottle gets spun again, whirring lazily until it grinds to a halt, pointing directly at another childhood friend, Jisung.
Jisung groans, rubbing the back of his neck. "Ah, man. Go easy on me. I've had a rough week."
Seojun leans forward, a thoughtful expression replacing his usual mischievous grin as the atmosphere shifts back into something a bit deeper. "Alright, Jisung. Real talk. Truth or drink: Since we're all getting older and life is pulling us in different directions, do you ever feel like you're getting left behind by the rest of us?"
Jisung sighs, a sad, honest smile touching his lips as he looks around the circle, his eyes briefly lingering on Jeongguk’s massive, luxurious apartment. "Yeah," Jisung admits softly, his voice quiet against the background music. "Sometimes it's hard. Like, I'm so incredibly proud of Koo, and I love seeing all of you succeed, but looking at my own nine-to-five... it makes me feel like I'm standing still while everyone else is running. It's a weird kind of pressure."
"Dude, no," Jeongguk speaks up instantly, his raspy voice full of genuine affection. He leans forward, completely breaking the circle's boundary to grab Jisung’s shoulder, squeezing it tightly with his hand. "Don't ever think that. None of this fame stuff matters if I don't have you guys to come home to. You're not left behind. You're exactly where you need to be."
Jisung smiles, visibly touched, and raises his glass to clink it against Jeongguk's tequila bottle. The warmth of their old friendship fills the room, but as Jeongguk pulls his hand back, his dark, heavy eyes slide right back to yours.
The rest of the party continued in a hazy blur of slurred words, loud, nostalgic belly laughs, and increasingly messy drinking. By the time the clock crawled past three in the morning, the high-energy atmosphere had completely dissolved. The final straw came when Jisung, looking pale and thoroughly defeated by the alcohol, stumbled toward the entryway and nearly threw up directly into a massive, expensive indoor plant pot.
Jin-woo caught him by the back of his jacket just in time. That was officially everyone's cue to leave.
There was a chaotic fifteen minutes of shuffling feet, mumbled thank-yous, and heavy slaps on shoulders as you helped herd his childhood friends out into the hallway. When the heavy front door finally clicked shut, the sudden, absolute silence of the multi-million dollar apartment felt deafening.
You turned back toward the living room, only to find Jeongguk dragging his feet across the hardwood floor. True to his word from earlier, he was clutching a plush, oversized pillow under one arm and trailing a heavy, dark duvet behind him, preparing to claim the sofa.
He was so incredibly drunk. His broad shoulders were slouched under his black sweater, his movements completely uncoordinated. As he tried to navigate around the low coffee table, his knee clipped the edge, causing him to stumble awkwardly. His hand shot out to steady himself, almost knocking an empty highball glass clean off the wood surface.
"Whoa, easy there," you murmured, quickly stepping into his space. You grabbed the glass before it could shatter, setting it safely aside, and then crouched down slightly to match his eye level as he heavily dropped his weight onto the edge of the cushions. "Koo... look at you. I think you should actually just take the bed tonight. I can sleep out here."
Jeongguk immediately gestured a clumsy, emphatic no with his hand, shaking his head so hard a few strands of dark hair fell into his face. The sudden movement clearly sent a wave of vertigo through him, because it was instantly followed by a pained, whispered, "Jesus..."as he tightly pressed his palm against his forehead, closing his eyes against the dim lights.
You cocked a brow at him, amused but secretly melting at how soft and defenseless he looked when the tough idol persona was stripped away entirely. "See? You can barely hold your head up. Go to your room, Jeongguk."
"No," he rasped, his voice incredibly deep and thick with sleep and alcohol. He slowly dropped his hand from his face, lifting his head to look up at you through his thick lashes. His sweet, round eyes were heavily hooded, wide and shimmering with some sort of vulnerability. "Don't go yet. Let's... let's talk for a while. I missed you. I missed you so much, Y/N."
Your heart did a violent, erratic hammer against your chest at the sheer desperation in his tone. It was a direct plea, completely unguarded.
Despite the warning bells screaming in your head about your decade-long crush, you found yourself complying. You let out a soft breath and sat down right next to him on the couch, the plush cushions sinking under your weight as his heavy, warm presence instantly enveloped you in the quiet dark.
The moment you settled onto the cushion, his heavy head fell sideways, landing directly on your shoulder. You were instantly engulfed by his scent. It was a fragrance so deeply familiar to you, cutting right through the tequila-infused softness he had going on tonight.
Jeongguk always smelled incredibly clean. Over the years, you had grown to associate crispy, clean cotton smells with his smile. Whenever his brutal, tight schedules didn't allow him the time to text or call you for weeks on end, you had found a strange sort of reprieve in those scents—buying detergents or candles that smelled like fresh laundry just to feel like he wasn't entirely a world away.
He shifted against you, his cheek rubbing into the fabric of your shirt as the quiet apartment settled around you both. He noted the sudden, heavy silence in the room and tilted his head up just enough to look at your profile, his bottom lip pushing out into an almost childlike pout.
"Did not you miss me too?" he asked, his deep voice muffled against your neck, raw and terribly needy.
You couldn't help the soft smile that tugged at your lips. You turned your head slightly, your breath brushing over his hair. "Obviously, Koo. How could I not? You’re my best friend."
At the word friend, Jeongguk let out a low, vibration-heavy hum in his chest. It wasn't a happy sound. He closed his eyes, his brow furrowing as he tightly gripped a fistful of the dark duvet resting on his lap.
"I'm so confused," he whispered, the admission sounding small and cracked.
You blinked, shifting slightly so you could look down at his face. "Why?" you asked softly, your heart doing a nervous, anticipatory flutter against your ribs. "What's making you confused?"
"Because it should feel different," Jeongguk muttered, his voice dropping into a register so low and raspy it sent a physical shiver straight down your spine. He didn't lift his head from your shoulder. He just pressed closer, his warm breath seeping through the fabric of your shirt.
You grew thoroughly confused, your fingers tightening around the edge of the couch cushion. "What? What should feel different, Koo?"
He let out a ragged, heavy sigh, his chest expanding against your side. "Everything," he whispered. "I’ve been thinking for a while... that love, real romantic love, should feel at least as deep and all-consuming as the type of love I have for you."
The wind was completely knocked out of your lungs. For a terrifying second, you forgot how to breathe entirely. Your mind raced back over the last ten years, the late-night phone calls, the quiet domesticity of your friendship, and the heavy, burning crush you had tried so desperately to bury. You bit your lip hard, the sharp sting of pain the only thing keeping you grounded, in a desperate attempt to steady your trembling voice.
"Jeongguk," you breathed, your voice barely audible over the hum of the refrigerator in the quiet apartment. "What... what do you mean by that?"
He finally pulled his head back from your shoulder, shifting on the plush cushions so he could face you fully. He looked entirely undone by the alcohol and the sheer weight of his own thoughts. He started explaining with his hands, his long fingers cutting through the dim light. His intricate tattoos shifted across his skin, and the silver rings on his fingers glinted sharply in the dark as he gestured in frustration.
"I can't do casual, Y/N," he said, his eyes wide, glossy, and swimming with a desperate, heavy sensitivity. "I can't. Because I know how true love should feel. I know it because of you. Every single time I’ve tried to date, every time I’ve tried to build something with someone else, I find myself associating what I feel for them in comparison with you."
A beat.
Two beats.
Three beats.
The silence in the room became so heavy it was suffocating.
"And every single time," Jeongguk whispered, his head tilting down as he looked up at you through his lashes, completely stripping away his defenses and surrendering his heart right into your hands, "I’ve found that they always come short. In comparison with you."
You tried to diffuse the situation right then and there. Your brain was working in overdrive, frantically constructing walls because the alternative—believing him—meant stepping into a territory that could ruin everything you had built over the last years.
He was drunk. He was clearly not thinking straight. He was currently trying to be girl-sober, and in your mind, he was just projecting his deeply ingrained, serial monogamist tendencies onto the closest, safest thing he had. You.
It wasn’t true. It couldn't be true.
"Jeongguk," you said, your voice tight as you forced a breath into your lungs, desperately trying to ignore how loud your own heart was knocking against your ribs. "I think you’re just projecting. You're exhausted, you've been lonely on tour, and you're just confusing comfort for something else."
He muttered a low, ragged "Jesus..."again, his hand rising to tightly press against his forehead. He didn't even seem to fully process what you said, completely deaf to the frantic rhythm of your chest as the alcohol and the emotional weight of his own confession finally dragged him under.
The raw intensity in his eyes flickered out, replaced by heavy exhaustion. Without another word, he let his upper body slide sideways, his head plopping heavily onto the plush pillow he’d thrown on the edge of the couch.
He curled his body slightly into the cushions, his dark lashes fluttering shut as a deep, uneven breath left his parted lips, leaving you sitting there in the dim blue LED light, completely frozen next to him.
That’s when you realize his bedroom door was probably still locked, a solid block of wood protecting a room you weren't allowed to enter.
You had absolutely no option but to sleep on the couch next to him. Letting out a quiet, defeated breath, you grabbed the edge of the heavy, dark duvet he’d brought out, pulling it over both of your bodies to shield against the air conditioning. You shifted your weight, settling into the cushions as best you could, and tried to sleep.
It was impossible. Seven thousand thoughts were swirling in your mind, a chaotic storm of memory and denial.
But Jeongguk was drunk.
He was completely out of it, his deep, even breaths rising and falling against your side. He wouldn't remember this in the morning, you told yourself. Tomorrow, the sun would come up, the platonic armor would go back on, and he would just be your best friend again. You closed your eyes, letting the clean cotton scent of him anchor you as you finally drifted into a restless sleep, completely unaware of how thin the line between you had truly become.
But the next morning, he was nowhere to be seen.
When you finally opened your eyes, blinking against the harsh, bright sunlight piercing through the cracks of the heavy blackout curtains, the couch beside you was completely empty. You checked your phone—it was god knows what hour of the late morning—and the realization that you were alone in the vast, quiet space hit you like a cold splash of water. The heavy dark duvet was pulled back, the plush pillow still holding the indentation of his head, but Jeongguk was gone.
So naturally, you grew a bit anxious.
A tight, familiar knot formed in the pit of your stomach as you sat up, the silence of the multi-million dollar apartment suddenly feeling incredibly heavy. Your mind instantly began to scramble, racing back through the events of the previous night. You hoped with everything you had that he would just forget what he said last night. You prayed the tequila had completely wiped his memory, that the slurred confessions about true love and people coming up short in comparison to you would just evaporate into the morning air. If he forgot, everything could go back to normal. You could go back to being the constant, unshakeable variable in his life.
But then the darker, terrifying thoughts started to bleed in, turning your anxiety into full-blown panic.
What if he remembered? What if he woke up with a pounding headache and a crystal-clear recollection of every single word that had left his mouth? What if he was so thoroughly mortified, so repulsed by the fact that he had crossed that sacred platonic line and laid his soul bare, that he had physically chosen to flee his own home just to avoid looking you in the eye?
You stood up, your knees slightly shaky, your eyes darting toward the hallway. His bedroom door was still closed, but the heavy silence in the apartment made it feel like he had abandoned the entire place just to escape the mess he’d created in the dark.
That’s when you heard the faucet running.
The sharp, metallic hiss of rushing water cut through the suffocating silence of the apartment, drawing your attention toward the kitchen. Your heart skipped a beat, the knot of anxiety in your stomach loosening just a fraction, only to tighten again with a completely different kind of tension.
With small steps, your feet padding quietly against the cold hardwood floor, you made your way down the hall. Every single breath you took felt like lead, heavy and burning in your chest. You braced yourself for a tense, awkward confrontation, preparing to play off his drunken rambling as a massive joke.
Instead, you rounded the corner and saw him in all his glory, completely naked from the belt up.
The bright morning sunlight poured through the kitchen window, hitting the sharp, fiercely toned lines of his back and shoulders as he stood in front of the sink. He had a clean pair of grey sweatpants hanging low on his hips, exposing that dark, dangerous happy trail you’d been obsessing over the day before. His skin practically glistened, completely washed clean of the previous night's sweat and alcohol, and his dark, damp hair strands curled slightly around his nape. He was rinsing out a couple of mugs, hands moving with effortless, domestic grace.
As if sensing your presence, Jeongguk turned around.
There was no repulsion on his face. No awkwardness, no frantic desire to flee. Instead, his sweet, round eyes instantly crinkled at the corners, and a warm, lazy grin spread across his face, his silver lip piercing catching the morning light.
He greeted you in a sweet, entirely normal manner.
"Morning, sleepypants," he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly morning rumble that vibrated pleasantly in the quiet air. He set the mug down and gestured toward the espresso machine on the counter. "Coffee?"
You sit down awkwardly on one of the high barstools at the marble kitchen island, your hands folded in your lap as you nod your head. "Yes, please. Black is fine."
The silence stretches between you for a bit, heavy and thick on your end, though Jeongguk seems entirely unbothered as he presses a button on the espresso machine. The low whirring of the grinder fills the space, and the rich, dark scent of coffee begins to bloom in the air. Your mind is still a frantic mess of questions, the sheer weight of his shirtless torso in the bright morning light not helping your ability to think straight.
Unable to take the suspense any longer, you clear your throat. "Koo?"
He hums in response, not turning around just yet as he watches the dark liquid drip into the mugs, patiently waiting for you to continue.
You swallow hard, tracing a invisible line on the marble counter. "Do you... do you remember last night?"
Jeongguk freezes for a split second, his shoulders tensing just a fraction before he slowly turns around to face you. He leans back against the counter, crossing his tattooed arm over his bare chest, a totally blank, deadpan expression washing over his features.
"Last night?" he repeats, blinking his eyes with exaggerated confusion. He tilts his head, looking down at his own bare torso and then back up at you. "Wait... what year is it?"
You instantly catch onto the stupid joke, a rush of exasperated relief flooding your chest. You reach out, grabbing a random crumpled tissue you found sitting on the edge of the counter, and throw it straight at his face.
He ducks, but it clips his shoulder anyway. Jeongguk bursts into a loud, boxing-glove laugh, his eyes crinkling into those familiar, endearing crescents as the heavy tension in the room instantly evaporates.
"Yes," he says, his laughter dying down into a soft, knowing smile as he holds your gaze, his voice dropping back into that low morning cadence. "I remember last night, Y/N."
Your stomach drops straight through the floor. The relief you felt a second ago evaporates, replaced by a sudden, choking wave of heat that rises all the way to your face. You fumble with your words, your tongue feeling thick and clumsy as you try to form a coherent sentence.
"You—you remember?" you stammer, your hands nervously gripping the edge of the marble counter. "Then... what you said on the couch. Before you fell asleep. Did you... I mean, did you actually mean it?"
Jeongguk stays quiet for a while. The playful morning light suddenly feels too bright, too exposing. He doesn't move from where he’s leaning against the counter, but the easy grin vanishes from his face. He looks down at his feet, his throat bobbing as he swallows hard, his chest expanding with a deep, deliberate breath.
When he finally lifts his head, his eyes are dead serious, devoid of any tequila-induced haze.
"Yes," he says, his voice a low, steady vibration. "I meant it."
You blink, your chest tightening so fast it hurts. "What... what did you mean, Jeongguk? Exactly?"
"I meant what I meant," he mutters, his jaw clenching as he shifts his weight. He crosses his arms tighter over his bare chest, a defensive instinct kicking in as he tries to maintain his footing. He’s trying to stay casual, trying to play the enigmatic card, but the slight twitch in his silver lip piercing gives him away.
"Yes, but what does it mean?" you push, your voice cracking slightly out of frustration. You lean forward on the barstool, completely done with the riddles. "You don't get to drop a bomb like that, tell me everyone else comes short in comparison to me, and then just say 'I meant what I meant.' What does that mean for us, Jeongguk? What are you actually saying?"
Jeongguk stares at you, the silence stretching out between you like a taut wire. You can practically hear the furious looping in his head, the terrifying friction between the decade of friendship holding him back and the raw, suffocating desire to just stop hiding.
"It means exactly what you think it means, Y/N," he says defensively, his voice rising a fraction. "Why do I have to spell it out?"
"Because you were drunk!" you snap back, your own walls going up because you're terrified of getting your hopes destroyed. "Because people say crazy things when they've had six shots of tequila! You told me I'm the standard for your love life. Do you have any idea how insane that is to hear from your best friend?"
That's the breaking point.
Jeongguk cracks. The stubborn, defensive posture completely shatters, his arms dropping to his sides as he takes a sudden, aggressive step forward, closing the distance between the counter and your stool. He looms over you, his bare chest heaving, his eyes wide and burning with a desperate, chaotic intensity.
"It's not insane!" he bursts out, his voice cracking with a raw, emotional force that echoes through the quiet kitchen. He grips the edge of the marble island right next to your thighs, leaning down until his face is just inches from yours, entirely undone. "It's not the tequila, Y/N! I've been sober for months on tour and I thought about it every single day. Every girl I look at, every person I talk to, I'm just looking for you in them. I'm tired of pretending I don't. I'm tired of the mystery. I meant that I’m in love with you, okay? I’ve been in love with you for years!"
"You're crazy!" you snap back, the pure panic in your chest bubbling over into anger as you push yourself back against the barstool. "You are completely crazy, Jeongguk! You can’t just wake up one day and decide to ruin a ten-year friendship because you had a breakthrough on tour! You don't just get to tear down everything we built because you feel like it!"
He flinches as if you physically struck him. The fierce, looming intensity drains from his posture in an instant, leaving him looking raw and incredibly small despite his broad frame. His eyes turn visibly sad, a thick, glossy sheen coating them under the bright kitchen lights. His jaw tightens, his silver lip piercing trembling just a fraction before a bitter, hurt laugh leaves his throat.
"Well, excuse the fuck out of me if I have feelings," he spits out, his voice cracking with a dangerous mix of anger and absolute rejection. He pulls his hands off the marble counter and takes a step back, wrapping his arms tightly around his torso again, as if trying to shield his chest from you. "Excuse me for actually trusting my best friend enough to be honest. I didn't decide to feel this way, Y/N."
"It’s not even about that!" you yell back, your hands flying into the air out of sheer frustration. You slide off the barstool, finally standing on your own two feet so you don't have to look up at him. "Jeongguk, think for one second! Could you actually afford to lose me if a relationship goes south? If we do this, if we cross that line and it blows up in our faces, we don't get to go back to being friends. I'm gone. You're gone. Everything is ruined. Can you honestly afford that?"
At your words, his entire demeanor shifts from heartbroken to super pissy and defensive, the vulnerability of his ego being bruised making him lash out.
"It wouldn't go south!" he barks, his chest heaving as he glares down at you, his face flushing a furious, hurt red. "Why are you already deciding we're going to fail? And you know what? It doesn't even matter because you’re standing here acting like you have the high moral ground! Like you're the only one who cares about our friendship and I'm just some reckless idiot trying to break it!"
"I don’t have a moral ground!" you shout, stepping right into his space, your voice matching his volume. "I’m just trying to be smart about this! Someone has to be, because you're clearly letting your emotions run completely wild right now!"
"Why should you be smart?!" Jeongguk erupts, his frustration completely breaking through the ceiling. He throws his hands up, the silver rings on his fingers flashing aggressively in the morning sun. He steps so close you can feel the radiating, shirtless heat of his skin, his breath hitting your face in short, ragged gasps. He looks down at you, his eyes searching your face with a suffocating anger. "Why do you always have to be the logical one? Tell me the truth, Y/N—have you ever even thought about me that way? Even once? Or am I just the only idiot who’s been suffocating in this for years?"
"Of course I’ve thought about you that way!" you burst out, the truth ripping through your throat before you could even try to stop it. "Every single day for the last ten years, Jeongguk! I have been suffocating right next to you, watching you date other people, watching you become a global superstar, completely terrified that if I said a word, I’d lose you forever!"
Jeongguk completely freezes. The furious, pissy retort dies right on his tongue, his mouth hanging open slightly as his chest heaves. His round eyes widen, the glossy unshed tears making them look impossibly huge as he processes your words.
"You..." he stammers, his voice becoming a breathless, vulnerable whisper. "You have?"
"Yes! But you’re sitting here acting like it’s so simple," you say, your voice trembling with an overwhelming mix of anger, frustration, and a decade's worth of built-up tension. You take a step closer, your eyes locking onto his parted lips, then tracing up to the raw, completely undone expression on his face. He looks so helpless, so utterly desperate for your touch, standing there shirtless in the bright morning light.
You need him to understand. You need to prove to him that this isn't just some casual, easy dynamic he can play with. You want to prove a point—to show him exactly what he's playing with, exactly how dangerous this boundary truly is.
Before he can utter another word, you reach out, your fingers gripping the soft fabric of his sweatpants at his hip to pull him in, and you slam your lips against his.
Jeongguk lets out a sharp, muffled gasp into your mouth, his entire body jolting at the sudden impact. But the hesitation lasts for less than a second. The moment he realizes you are actually kissing him, he completely shatters. A low, desperate groan rumbles deep in his chest, and his tattooed hands flies to your waist, his fingers digging into your skin with a terrifying, suffocating hunger.
The kiss is chaotic, fierce, and overflowing with ten years of unspoken agony. You pour everything into it—all the logic, all the smart choices, all the fear of losing him—crushing your lips against his until your teeth click. He tastes like the rich espresso he just brewed and the sharp, lingering heat of his own desperation. He follows your lead completely, surrendering to the dominance you admitted to just hours before, letting you call every single shot as he whimpers against your mouth, his frame trembling beneath your hands.
When you finally pull back, your chest heaving, your lips swollen and tingling, you try to step away to establish the boundary again. "See?" you breathe out, your voice shaky as you stare at his dark, completely blown-out pupils. "That is what we lose if—"
"No," Jeongguk whines instantly, the sudden loss of your lips making him sound incredibly small and pathetic. His hands tighten on your waist, physically yanking you right back against his bare, warm chest. His nose brushes against yours, his breath hot and ragged. "No, Y/N. Please. Just one more. One more."
"Jeongguk, I'm trying to make a point—"
"I don't care about the point," he groans, his voice turning super whiny, his bottom lip pushing out in a desperate, pouty expression that completely contrasts his heavily tattooed, muscular frame. He leans his forehead against yours, his eyes fluttering shut as he practically begs. "Just one more kiss. Please. Y/N. One more, and then I’ll listen to the logical stuff. Just one more."
You melt away entirely under the pathetic, desperate drag of his voice. Every ounce of your hard-earned logic completely liquefies, dripping away into the space between your pounding hearts as you slide your hands up his radiating chest to cup the back of his neck, pulling him right back down to you.
The moment your lips meet again, Jeongguk kisses you like it’s the only thing he was ever put on this earth to do.
It is an agonizingly deep, consuming kiss that destroys any remaining illusion of your platonic past. He devours you, his plush lips parting with a fierce, wet desperation that immediately slicks your skin. He uses his tongue with a heavy, deliberate stroke, sweeping into your mouth to claim you entirely, tasting intensely of the bitter espresso and the sweet, clean mint from earlier. Every tilt of his head is a calculated shift to press deeper, his silver lip piercing sliding hot and sharp against your bottom lip, an intoxicating friction that sends a jolt of pure electricity straight to your core.
You let out a helpless, broken moan right into his mouth, the sound vibrating against his teeth.
The small noise completely undoes him. Jeongguk’s hands abandon your waist to roam frantically all over you, his palms hot and heavy as they map out your body. He slides his hands down the curve of your back, his blunt fingernails digging into your clothes, before lifting up to cup your jaw, his tattooed thumb firmly pressing against your pulse point to hold you perfectly still for his assault. His chest presses flush against you, the hard, sculpted lines of his abdomen crushing into your frame until you can feel the frantic, booming rhythm of his heart matching your own.
He is entirely consumed, a slave to the sudden shift in your dynamic.
He briefly breaks the kiss, his lips only parting a fraction of an inch from yours, leaving a string of wet, heavy breaths between you. His glossy eyes flutter open, looking at you with a gaze so completely wrecked and swimming with desire that it makes your knees buckle. He whines against your skin, a high, desperate sound cutting through his deep morning rasp as his forehead drops heavily against yours.
"I'm gonna make you feel good," he pleads, his breath hot and ragged against your swollen mouth as his hands slide back down to desperately grip your hips. "Please, Y/N... please let me make you feel good. Just let me. Please."
You don’t reply right away, your mind completely fracturing into a thousand pieces as you stand frozen in his kitchen. Your thoughts pull you in every direction, desperately trying to analyze the wreckage of the last five minutes.
The damage is done. You already kissed him—not just a gentle slip of the lips, but a fierce, devastating confession of a kiss that blew every single one of your carefully constructed boundaries right out the door. The sacred line of the friendship hasn't just been crossed; it’s been entirely incinerated.
As you stare down at his flushed face, a dark, heavy thought slips into your mind, taking root before your logic can tear it down: Would it really be so bad to just go through with it?
If everything is already broken, if the mystery is gone, why keep fighting the very thing that’s been suffocating you both for a decade? You look at his chest rising and falling in sharp, ragged gasps, his skin radiating a maddening heat that pulls you in like gravity.
Before a single word can tumble past your swollen lips, Jeongguk completely unravels. His knees give out, hitting the hardwood floor with a soft thud as he drops down right in front of you.
The global superstar, the man who fills stadiums worldwide, is entirely brought to his knees, looking up at you with huge, glassy, pleading eyes. He looks so sweet, so raw, and completely submissive to whatever you decide next.
"Please," he whimpers, the word spilling out of him like a broken prayer. "Please, Y/N."
He doesn't wait for your permission. His hands slide up the back of your legs, his palms scalding hot through the fabric of your clothes as he pulls your hips closer to his face. He buries his face against you, his warm forehead pressing firmly against your lower stomach as a ragged breath hitches in his throat.
"Let me make you feel good," he begs into your clothes, his voice dropping into a desperate, deep vibration that resonates straight through your skin. "Just let me do this for you. Please."
Then, his plush lips press against your clothed thighs.
He kisses you right through the fabric, his mouth hot and damp, leaving heavy, branding presses of his lips along the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. He nuzzles his face deeper against your legs, whining softly when you don't immediately push him away. The absolute friction of his silver lip piercing catching against the material, combined with the desperate, worshipful way his hands tighten on the back of your thighs, makes your breath hitch sharply in your throat. Your hands fly to his bare shoulders just to keep yourself steady, your fingers digging into his smooth, firm skin as the room tilts on its axis.
Your fingers sink deeper into the smooth muscle of his bare shoulders as the sheer weight of his worship pulls you under. The internal debate, the frantic logic, the fear of what happens when the dust settles—it all completely evaporates.
"Okay," you finally whisper, the single word cutting through his desperate, ragged breaths. "Okay, Jeongguk. Do it."
The permission hits him like an electric shock. He doesn't waste a single second, his hands moving with an frantic, desperate urgency. He grips the waistband of your pants and underwear together, his knuckles brushing against your skin as he tugs them down your legs in a breathless hurry. You kick out of them, your feet hitting the cool hardwood floor, leaving you completely exposed to him in the middle of the bright kitchen.
When he leans his head back in, you let out a sharp, involuntary hiss as the hot, concentrated burst of his breath hits your sensitive pubic area.
But he doesn't touch you yet. Jeongguk just stays frozen on his knees, his hands still tightly gripping the back of your thighs to anchor you in place. He’s just looking. His sweet eyes are wide and completely dark with a devastating mixture of awe and pure hunger. His chest heaves, his silver lip piercing glinting as his lips part slightly, his gaze completely tracing every inch of you as if he’s memorizing a holy text.
The intense, unblinking weight of his stare makes you shift your weight, a sudden spike of heat rushing to your face. "Jeongguk," you breathe out, your voice trembling. "What... what are you doing?"
"I need more room," he rasps, his voice dropping into a thick, desperate growl.
Before you can even process the words, his large hands slide under your thighs and around your back. In one swift, effortless motion, he lifts you completely off the ground. You let out a small gasp, your arms instinctively wrapping around his neck as he carries you out of the kitchen. He moves with a singular, fierce focus, and in a matter of seconds, you’re in his bedroom.
He lays you down onto the mattress, and you find yourself completely sprawled across the dark, silk sheets of his bed, the heavy clean cotton scent of him enveloping you entirely.
Jeongguk doesn't even let you catch your breath. He crawls up onto the mattress immediately, his large, heavy body looming over yours for a fraction of a second before he slides right back down between your thighs. He hooks your knees over his shoulders, pinning you open, and buries his face directly between your legs.
The first touch of his tongue is a wet, heavy stroke that makes your entire body arches off the bed. He eats you out like it’s a form of salvation, his mouth hot, wide, and utterly ravenous against your wet skin. He uses his tongue with a frantic, consuming rhythm, lapping at you with deep, deliberate strokes that pull a loud, undone moan right from your throat. The slick, wet sounds of his mouth against you echo in the quiet room, completely destroying any lingering sanity.
Even as he devours you, the desperate, pleading energy from the kitchen doesn't leave him. Every time you twist your fingers into his damp, dark hair to pull him closer, a muffled, high whine breaks from his throat, vibrating directly against your clit. He nuzzles his face deeper into your heat, his silver lip piercing sliding sharp and intoxicating against your most sensitive spots, making you sob his name into the empty air.
"Please," he whimpers against your wet flesh, breaking his rhythm for only a split second to breathe your name, his voice cracked and completely wrecked. His hands grip your hips so tightly his knuckles turn white, silently begging you to hold him there, to let him keep drowning in you. "Please tell me it's good. Tell me you like it, Y/N. Just let me stay right here."
You can only cry out in response, your hips instinctively rolling into his mouth as his tongue darts back inside, deeper and more desperate than before, completely surrendering his entire existence to the rhythm of your pleasure.
The sound of his name ripping from your throat sends a visible shiver straight through his broad, shirtless frame. Hearing how undone you are only makes him more desperate, his tongue working with a frantic, wet rhythm that has your hips rolling blindly into his face.
"You're so good, Koo," you gasp out, your knuckles turning white as you fist your fingers into his damp, dark hair, pressing him closer. "Ah—yes, right there. You're making me feel so good. So good..."
Jeongguk lets out a muffled, high whine directly against your core, the high-pitched, needy sound vibrating straight through you. The praise completely undoes him. He sucks a hard, bruising path up your inner lip, his silver piercing scraping perfectly against your most sensitive flesh, pulling a loud, broken sob from your lungs. He is utterly buried in you, his hands gripping the undersides of your thighs so tightly that his bicep muscles bulge under his smooth, tattooed skin. He nuzzles deeper, lapping at your slick heat with a ravenous, worshipful speed, swallowing your whimpers like they are the only thing keeping him alive.
The friction is too much. The intense, deep heat building in your lower stomach is expanding so fast it feels dangerous, blinding you to everything else in the room. You are getting so entirely into it, the overwhelming pleasure clouding your logic until you can't breathe, can't think, can't handle the agonizingly slow burn of just his mouth anymore.
You want him. You want all of him.
With a breathless cry, you pull your hands out of his hair and adjust the position you're in, your palms sliding down his broad chest, past his tensed abs, to the low waistband of his grey sweatpants. Jeongguk senses the shift immediately, his head lifting, his lips glistening, dark hair falling wildly over his wide, blown-out eyes as he looks up at you with a breathless, questioning whimper.
You don't say a word. You simply hook your fingers into the cotton of his sweats and underwear, tugging them down past his hips in one swift, demanding motion.
His cock springs free, thick, heavy, and leaking a bead of pre-cum that glints in the bedroom light. It twitches against his lower stomach, fully erect and radiating a maddening heat. Jeongguk lets out a raw, hitched breath, his hands trembling on your mattress as he hovers over you, completely exposed, his chest heaving as he waits in agonizing suspense for what you're going to do to him next.
You wrap your fingers firmly around the thick, pulsing base of his shaft, the skin scalding hot against your palm. Jeongguk lets out a shaky, pathetic gasp the moment your hand closes around him, his hips twitching forward instinctively. Without giving him a second to recover, you lean forward, parting your lips, and slide the plush, leaking head of his cock straight into your mouth.
He completely loses his mind.
A loud, ragged moan rips from his throat, echoing sharply in the quiet bedroom. You swirl your tongue around the sensitive ridge, catching the slick pre-cum, before sinking your mouth lower, drawing him deeper down your throat. The rich, clean scent of him mixes with the musk of his arousal, entirely consuming your senses. You use your tongue to stroke the sensitive underside of his shaft, your lips wrapping tight around him to create a fierce, suffocating vacuum as you bob your head in a steady, demanding rhythm.
He throws his head back, hair spilling over his forehead as a continuous string of broken groans and breathless whimpers spills from his parted lips. He doesn't try to hold back, his chest heaving as he watches you through hooded, blown-out eyes, his silver piercing catching the light every time his jaw slacks.
"Ah, God, Y/N," he pants, his voice cracking with pure, unadulterated worship. His large, tattooed hand flies to your hair, but he doesn't push you down—he just cradles your head with a trembling, gentle grip, completely submissive to your pace. "You're so perfect. Look at you... fucking hell, you're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. Please, you're destroying me."
The praises are heavy, thick with a devotion that makes your chest ache. He’s praising you in a way you've never been praised before, treating your mouth like a sanctuary, completely unbothered by his own ego. You take him deeper, your thumb rubbing over his balls, and the combination makes his hips roll blindly against your lips, a low, desperate whine vibrating in his chest.
The edge is getting too sharp for him. The friction of your wet mouth and the agonizingly sweet torture of the rhythm has him shaking from head to toe. His fingers tighten in your hair, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps as he feels himself reaching a dangerous point of no return.
He suddenly pulls back just enough to slip his cock from your lips, a heavy string of saliva connecting you for a fraction of a second. Jeongguk hovers over you on his knees, his entire body trembling, his face flushed a dark, beautiful red as he looks down at your wet, swollen lips.
"I can't—I can't just take," he begs, his voice breaking completely as he drops his forehead against your chest, his chest heaving against your skin. He is entirely undone, crying out as his hands slide down to grip your hips, physically pulling you back down onto the mattress. He positions himself right between your soaked, aching thighs, the heavy head of his cock rubbing torturously against your wet core. "Please, Y/N. I need to be inside you. Please let me come home. Please let me inside."
A dark, heady rush of power floods your veins as you look down at him. Seeing the man who fills stadiums worldwide reduced to a trembling, pleading mess right under you is intoxicating. You smirk against the flushed skin, your fingers sliding up his damp neck to tilt his face up.
"Put it on then, Koo," you murmur.
You say your consent, and the word acts like a green light. Jeongguk scrambles, blindly fishing a condom from the nightstand drawer—you aren't even paying attention to where he gets it from, your eyes locked onto the sharp, beautiful lines of his tensed muscles as he tears the foil open with his teeth.
His hands are shaking so violently it takes him two tries to roll the latex down his thick, pulsing length.
The moment he’s protected, he doesn't wait. He lines the wet, heavy head of his cock against your slick opening and sinks into you in one deep, agonizingly slow push.
A loud, broken sob rips from your throat as he fills you completely, stretching you out until you're entirely consumed by the sheer size of him. Jeongguk lets out a guttural, trembling groan into the crook of your neck, his large frame collapsing over yours, his full, shirtless weight pinning you into the dark silk sheets.
"Ah, God, Y/N... you're so tight, you're so warm," he whimpers, his voice completely wrecked as he begins to move.
The friction is instant and overwhelming. Jeongguk doesn't fuck you with the practiced, cocky rhythm of a man in control; he fucks you with a desperate, frantic hunger, his hips snapping forward in deep, heavy thrusts that rock the entire bed. He is completely starved for you, his tattooed hand sliding under your lower back to lift your hips higher, taking every single inch you have to offer. The wet, slapping sound of his skin hitting yours echoes in the quiet bedroom, mixed with his continuous, vocal praises.
He’s riding the absolute edge from the very first stroke, the decade of built-up desire making him impossibly sensitive. His breath comes in short, panicked gasps against your ear, his silver lip piercing grazing your pulse point as his pace turns frantic, unhinged.
"I'm gonna—Y/N, I'm close, I can't hold it," he cries out, his voice cracking. He gives three more deep, blind thrusts, his entire body locking up as a low, ragged scream tears from his lungs. He spasms against you, his cock twitching violently inside your walls as he finishes first, spilling himself entirely into the condom.
But he doesn't stop.
Even as his climax ripples through him, leaving him completely overstimulated and trembling, he refuses to pull out. He knows you haven't crossed the line yet. With his jaw clenched and his eyes swimming with tears from the sheer, burning sensitivity of his post-nut state, Jeongguk forces his hips to keep moving.
He whimpers miserably with every single stroke, the friction against his overstimulated skin clearly driving him crazy, but he keeps pushing inside you anyway.
"I've got you," he pants, a high, needy whine breaking from his lips as he drags his body up and down yours, his movements slower now, heavier, grinding his pelvis right against your clit with agonizing precision. "I'm not stopping... please, baby, come for me. Let me feel you clamp down on me. Please."
The sight of him pushing through his own overstimulation just to please you completely shatters whatever restraint you have left. Your internal walls collapse. Your hips begin to roll frantically against his, your toes curling into the silk sheets as the tight coil in your lower stomach snaps.
You scream his name as a violent, crushing orgasm ripples through your body. Your internal muscles clamp down tightly around his thick shaft, milking him through the latex. Jeongguk lets out a loud, pathetic whimper at the tight squeeze, his forehead dropping heavily onto your shoulder as he rides out the wave of your climax with you, completely spent, completely yours.
He collapses right besides you, his massive, shirtless frame molding perfectly against you as he pulls you into his chest. Both of your chests are heaving in the quiet room, the only sound the ragged asymmetry of your breathing slowing down. Jeongguk nuzzles his face into your hair, tracing his plush, swollen lips along your jawline before kissing you tenderly on the cheek—a soft, lingering pressure that feels entirely detached from the frantic, consuming chaos of just moments ago.
You lie there, the cool air of the bedroom hitting your bare skin where his body isn't pinning you down. The reality of what just happened begins to settle into your bones, the heavy fog of pleasure lifting to reveal the massive, uncharted territory you’ve both just stepped into.
"Jeongguk," you breathe out, your voice still a little raspy. You turn your head slightly, trying to look at him. "We should talk about it. About... us. What this means."
He lets out a soft, tired groan, burying his face deeper into your neck. His large, tattooed arm wraps securely around your waist, pulling you so close there isn't a single millimeter of space left between you.
"We will," he promises, his low rumble vibrating right against your skin. "I promise we’ll talk about everything you want. Just... please let me enjoy this moment for a second. Let me just hold you."
You agree, nodding your head slightly against his chest, but you are visibly lost in your thoughts. Your eyes trace the unfamiliar contours of his bedroom, the dark silk sheets, the heavy shadows on the wall. The anxiety hasn't completely vanished, it's just waiting on the periphery, whispering questions about tomorrow, about his career, about the fragile ten-year foundation you just risked.
As if sensing the sudden shift in your energy, Jeongguk shifts. He props himself up on one elbow, hovering over you just enough to look down into your face. His eyes are incredibly soft, completely clear of the tequila from last night and the blinding lust from minutes ago. He reaches up, his gentle thumb tracing your cheekbone, wiping away a stray bead of sweat.
"Hey," he murmurs, his piercing catching the soft light. He looks at you with an unwavering certainty that makes your heart skip a beat. "I’m going to make sure nothing goes south. I promise you. I love you, Y/N."
Hearing the words spoken so clearly, without a drop of alcohol or adrenaline to hide behind, makes the last of your defenses crumble.
"I love you too," you whisper back.
He smiles—a genuine, boyish grin that reminds you exactly of the teenager you met a decade ago—and pulls you back down against him. As you nuzzle your nose deep into the warm, clean-scented crook of his neck, listening to the steady, unshakeable beat of his heart beneath your cheek, the frantic thoughts in your mind finally begin to quiet down.
Maybe the logic didn't matter. Maybe, against all odds, it really was going to be okay.
summary: “Captain Underpants isn’t glorified by all the tryhards, so when I pick those books, you’re unknowingly more interested in me.”
tags: f2l, flirty kook, jk’s obsession w/captain underpants, he’s a fuckboy but he’s a soft fuckboy dont get it twisted, campus boy crush jk(yes again), jk abuses the FuCK out of pet names, miss koo1aid actually writes some PLOT
warnings: much flirting, nsfw bc of a lot of heavy petting, pussy eatin’, a lil dirty talk, very s l i g h t coochie sniffing, BUT!!! protected sex :)
wc: 10.3k
i wrote another fic (applause) and the entire thing is based off my belief that jungkook 10000% would enjoy captain underpants books. not proofread bc i am a hermit and speak to exactly 0 ppl on here, que dios los bendiga
“Helloooo, sexy librarian,” Jeongguk says the moment he steps through the door, lopsided grin adorning his features as he swaggers over to obnoxiously lean against your desk. You can’t even pretend you didn’t see him, his presence so blaringly consuming, and evident in the way some dorky high schoolers glance over to gawk at him.
“What book are you checking out today, Jeon?” You muse instead, leaving your desk chair to head over to the stack of new books that needed to be stamped. As you turn, Jeongguk whistles at the sight, and you don’t even have it in you anymore to retort back the same way you would when he first started bugging you. “Also, are you aware that your copy of Captain Underpants and the Perilous Plot of Professor Poopypants is due tomorrow? It’s a dollar for every day it’s late—”
ᝰ.ᐟ Summary: Being best friends with Kim Seokjin means navigating a whirlwind of late-night hangouts and an agonizingly casual level of affection. For years, you’ve hidden your growing feelings behind a mask of sarcastic banter, quietly watching him flirt with others. One day, you can no longer handle it.
ᝰ.ᐟ Genre: non-kpop idol!au, friends to lovers
ᝰ.ᐟ Warnings: 18+, fluff, smut (fingering, protected sex), Jin is lowkey a player, first time together, a little bit of dirty talk, reader is down bad, making out
ᝰ.ᐟ wc: 10k
The neon sign of the Seventh Dawn had this annoying, low buzz that was doing zero favours for the headache brewing behind your eyes. It was Friday night, which meant your entire friend group was crammed into a sticky booth, trying to shake off the week.
Near the table, chaos was unfolding.
"I am telling you, it is physically impossible!" Jin’s voice practically cut through the noise of the bar like a chainsaw. Right now, he was attacking the joystick of the claw machine, his face practically pressed up against the glass of it. Inside the machine, a mountain of white, fluffy alpacas stared back at him, begging him to free them from their prison.
Yoongi stood right next to him, looking like a man who had accepted his fate. He didn’t even blink as Jin slapped the drop button.
“Ah! You see that! I’m the claw machine master!” Jin gasped.
You bit your lip, desperately trying not to laugh at his outburst. You had been completely, hopelessly, and horribly in love with Jin. When you first met him and the others at university, you were a freshman, and he was a sophomore. It had never occurred to your teenage mind that you could be friends with guys and not like them, but your friends proved you wrong.
Except for him. Which is why you thought that one day, those feelings would leave. After graduating from university, you thought that your heart would no longer pound at the sight of him, or ache when he left. Unfortunately, after 4 years, they only got worse.
"Look at him," Hobi chuckled next to you, nudging your arm as Jin shoved another token into the machine. "He’s a grown man with a degree. He works in corporate logistics, Y/N. People trust him with actual money."
"He's just... energetic," you said softly, falling back on the safe word you always used when your heart started racing just looking at him.
"Energetic is a bird," Jimin chimed in, sliding into the booth next to you with a fresh basket of loaded waffle fries. "Jin-hyung is a natural disaster."
A white, fluffy alpaca dropped into the chute. Jin snatched it out as he’d just won an Olympic gold medal, bowing dramatically to an empty corner of the room.
He trotted back to the table, puffing his cheeks out and looking infuriatingly attractive despite his rumpled hair. His eyes scanned the group, skipped the guys, and landed right on you. All that chaotic energy vanished for a second, replaced by a soft, crooked grin. He slid into the booth right across from you, gave you a slow, dramatic wink, and tossed the alpaca into your lap.
"A trophy for my favourite critic," he murmured. Your stomach did a familiar, painful flip. He did stuff like that all the time. Teasing, playful, way too affectionate. To anyone else, it looked like a massive crush. To you, it was just the agonizing reality of being best friends with a guy who didn't understand personal boundaries.
Then, his eyes shifted to something over your shoulder. That playful grin didn't disappear, but it changed. The corners of his mouth tucked into this smooth, calculated smirk, the kind that made him look less like a cartoon character and more like a guy who knew exactly how good-looking he was.
Your stomach plummeted. You knew that look.
"Excuse me, boys and Y/N," Jin murmured, fixing his sweater and smoothing down his hair in the reflection of a nearby neon sign. "Duty calls. The public needs me."
You turned your head just enough to see a high-top table near the Skee-Ball machines. A group of three girls were sitting there, and the one in the middle, a gorgeous brunette with perfect curls, had been watching Jin yell at the claw machine for the last half hour.
Jin sauntered over, his walk changing from his usual clumsy stride to a confident, broad-shouldered glide. He didn't even use normal pick-up lines. You watched him lean an elbow on their table, point back toward the machine he had just conquered, and say something that made the brunette blink in total confusion before bursting into a delighted, red-faced giggle. Within forty seconds, Jin had pulled up a stool and was turning on the charm full blast.
You turned back to your table, staring hard at the little alpaca in your lap until your eyes watered.
"Damn," Hobi muttered, grabbing a fry. "He wastes no time."
"He's a menace," Jimin agreed, shaking his head. "Hey, Y/N, you okay? You’ve barely touched your drink."
"Yeah, totally," you lied, forcing a bright smile that felt way too tight as you gripped the toy in your hand. "Just a long week at the office. My brain is fried from staring at screens."
It was a lie you were getting way too good at telling. The truth was much simpler, and a lot more painful: watching Kim Seokjin flirt with somebody else was a very specific, very quiet kind of torture.
The walk to the convenience store at 2:00 AM was always way quieter than the rest of the night, the city muffled by a layer of damp fog. The rest of the guys had already split up, Yoongi took a sleepy Jimin home in a cab, Namjoon and Hobi were busy arguing about a podcast all the way to the subway, and Tae and Jungkook stayed behind at the bar.
But Jin had complained, loudly and dramatically, that his apartment had zero snacks, and somehow you got elected to go with him. Or rather, he just grabbed your wrist and dragged you along.
"So," Jin said, kicking a loose pebble down the sidewalk. He was carrying his jacket over his shoulder, completely ignoring the autumn chill. "Did you see the way she laughed at my joke? I told her the one about the horse in the bar, and she practically swooned. I’m telling you, Y/N, my comedic timing is a national treasure."
"You got her number, then?" you asked, keeping your hands buried deep in your coat pockets so he wouldn't see them shaking.
"Of course I did. Kim Seokjin never leaves empty-handed," he beamed, pulling a crumpled piece of receipt paper from his pocket and waving it around like a trophy before tucking it away. "Though, honestly, her laugh was a bit too high-pitched. You have a much better laugh. It’s more... melodic. Like a well-tuned instrument."
Your heart did a violent, unwanted flip. Don't do it, you warned yourself. Don't overthink it.
"An instrument, Jin? Wow. So romantic," you choked out, trying to sound sarcastic.
"Hey, it's a compliment!" he argued, stepping right into your path and walking backward so he could look at you. The streetlights caught the sharp angle of his jaw and the dark, intense look in his eyes. "I appreciate the finer things."
He tripped a little over an uneven crack in the sidewalk, and without thinking, you reached out and grabbed his forearm to steady him. Even through his thick sweater, his arm felt solid, warm, and grounded.
"Watch where you're going, idiot," you muttered, trying to pull your hand back.
Instead of letting you go, Jin closed his hand over yours, his large fingers completely wrapping around your smaller ones. He didn't let go when he turned back around, either. He just naturally fell into step beside you, swinging your joined hands between us like it was the most normal thing in the world.
"Thanks, sweets," he murmured cheerfully.
To Jin, this was just how he was. He handed out affection freely, scattering it among the people he cared about without a second thought. He held your hand to pull you through crowds, wrapped his arm around your shoulders when you were cold, and rested his chin on your head when you were crammed into a small elevator. He did it because you were Y/N, his best friend, his safe space.
He had no clue that every time his skin touched yours, you spent the next three hours lying awake in the dark, staring at your ceiling, trying to untangle the painful web of your feelings. You were drowning in your feelings.
The convenience store bell chimed as you walked in, the harsh fluorescent lights making you blink. Jin immediately let go of your hand to sprint toward the ice cream aisle, leaving your hand suddenly freezing and heavy at your side.
"Y/N! Look!" he yelled from across the store, pointing frantically at a cardboard box. "They brought back the melon bars! This is a sign from the universe. We're buying the whole stock."
You stood by the magazine rack, watching him load six ice cream bars into his arms like a kid who had escaped their parents. You smiled, a real one this time, but it had a heavy, aching sorrow to it. You loved him because he was ridiculous. You loved him because he made boring, everyday life feel like an adventure.
And you hated that one day, some girl was going to get to keep him forever, and it wouldn’t be you.
The rain outside your apartment window was coming down, blurring the city into a smudge. Inside, the only sound was the gentle hum of your refrigerator and the scratch of your pen against paper.
You were currently buried under a mountain of notebooks and planners at your small dining table, trying to organize a massive personal project that was actively melting your brain.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The rhythm was aggressive, loud, and entirely familiar. You sighed, the tension in your shoulders giving way to a sudden, involuntary spark of anticipation.
When you opened the door, Jin was standing in the hallway. He wasn't wearing his usual pristine overcoat. Instead, he was in an oversized navy blue hoodie, his hair slightly damp from the run between his car and your lobby, holding a giant plastic bag filled with steaming food.
"I've come to answer your prayers, sweets!" Jin announced, stepping past you without waiting for an invitation. He kicked off his sneakers and marched straight to your kitchen. "I brought the extra-spicy seafood Jjamppong from that place downtown. The guy at the counter told me it was good enough to cure a crisis, which is perfect for whatever nightmare you’re dealing with."
"Jin, I didn't even tell you I was staying in today," you said, closing the door and following him.
"You didn't have to. Your aura of misery was glowing through the group chat," he said, completely deadpan. He began rummaging through your cabinets with the practiced ease of someone who spent entirely too much time in your space. He pulled out two bowls and set them down. "Plus, Jungkook said you skipped lunch, and I will not allow my favourite person to waste away into dust without eating."
You rolled your eyes, but the warmth blooming in your chest was impossible to ignore. You sat back down at the table, shifting your journals and colored markers to make room as he set the steaming bowl of spicy red broth in front of you.
"Eat," he commanded, sliding into the chair right next to you instead of sitting across the table. He leaned his elbow on the wood, resting his chin in his hand as he watched you break apart your chopsticks.
"Aren't you eating?" you asked, taking a cautious sip of the broth. It was incredibly spicy, clearing your sinuses instantly and making your chest feel tight.
"I ate three pork buns in the car on the way here," he beamed, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He reached out, his long fingers casually flipping through one of your open planners. "What even is all this? It looks like a map designed by someone who hates joy."
"It's just... everything," you groaned, leaning your head back against the chair. "I'm trying to organize my schedule, map out this new creative project, and figure out how to balance my life, but my brain feels completely fried."
Jin hummed, his playful expression shifting slightly. He slid the notebook closer to himself, his dark eyes scanning your messy handwriting and tracking lines.
When Jin actually wanted to focus on solving a problem, the theatrical persona slipped away, leaving behind a quiet, intense focus that was even more captivating. It was a side that made your heart ache the most. He was incredibly grounded and reliable.
"Your timeline is way too crowded right here," he said softly, pointing a long finger at a specific week on your calendar.
"What? No, it's not. I have to get all of that done by the end of the month."
"If you do all of that at once, you're going to have a nervous breakdown," Jin said, leaning in closer. His shoulder pressed directly against yours, his warmth bleeding through your sweater. He reached around you, his hand brushing against your arm as he picked up a pencil to point at the page. "Look. If you move this section down to the following week, the whole layout flattens out. You actually give yourself time to breathe."
He pointed out a few more adjustments, his fingers moving across the pages. You weren't looking at the notebook, though.
You were looking at him.
Because he was leaning over your shoulder, his face was mere inches from yours. You could see the tiny freckle near his collarbone exposed by the loose collar of his hoodie, the dark curve of his eyelashes, and the focused line of his lips. He smelled like rain and the faint, comforting scent of laundry detergent. Your breath hitched, your heart violently hammering against your ribs.
Don't look at him like that, you warned yourself frantically. He's just helping you organize.
"There," Jin murmured, turning his head to look at you.
The sudden movement caught you completely off guard. He didn't pull back. Instead, he stayed right there, trapped in your space, his dark eyes locked onto yours. The playful smirk vanished from his face, replaced by a strange, heavy stillness. His eyes dropped down to your lips for a fraction of a second before flicking back up to meet your gaze.
The silence in the apartment became deafening, completely drowning out the sound of the rain outside. You forgot how to breathe. You forgot how to speak.
Does he know? The voice in your head screamed. Can he hear my heart?
Then, Jin’s phone on the table began to buzz loudly, vibrating against the wood grain with a jarring, mechanical rattle. The screen lit up with Jimin's contact name.
Jin blinked, jumping back slightly as if he’d been electrocuted. The goofy grin snapped back onto his face like a mask, erasing the intensity in an instant. He snatched up his phone, scrambling out of the chair and pacing toward the living room to answer the call. "Jimin-ah! You are interrupting a genius at work!”
You stayed frozen in your chair, your hand slowly rising to touch your chest where your heart was still racing out of control. Your throat felt tight, a familiar, bruising pressure settling behind your ribs.
You closed your eyes, taking a deep, ragged breath. He didn't mean anything by it. He was just being Jin. He was just being a helpful friend. You needed to get a grip before you completely ruined the only relationship with him you were allowed to have.
Three weeks later, your friend group was hanging out at an outdoor night market. The air was crisp, filled with the smoky smell of grilled skewers, fried seafood, and sweet sugar hotteok.
"Where is Jin-hyung?" Taehyung asked, his mouth full of a fishcake skewer. "He promised he’d buy me that giant cotton candy shaped like a duck."
"He got sidetracked," Jungkook said, pointing a wooden skewer toward a brightly lit claw machine area near the entrance. "By a damsel in distress, apparently."
You followed Jungkook’s gaze. There he was. Jin was standing next to a short girl in a fluffy white coat. She was clutching her purse to her chest, watching with wide, adoring eyes as Jin aggressively attacked the joystick of a claw machine. Even from this distance, you could see him waving his hands around, clearly narrating his grand strategy with his usual dramatic flair.
With a triumphant shout that echoed over the market music, Jin won a giant, round plush penguin. He grabbed it out of the chute, bowed dramatically, and handed it to the girl like a knight presenting a trophy. She cheered, clapping her hands, her face turning bright pink as she leaned in to give him a quick hug.
"He's like a peacock strutting around," Yoongi muttered, taking a bite of his food. "It's honestly impressive."
"Y/N, you want some of this Tteokbokki?" Jimin asked, holding out a paper cup. "You're staring at that claw machine like you want to set it on fire."
You snapped your head back to Jimin, your face flushing. "No, thanks. Not super hungry."
You watched out of the corner of your eye as Jin walked the girl back to her friends, a smug, satisfied grin on his face. They talked for another second, and then Jin pulled out his phone, another number added to his collection. Another girl who would probably text him paragraphs, only for him to send back dad jokes until she got confused and gave up.
When Jin finally trotted back to the group, his chest was puffed out so far he looked like a pigeon. "Bow down before the claw machine god! I have brought joy to the masses."
"Did you get her name, oh mighty god?" Hobi teased.
"Mina," Jin said easily, plucking a skewer right out of Taehyung’s hand without asking. "She was trying to win that penguin for an hour. I stepped in, and delivered victory. She said I was her hero."
"She said you were a sucker who spent twenty bucks on a five-dollar plushie," Yoongi corrected.
Jin gasped, looking deeply offended. "The emotional value of that penguin is priceless, Min Yoongi! Right, Y/N? Tell him I did a good deed."
He leaned his weight against you, his shoulder pressing heavily into yours. He smelled like the cold night air and that familiar, comforting cologne. He was entirely relaxed, completely comfortable using you as a human armrest.
You shifted away from him, a little more abruptly than you intended. The sudden movement made him lose his balance slightly, his smile faltering as he looked down at you in surprise.
"I think Yoongi's right, Jin," you said, your voice tight and totally missing its usual playful warmth. "It’s kind of embarrassing."
The table went a little quiet. The guys exchanged subtle, knowing glances, not because they knew you were in love with him, but because they could tell your patience was wearing thin.
Jin stared at you, his large eyes blinking in confusion. The playful expression drained from his face, replaced by a strange, quiet hurt. "Oh," he said softly, stepping back and rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah. I guess it is a bit childish."
For the rest of the night, Jin was quiet. He didn't make any more jokes, he didn't try to steal anyone's food, and he stayed a careful two feet away from you the entire time. And as much as you had wanted him to stop, the cold distance between you felt a thousand times worse than the warmth of his closeness.
The hum of the refrigerator in your kitchen felt incredibly loud in the sudden silence of your apartment. You set your keys on the counter with a sharp click, the sound echoing through the small space.
You had left the night market early, claiming a sudden headache, and Jimin had insisted on riding in the cab with you to make sure you got home safe. The rest of the guys, and Jin, had stayed behind; the image of Jin standing two feet away from you, looking completely bewildered and hurt by your comment about his claw-machine victory, still burned into your retinas.
Jimin closed the front door behind him, kicking off his sneakers. He didn't say anything at first. He just walked into your kitchen, filled a glass with tap water, and set it down on the table right in front of you.
"Drink," he said softly.
You looked at the glass, then up at him. You wrapped your arms tightly around your chest, leaning back against the counter. "I'm fine, Jimin. You didn't have to leave the market. You're missing out on the Hotteok."
"If you say 'I'm fine' one more time, I’m going to throw that water at you," Jimin said, though his voice was entirely devoid of its usual playful mockery. He pulled out a dining chair, turned it around, and sat down backwards, resting his chin on his arms as he looked up at you. "You're not fine. Tonight, you practically bit Jin-hyung's head off for doing the same thing he always does."
Your breath hitched, and you looked away, staring hard at the floorboards. "I shouldn't have said that to him. I know. It was mean."
"I could tell that you didn’t mean it. It looked more like a defence mechanism," Jimin said quietly, his sharp eyes analyzing your face with that terrifying emotional intuition he always had. He was always the observer of the group. "Every time he talks to another girl, you completely shut down. And tonight, you looked like it physically hurt to be near him."
The safety of your own apartment suddenly felt completely overwhelming, and before you could stop it, a hot tear slipped down your cheek. You quickly wiped it away with the sleeve of your coat, but it was too late.
"I love him, Jimin," you whispered, the words sounding small, terrifying, and incredibly heavy as they finally entered the real world. "I’ve been in love with him since university."
Jimin didn't look shocked. He just let out a long, slow breath, his expression softening into something so deeply empathetic it made your throat ache.
"University?" he repeated gently.
A bitter laugh escapes your lips as you finally let the tears fall. "Do you have any idea what it’s like? Watching him flirt and get numbers, and then having him come back to the table and use me as a human armrest like I'm just one of the guys? He holds my hand because he's affectionate. He hugs me because he's bored. It's just Jin being Jin."
You pressed the palms of your hands against your eyes, trying to stop the trembling in your shoulders. "I snapped at him tonight because I was jealous. I was ugly and bitter, and I punished him for something he didn't even know he was doing. I'm trying to push him away to save myself, but every time I pull away, I see how much it hurts his feelings. I don't know what to do, Jimin. I'm going to lose my best friend because I can't keep my stupid heart in check."
Jimin stood up from his chair, walking over to you without a word. He wrapped his warm arms around your shoulders, pulling you into a tight, comforting hug. You buried your face against his shoulder, holding onto his jacket securely while you let out a quiet, trembling sob.
"You're not stupid," Jimin murmured, rubbing your back in slow, steady circles. "And you're not ugly or bitter. You've been carrying a massive weight completely by yourself, Y/N. Anyone would snap."
He pulled back just enough to look at you, keeping his hands firmly on your shoulders. "But you're wrong about one thing."
"What?" you sniffled, wiping your nose.
"Jin-hyung is a lot of things. He's loud, he's dramatic, and he loves attention. But he doesn't use people. And he definitely doesn't use you. The way he looks at you when you're not paying attention... the way he completely changes when you walk into the room... it’s not nothing, Y/N."
You shook your head, stepping back from his grip and leaning against the counter again. "No, Jimin. He doesn't see me like that. If he did, he would have said something. He flirts like it’s second nature. I'm his safe space because he knows we’re best friends.
Jimin looked like he wanted to argue, his mouth opening before he caught himself. He let out a frustrated sigh, running a hand through his brown hair. "You both are infuriating, you know that? Two of the smartest people I know, and you both have the emotional radar of a brick wall."
"Please don't tell him," you begged, panic suddenly flaring in your chest as you grabbed Jimin's sleeve. "Promise me, Jimin. If he finds out like this, it will completely ruin everything. I just need to fix the distance between us so we can go back to normal. Promise me."
Jimin looked down at your hand on his sleeve, then up at your tear-stained face. He let out a defeated sigh, his shoulders slumping.
"I promise. I won't say a word," he murmured, reaching up to gently pat your cheek. "But 'normal' isn't working anymore, Y/N. You can't keep living in the shadows. Eventually, something is going to have to give."
You didn't answer. You just turned toward the dark window, watching the city lights blink in the distance.
The Cold War (as you called it), lasted for four days. It wasn't an explosive fight; it was a slow, agonizing silence that filled the group chat. Normally, Jin flooded the chat with terrible puns, blurry photos of his food, or demands for someone to play video games with him.
But since that night at the outdoor market, he had been uncharacteristically quiet. When he did text, it was polite and entirely devoid of exclamation points.
Jin: I won't be able to make it to dinner on Thursday. Have extra work to finish. Enjoy.
You stared at the glowing screen of your phone, sitting on your bed with your knees pulled to your chest. The guilt was eating you alive. Jimin's words from a few nights ago echoed in your head: You've been carrying a massive weight completely by yourself, Y/N. Anyone would snap.
But understanding why you did it didn't make the reality any easier to swallow. You had snapped at him because of your own jealousy, because you couldn't handle your own feelings. He hadn't done anything wrong.
Unable to take the silence anymore, you grabbed your coat and keys. You didn't text him. You knew if you did, he’d give you some polite excuse to stay away.
Twenty minutes later, you were standing outside the door of his apartment, the paper bag from his favourite fried chicken place heavy in your hand. You took a deep breath, steeling your nerves, and knocked before you could talk yourself out of it.
The door opened slowly. Jin stood there, wearing a pair of old sweatpants and an oversized black hoodie with the hood pulled up over his messy hair. He looked tired, the faint dark circles under his eyes contrasting sharply with his pale skin. When he saw you, his eyes widened slightly, a flicker of something raw and vulnerable crossing his face before he masked it with a polite smile.
"Y/N," he said quietly. "What are you doing here?"
"I brought peace offerings," you said, lifting the bag of chicken. "Can I come in?"
Jin stared at the bag, then back at your face. He stepped aside, opening the door wider. The apartment was quiet, the only sound coming from the low hum of his computer setup in the corner. You set the food down on his coffee table and turned to face him. He was standing near the kitchen island, his hands buried deep in his hoodie pockets, looking everywhere except at you.
"I’m sorry, Jin," you said, stepping closer to him. "I was a jerk at the night market. I was just overwhelmed and stressed, and I took it out on you. It wasn't embarrassing that you won that plushie. It was really nice of you. I shouldn't have said that."
Jin stayed quiet for a long moment. He let out a soft, heavy sigh, the tension finally leaving his broad shoulders as he pulled his hood down, revealing his messy, handsome hair.
"I thought you were disgusted by me," he admitted, his voice so quiet it barely carried across the room.
Your heart broke a little at the admission. "What? Jin, no. Why would you think that?"
"Because lately, every time I get close to you, you look like you want to be anywhere else," he said, finally looking up to meet your eyes. The usual mischief was entirely gone, replaced by a deep sincerity. "You pull away when I touch your shoulder. You look annoyed when I make jokes. I thought... I thought I was finally annoying you enough that you didn't want to be my friend anymore."
You stared at him, completely paralyzed. He had noticed. He hadn't understood why, but he had felt the distance you were trying to create. Your attempt to protect your own heart had ended up wounding him.
"Jin..." you choked out, taking a step forward. "That's not it at all. I promise you, I could never be disgusted by you."
"Then why are you pushing me away?" he asked, his voice laced with a quiet plea that made your throat tighten.
You couldn't tell him the truth. Not here, not like this, when everything was so fragile. You couldn't tell him that Jimin now knew, or that you were terrified of how much you wanted him.
"I'm just... going through some things. But it has nothing to do with you, I swear. You're my best friend, Jin. I don't know what I'd do without you."
Jin looked at you for a long, agonizing moment, searching your face for any sign of a lie. Finally, the tension in his jaw melted. A familiar shadow of his grin returned to his lips.
"Good," he murmured, stepping forward and immediately wrapping his long arms around you, pulling you against his chest. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his warmth enveloping you instantly. "Because I was miserable, Y/N. Yoongi told me three dad jokes yesterday just to make me feel better, and they were terrible."
You laughed into his shoulder, tears pricking the corners of your eyes as you wrapped your arms around his waist. You held onto him tightly, savouring the familiar ache of his embrace. Jin was holding his breath, trying desperately to keep his own from breaking.
By the time winter fully arrived, coating the city streets in a thin layer of slush and ice, the group dynamic had returned to its chaotic normalcy. But for you, the stakes felt higher. The fear of nearly losing your friendship with Jin had made you hyper-vigilant. You tried to stop yourself from getting jealous, and you didn't pull away when he leaned against you.
Which made the arrival of Hana a hundred times harder.
Hana was a coworker from Namjoon’s office who had been invited to join the group for a casual weekend hot-pot dinner at Yoongi’s apartment. She was beautiful in an effortless way with flawless skin, elegant style, and a soft voice that made everyone stop and listen.
And from the moment she sat down, her eyes were entirely fixed on Kim Seokjin.
"So, Seokjin-ssi," Hana said, leaning forward on her elbows, her eyes sparkling under the warm dining room lights. "Namjoon told me you work in logistics. That sounds incredibly complex."
"Oh, it's a nightmare of spreadsheets," Jin laughed, waving his chopsticks dramatically. "But I manage to keep the world turning through sheer charisma."
Hana laughed, a beautiful, delicate sound that made your stomach churn. "I can imagine. You seem like someone who handles chaos very well."
"He creates the chaos, Hana," Yoongi muttered from the stove, dumping a plate of sliced beef into the boiling broth. "Don't let the face fool you."
"Hey! My face is innocent!" Jin protested, leaning back in his chair and puffing out his chest.
"I think it’s charming," Hana said softly, her eyes lingering on his lips before she offered him a sweet smile.
The shift in the room was palpable. Jimin and Taehyung exchanged a quick look across the table. Namjoon raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised by his coworker's directness.
You kept your eyes glued to your bowl, aggressively navigating with your chopsticks. The familiar weight of jealousy settled into your throat, thick and suffocating. But this time, it felt different. Hana wasn't a random girl. She was someone in their extended circle. She was someone who could be permanent.
"Here, Jin-ssi," Hana murmured, using her clean utensils to place a perfectly cooked piece of meat into his bowl. "You've been talking so much, you haven't even eaten."
"Ah, thank you!" Jin beamed, his eyes widening with genuine delight. "Y/N, look, she's taking care of me. You could learn a thing or two."
He nudged your shoulder with his elbow, a playful, teasing gesture meant to bring you into the conversation. He expected you to fire back with a sarcastic comment. He expected the usual banter.
Instead, your chopsticks slipped, clattering loudly against the ceramic edge of your bowl.
"I'm going to get some water," you said quietly, your voice flat and empty.
You stood up so fast your chair scraped against the floorboards. Without looking at anyone, especially not Jin, whose smile had instantly dropped into a look of startled confusion, you walked out of the dining room and into the quiet sanctuary of Yoongi’s kitchen.
The kitchen was dark, lit only by the amber glow of the refrigerator's water dispenser. You stood in front of the counter, your hands gripping the edge of the sink so tightly your knuckles turned white. Your chest was heaving, tears of sheer frustration and heartbreak stinging your eyes.
Get a grip, you scolded yourself, pressing the palm of your hand against your forehead. You have no right to be mad. He isn't yours. He’s never been yours.
The sound of soft footsteps approaching made you freeze. You quickly wiped at your eyes, turning on the tap to create a distraction.
"Y/N?"
It wasn't Jimin or Hobi coming to check on you. It was Jin.
He stepped into the kitchen, the light from the hallway catching the deep line of concern etched between his brows. He looked completely out of his depth, his usual broad-shaped confidence replaced by a hesitant, careful posture.
"Hey," he said softly, stopping a few feet away from you. "Are you okay? You barely touched your food."
"I'm fine, Jin," you said, your voice tight as you reached for a glass from the drying rack. "Just got a sudden headache. The steam from the hot pot was getting to me."
"Don't do that," he said, his voice dropping to that low, heavy register that always made your defenses crumble. He took a step closer, stretching out a hand toward you. "Did I say something wrong? I was just teasing, you know I think you take care of me better than—"
"Jin, please, just leave it alone," you snapped, turning around to face him.
The sudden, sharp movement caused your hand to catch the edge of the glass you had just placed on the counter. Before you could react, the glass slid off the edge and shattered against the linoleum floor with a loud, ringing crash. Shards of sharp, clear glass scattered across the dark tiles, a few brushing against the tops of your sneakers.
"Don't move!" Jin’s voice was suddenly sharp, authoritative.
Before you could even blink, he stepped directly into the mess, his thick-soled boots crushing the smaller shards as he grabbed your upper arms. With one effortless, sweeping motion, he lifted you completely off the ground and set you down safely on the clean, dry counter next to the sink.
He immediately dropped to his knees on the floor, his long fingers carefully checking your ankles and the fabric of your jeans. "Did any of it cut you? Are you bleeding?"
"No," you whispered, staring down at the top of his head. Your heart was beating so violently against your ribs you were certain he could feel the vibrations through the counter. "I'm fine. Jin, your knees—"
"I don't care about my knees," he muttered, his voice rough. He looked up at you from his position on the floor, his eyes dark, intense, and filled with a terrifying amount of emotion. "I care about you. Why are you acting like this, Y/N? What is happening between us?"
The raw honesty in his voice was the final blow. The walls you had spent four years building, brick by painful brick, completely disintegrated in the dark of Yoongi’s kitchen.
“I can't do this anymore, Jin," you whispered, a single tear finally escaping and tracking down your cheek. "I can't keep sitting at these tables and watching you with everyone else."
Jin froze, his hands resting on your knees as he stared up at you, his breath hitching in his throat. "What?"
The silence in the kitchen was heavy. Jin slowly rose to his feet, his hands sliding up from your knees to rest on either side of your hips on the counter, trapping you in his space. He didn't look away from your eyes for a single second.
"What do you mean, Y/N?" he asked, his voice barely a breathy whisper. "Watching me with everyone else?"
"Hana," you said, the name tasting like ash in your mouth. "The girl at the night market. The girl at the bar. Every single week, Jin. I can’t… sit here and watch anymore.”
Jin’s mouth fell open slightly, his eyes widening in total shock. He looked like a man who had just been hit by a train he never saw coming. "Y/N..."
"I've been in love with you since university, you idiot," you sobbed, covering your face with your hands as the humiliating, terrifying truth finally spilled out completely. "Four years of hanging out every day, and listening to your terrible jokes. Every time you touch me, every time you hold my hand, it kills me. And I can't keep pretending it doesn't hurt."
You waited for the rejection. You waited for him to step back, to look at you with pity, to tell you that he valued your friendship too much to ruin it. You braced yourself for the worst pain of your life.
Instead, you felt his large, warm hands gently grasp your wrists, pulling your hands away from your face.
When you opened your eyes, Jin wasn't looking at you with pity. He looked completely breathless, his cheeks flushed a deep, prominent shade of pink, his dark eyes shining with an overwhelming, wide-eyed wonder.
"You’re an idiot.” He managed to say, which only confused you more. Your eyebrows furrowed, lips opening to retort something back. But before you could, Jin let out a breathless, disbelieving laugh that sounded almost like a sob. He reached into his jeans pocket, pulled out his phone, and aggressively tapped the screen a few times before holding it up to your face. It was his text history.
"Look at this," he commanded softly. "That girl from the night market? I muted her notifications three days ago because she kept asking me to dinner and I didn't want to go. Hana? I’ve spent the last hour trying to figure out how to politely tell her to stop talking to me without making Namjoon’s work life awkward."
You blinked, staring at the screen.
Jin dropped his phone onto the counter and stepped even closer, his chest pressing against your knees. He reached up, his long, elegant fingers gently cupping your jaw, his thumbs wiping away your tears with a tenderness that made your breath catch.
"I am an absolute coward, Y/N," he confessed, his voice dropping to a raw, vulnerable whisper. "I flirt with other people because it’s a defence mechanism. Because every single time you look at me, my heart beats so loud I'm terrified the entire room can hear it."
Your brain stalled. The room felt like it was spinning. "What?"
"I've been in love with you since the day I met you," Jin said, a beautiful smile breaking across his lips. "You're so grounded. You're so smart, so independent, so completely perfect. And I'm... I'm just me."
He leaned his forehead against yours, his breath warm against your lips. "I thought I didn't have a chance in hell with you. I thought if I ever told you how I felt, I’d lose the most important person in my universe. So I tried to distract myself. I tried to look at anyone else, to force myself to find someone else attractive, but... it never worked. Every time I looked at a girl, I just wished she were you. It's always been you, Y/N. Always."
The relief that washed over you was so violent it made you dizzy. The years of agony, the sleepless nights, the bitter jealousy. He had been feeling what you were feeling.
"You're also an idiot,” you whispered, reaching up to wrap your fingers around his wrists, holding his hands against your face. "You're my idiot. If you had just told me—"
"I was terrified!" he defended dramatically, a hint of his usual theatrical flair returning to his voice, though his eyes remained intensely soft. “Do you know how hard it is to maintain my composure when you’re around? You make me lose my breath.”
You let out a loud, wet laugh, the last of the tension leaving your body. "Shut up, Jin."
"Never," he murmured, his eyes dropping to your lips.
Jin didn't hesitate this time. He closed the remaining distance, his lips pressing against yours in a kiss that was filled with years of unspoken longing, quiet agony, and overwhelming relief. It was deep and utterly consuming. His hands slid from your jaw down to the nape of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair as he pulled you closer, completely erasing any space left between you.
You wound your arms around his broad shoulders, pulling him into you, finally letting yourself feel the full, unrestrained weight of his love. It felt like coming home after a long, freezing storm.
When he finally pulled back, just an inch, his lips brushed against your nose, then your eyelids, before he buried his face in your shoulder, letting out a long, shuddering sigh of pure contentment.
The kitchen door suddenly swung open, letting in a flood of light and the loud, overlapping voices of the rest of the group.
"Hey, we were wondering if you guys died in here—" Jimin started, stepping into the room with an empty platter. He froze mid-sentence, his eyes widening as he took in the scene: you sitting on the counter, Jin’s arms wrapped tightly around your waist, and a pile of shattered glass on the floor.
"Oh," Jimin said, a slow, massive smirk spreading across his face. "Wow. Finally."
Within five seconds, the rest of the guys were crowded into the kitchen doorway. Yoongi looked at the shattered glass, then at Jin’s flushed face, and let out a satisfied grunt. "Took you long enough, idiot. I’ve been hiding your terrible pining for years."
"Wait, you knew?!" Jin yelled, turning his head but refusing to let go of your waist.
"Everyone knew, Jin-hyung," Taehyung said, leaning over Hobi’s shoulder to look at you both. "Except the two of you, apparently. You both have the situational awareness of a brick wall."
"Hey! Respect the privacy of the newly formed power couple!" Jin shouted, puffing his chest out and immediately reverting back to his confident self, but this time, his arm stayed firmly, proudly wrapped around your shoulders. He looked down at you, his eyes sparkling with an entirely new kind of happiness. "Come on, Y/N. Let's leave these peasants to clean up the glass. I am taking my beautiful girlfriend out for a proper celebration."
"Girlfriend, huh?" you teased, leaning into his side.
"Strictly official," he beamed, giving you a quick, loud kiss on the cheek that made the guys groan in unison. "Tomorrow, a real date. No friend group, no distractions. Just you and me.”
Jin caught your hand. He didn't just swing it casually this time. He laced his long fingers tightly through yours, squeezing gently, his thumb rubbing small circles against the back of your hand.
The rain had been drumming a heavy, nonstop rhythm against Jin’s windows for hours, turning the city outside into a blurry smear of taillights. Inside, the only light came from the soft blue glow of his massive gaming monitor and a single lamp in the corner of the living room.
You were sitting cross-legged on the thick rug, leaning your back against the couch. Jin was sitting right behind you on the cushions, his long legs framing your sides, his fingers gently working a comb through your damp hair.
"You know," Jin’s voice was lower than usual, a little rough from hours of quiet talking. "That hoodie looks better on you than it does on me."
You laughed, tilting your head back to look up at him. You were wearing one of his old, oversized grey hoodies, the sleeves swallowed your hands, and the collar kept slipping off your shoulder. "Woah. Was that a compliment from thee Kim Seokjin?"
Jin stopped combing. He set the comb down on the coffee table with a soft click. Before you could move, his large hands slid down from your hair, his palms warm and slightly calloused as they cupped your jaw, tilting your head back further until you were staring right up at him. From this angle, his sharp jaw and full lips looked devastating.
"Jin—"
He didn't let you finish. He leaned over the edge of the couch, bridging the distance between you, and pressed his lips to yours.
It wasn't like the sweet, careful kisses you’d shared over the past few weeks since making things official. His tongue brushed against your lower lip, a silent question that you answered instantly, parting your mouth with a soft sigh. The kiss deepened, becoming heavy and intoxicatingly slow, the heat of his mouth sending a sudden shiver straight down your spine.
Jin let out a low growl in the back of his throat. He shifted his weight, before pulling away to grab you by the arms, forcing you to stand up and straddle him.
His hands moved from your face, his fingers sliding down your neck, his thumbs tracing your collarbone before gripping the fabric of the hoodie. He pulled you flush against him, his chest solid and radiating a fierce, dizzying warmth through his thin t-shirt.
You wound your arms around his neck, your fingers tangling in the thick, soft hair at the back of his head. The smell of him flooded your senses, making your head spin.
When he finally pulled back to breathe, his lips didn't go far. He dragged his mouth along your jaw, his breath hot against your skin, before burying his face in the crook of your neck. He nipped gently at the sensitive skin right where your shoulder met your neck, making a quiet gasp escape your lips.
"Jin," you breathed, your fingers tightening in his hair as a sudden wave of heat pooled in your stomach.
"You have no idea," he muttered against your skin, his voice thick and rough, "how many times I sat across from you, listening to you talk, and completely lost track of what we were saying because I was thinking about exactly this."
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his hands sliding under the hem of the oversized hoodie, his bare palms making direct contact with the skin of your waist. His hands were warm, his fingers spreading wide against your ribs, sending a jolt of electricity through you. His eyes searched yours, dark and completely serious.
"Are you sure?" he asked, the sudden vulnerability in his voice a sharp contrast to the raw heat of his touch. He was still Jin, always making sure you were safe, even when his own restraint was fraying at the edges.
"More than sure," you whispered, leaning up to press your lips against the corner of his mouth, "I've wanted this for years."
A breathless, beautiful smile broke across his face, his eyes crinkling for a fraction of a second before that intense hunger returned. In one fluid, strong motion, Jin hooked his arms under your thighs and lifted you, standing up to walk over to his bedroom. You gasped quickly; the sudden closeness was overwhelming. You could feel the heavy rise and fall of his chest. He kicked his door closed before gently throwing you down on the bed, and the sheets smelt of him, his scent invading your nose.
Jin’s hands moved up your back, gripping the fabric of the hoodie and gently pulling it up and over your head, tossing it onto the floor without a second thought. You were left in nothing, the cool air of the room hitting your skin for a split second before Jin’s large, warm hands covered your bare shoulders, pulling you back into reality.
His gaze flicked down your body, a dark, heavy weight that made your skin flush a deep pink. "Beautiful," he murmured, his voice laced with absolute reverence. "So beautiful."
He leaned up, his mouth crashing back against yours with a renewed, fierce urgency. His hands slid down your back, his fingers digging into the fabric of your sweatpants to pull your hips tighter against his. Arching into him, your hands sliding down his broad chest, feeling the hard muscle beneath his shirt before your fingers hooked under the hem, desperate to feel his bare skin. Jin understood instantly, pulling back long enough to rip the t-shirt over his head and discard it alongside the hoodie.
When his bare chest pressed against yours, the heat was instantaneous and total. Your hands mapped the smooth expanse of his back, the sharp definition of his shoulder blades, while his mouth moved down from your lips to trace the line of your throat, leaving a trail of burning, wet kisses in his wake.
“Fuck, I need you.” He whispered hoarsely, the sound of his voice making you even more wet. You needed him too, just as badly. His long fingers creeped their way down to your pants, sliding underneath the soft material. He wasn’t even touching your bare skin, but you still bucked your hips up, chasing after his hands.
“Please. Please, Seokjin.” You whimpered, staring up into his eyes with a desperate neediness. You didn’t care how you acted at this point, nothing could stop you from begging. He pressed his fingers over your underwear, feeling the patch of wetness.
“Seokjin? You’re so turned on that you have to say my full name?” He teased, a dark, breathy chuckle vibrating against your collarbone. "I like it. Say it again."
His thumb hooked into the elastic of your pants, along with your underwear, slowly tugging the fabric down your thighs. The cool air of the room hit your bare skin for only a fraction of a second before Jin replaced it with the overwhelming, branding heat of his palm. He rested his hand over your core, not moving yet, just letting you feel the sheer size and weight of him hovering over you.
"Seokjin," you whimpered, your fingers digging into the muscles of his upper arms. The friction was driving you crazy, the desperate ache between your thighs pulsing in time with your erratic breathing. "Please, I can't wait."
"Look at me," he commanded hoarsely, his long fingers finally sliding lower, parting you with a slow, agonizingly deliberate stroke.
You forced your eyes open, your vision slightly blurred by the heat consuming your body. Jin was staring down at you, his chest heaving, his jaw clenched so tightly the muscles in his neck were strained. The playful exterior was entirely gone, replaced by a raw, possessive intensity that made your heart hammer violently against your ribs.
He slipped one finger inside you, testing your wetness, and a high, needy gasp escaped your lips. He didn't stop there. He pushed a second finger in, drawing a deep, ragged groan from the back of his own throat as your walls instantly clamped tight around him.
"You're so tight for me, Y/N," he whispered, his hips shifting instinctively against yours, the heavy ridge of his length rubbing through his sweatpants against your thigh. He began to move his fingers in a slow, rhythmic curve, finding the exact spot that made your toes curl and your head tilt back against the pillow. You bucked against his hand, your breath coming in short, fractured pants as the tension began to coil tightly in your stomach.
"Jin—" You gasped, your voice breaking.
"No, use my full name," he growled playfully, his pace quickening, his thumb pressing firmly against your center, sending a violent jolt of electricity straight to your core. "Tell me exactly who is doing this to you."
"Seokjin," you cried out, your hips chasing his hand frantically as the wave of your climax suddenly rushed over the horizon. "Seokjin, please, I'm close—"
"Come for me," he murmured against your lips, catching your mouth in a fierce, bruising kiss just as your body fractured.
You arched off the bed, your walls pulsing violently around his fingers as a blinding wave of pleasure crashed through you. Jin held you through it, his mouth consuming your quiet cries, his fingers moving steadily inside you until the tremors finally began to slow into a lazy, heavy ache.
When he pulled his hand away, you let out a weak, breathless sigh, your limbs feeling completely like lead. Jin hovered above you for a moment, his dark hair damp against his forehead, his chest rising and falling in rapid, uneven gasps as he looked down at your flushed, ruined state.
A slow, devastatingly handsome smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as his hand moved to the waistband of his sweatpants. He didn’t waste another second. He stripped out of his sweatpants, tossing them blindly onto the floor, leaving him completely bare over you. The sheer sight of him, flushed, hard, and looking at you like you were the only thing that mattered in the entire universe, sent a fresh wave of heat straight back to your core.
Jin scrambled back slightly, his knees framing your hips on the mattress, and reached blindly toward the nightstand. His long fingers fumbled with the drawer for a second before he pulled out a small, foil packet. He tore it open with his teeth, his eyes never leaving yours, and rolled the condom on with a practiced, hurried efficiency that proved just how desperate he was to get back to you.
He settled himself heavily between your thighs, the smooth latex-clad tip of his length brushing against your aching wetness. You let out a quiet gasp, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, pulling him closer into the plush mattress.
"God, Y/N," he groaned, his forehead dropping against yours as he felt how completely ready you were for him. He braced his weight on his forearms, his large hands finding yours against the pillows and locking his fingers tightly through yours. "I don't think I can go slow."
"Don't go slow," you pleaded, arching your hips up off the sheets to meet him. "Just please..."
Jin let out a low, ragged breath and pushed forward.
He sank into you in one smooth, deep thrust, burying himself entirely inside your heat. A loud, breathless cry escaped your lips, the fullness of him stretching you open, sending a sensation so intense through your body that your vision went temporarily white. Jin’s eyes snapped shut, his jaw clenching so hard a sharp line formed along his throat as your walls instantly gripped him like a vice.
He stayed perfectly still for a few agonizing seconds, his chest heaving against yours, letting both of your bodies adjust to the sudden, overwhelming friction.
"Fuuck," he growled hoarsely, his voice vibrating right against your ear. "You feel... incredible, it’s too good."
"Seokjin," you whimpered, your hips twitching beneath his, desperate for the movement to start. "Please, move."
He pulled back, nearly withdrawing completely before driving back in with a heavy, unhurried rhythm. A broken sound left your throat, your fingers tightening in his hair as he began to find his pace. The quiet bedroom was suddenly filled with the heavy, wet sound of his skin crashing against yours, an addictive rhythm that completely consumed you.
Jin’s control didn't last long. As you began to writhe beneath him, your walls pulsing around him with every thrust, his movements turned urgent. He unlocked his fingers from yours, reaching down to hook his hands under your thighs, pulling your knees up higher against his broad torso to drive even deeper inside you.
Every stroke hit the exact spot that was sending sparks straight to your brain. You were completely helpless under him, your head tossing back and forth against the pillows, your voice reduced to a breathless string of whimpers and begs.
"Look at me," Jin panted, his voice rough and commanding.
You forced your heavy eyelids open. He was looking down at you, his dark eyes wide and completely consumed by pleasure, sweat glistening on his broad shoulders under the dim amber light of the bedside lamp. He thrust into you again, harder this time, a sharp, desperate angle that made your hips buck violently.
"I love you," he whispered hoarsely, the words tumbling out of him between ragged breaths, completely unfiltered. "I love you so much, Y/N. Only you."
The confession, delivered with such raw, unhidden intensity while he completely possessed your body, was the final breaking point. The coil in your stomach snapped hard. You arched off the bed with a loud, shattered cry, your vision fracturing as a massive, second climax ripped through you, your internal muscles clamping down on him in tight, rhythmic waves.
Seeing you break was the final trigger for Jin. He let out a deep, guttural roar, driving into you three more times, faster and deeper, before his whole body went rigid. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his teeth gently catching the skin of your shoulder as he came, pouring himself into the condom while his chest heaved violently against yours.
The silence of the room slowly returned, filled only by the sound of the rain and your shared, heavy breathing.
Jin stayed heavy on top of you for a long time, his body still trembling slightly from the aftershocks. Slowly, carefully, he pulled back, disposing of the protection before shifting his weight so he wouldn't crush you. He slid under the heavy duvet and pulled you onto your side with him, wrapping his long arms around your waist to lock you securely against his bare chest.
He leaned down, his lips pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your wet forehead, then to the tip of your nose, before resting his chin on top of your head. His thumb rubbed slow, soothing circles against your bare hip under the covers.
"Ah," he murmured into your hair, his voice returning to its familiar, soft warmth, though it was still heavy with exhaustion. "My heart is actually going to explode one of these days. I’m writing it into my will that it’s your fault."
You let out a weak, breathless laugh, burying your face in his warm chest, listening to the steady, rapid thumping of his heart against your ear. "Shut up, Seokjin."
"Never," he whispered, tightening his arms around you and pulling you even closer. "You're stuck with me now."
⤷one-shot!! in which.... jungkook shows up every Friday for six months to ask your father for permission to marry you, and gets rejected every time. Still, he returns each week with flowers, pastries, and stubborn determination. Meanwhile, you have no idea your boyfriend has been secretly trying to “apply” for the role of your husband behind your back.
I'm gonna marry her anyway (Magic!-Rude)
pairing: 전정국 x fem!reader
Genre: romance | slice of life | comedy | fluff | bittersweet
warnings: jk is down baddd, he's SOO in love, jk's a bit delusional tho, peak romance trope btw, he loves to pamper y/n, he would do everything all again without question, crying, happy tears, respectfully he wont give up, Jungkook is the sweetest
word count: 7.2k
Every Friday at Four
If someone asked you to describe your boyfriend, you would probably say something annoyingly sweet.
Kind. Talented. Loyal.
The sort of person who remembers the name of the stray cat that lives behind your apartment building, not only he remembers it but buys extra cat food and leaves it out in little dishes. The sort of person who buys two of everything because he knows you'll steal half of his anyway, and he'd rather plan for the theft than risk you going without. The sort of person who texts "Did you eat?" at 2 PM and then again at 6 PM and then again at 9 PM, and actually waits for an answer each time, and sends follow-up questions if you take too long, "What did you eat?" and "Was it good?"
What you would not say is: "My boyfriend spends his Friday afternoons getting rejected by my father."
Mostly because you don't know what's happening, and sweet Jungkook intends to keep it that way.
The first time he drives to your parents' house, he almost turns the car around.
Three times… scratch that…actually, four.
The fourth time is especially embarrassing because he has already parked. The engine is off. The keys are in his hand. He's committed, and yet his hand keeps drifting toward the ignition like it has its own agenda, like it wants to go home.
He sits behind the steering wheel, staring at your childhood home. The house itself isn't scary. It's just a house with white walls that need repainting. A small garden where your mother has beautiful flowers. A blue mailbox that has your last name on it with faded stickers that are peeling at the edges. Normal things.
Unfortunately, your father lives inside, and your father is terrifying. Not in a dramatic movie way, he doesn't threaten people or is part of the mafia, and he definitely doesn't own weapons or has a scar across his face.
It’s the fact that he looks at people the way professors look at exam papers, as if he's found three mistakes in the first paragraph and is debating whether he should continue reading or just fail you now and save him some time.
Jungkook swallows. His palms are sweating against the steering wheel. This is ridiculous… What if your father hates him? What if he laughs? What if he says no?
Then you'll ask again.
He grabs the box of pastries from the passenger seat and gets out before his courage disappears completely.
The door opens, and your father appears. For a moment, nobody says anything. The silence stretches and Jungkook becomes suddenly, painfully aware of every part of his body. He bows politely. The low and respectful kind of bow that says I come in peace, I mean no harm, please don't destroy me.
The silence grows longer, and our dear Jungkook begins wondering if people can die from awkwardness. If that's a medical condition, and if he should have written a will. Your father stares, Jungkook bows a little deeper. His back protesting.
Finally, your father speaks. "Did my daughter send you?"
"No, sir." Jungkook's voice comes out steady.
A pause. Your father's eyes narrow slightly, scanning him like he's reading a label. "Did something happen to her?"
"No, sir."
"Then why are you here?"
Jungkook suddenly forgets every sentence he prepared during the drive. All those carefully constructed arguments inside his overthinker mind, all those practiced phrases…gone, evaporated.
Wonderful
He manages a nervous smile. It feels crooked on his face, too big, too desperate. "I wanted to talk to you."
Your father doesn't move. "About?"
For a fleeting second, Jungkook considers pretending he came to discuss the weather. The weather is safe, but unfortunately for him, that would make even less sense than his actual reason, and also, he's pretty sure your father can smell lies the way other people smell smoke.
"Sir, I love your daughter."
Your father blinks a few times. "Oh."
Jungkook nods. Encouraged. Maybe this is going well. Maybe the hard part is over. Maybe…it is not going well.
"That's unfortunate," your father says, and steps aside to let him in.
⏔⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ♡ྀི ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔⏔
Five minutes later, they're sitting at the kitchen table.
Jungkook has never seen such an intimidating kitchen before. Everything is clean and organized. He is afraid to touch anything. Your father places a cup of tea in front of him. The gesture is kind, but the expression on your father's face is not kind. Not in a malicious way, it’s the expression of someone who has watched young men come and go from this exact house, who has learned that most of them are not worth the time it takes to memorize their names. Jungkook suddenly understands where you inherited your stubbornness from.
"So," your father says.
"So," Jungkook echoes, and he immediately hates himself for echoing. He's not a parrot. He's a grown man. He has tattoos. He pays taxes, and he should be able to handle a conversation without turning into a robot.
"You love my daughter."
"Yes, sir."
"Why?"
Why? Because you're funny, because you laugh with your entire body, throwing your head back, because you cry during movies and then deny it, because you pretend not to like affection and attention and then complain when he stops giving it, which is confusing and annoying and completely endearing, because loving you happened so naturally he didn't notice it until he was already too deep in love with you.
He clears his throat. All of this is too much to say to your father. "She's amazing," Jungkook says.
Your father's face remains unreadable. "That's your argument?"
Jungkook panics. His brain, which had just started working again, shuts down completely. "No, sir."
"Good."
⏔⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ♡ྀི ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔⏔
An hour later, Jungkook has somehow been interviewed more thoroughly than a job applicant for a position that requires government clearance.
Career plans. Finances. Future goals. Emergency savings. Apartment size. Life insurance. Retirement planning. Your father asks about his parents, his siblings, his thoughts on home ownership versus renting, his opinion on private schools versus public schools for hypothetical future children that Jungkook is definitely not ready to discuss but finds himself discussing anyway because when your father asks a question, answering feels mandatory.
At one point, your father asks what kind of husband he intends to be. Jungkook answers honestly. It's the only answer he has, the only one he's sure of. "The best one I can."
Something shifts in your father's expression, only for a second. Maybe it was approval…or pity…or maybe even indigestion. Who knows…Then comes the final question and the most important one.
The reason Jungkook is here, sweating through his nice shirt
His heartbeat speeds up. He sits straighter, tries to look like the kind of man who deserves what he's about to ask for.
"Sir."
Your father waits. He knows what's coming. Jungkook can see it in the set of his shoulders and the slight tilt of his head.
"I want to marry her."
Your father folds his hands and looks directly at him.
And says:
"No."
Like he was declining extra napkins. Like Jungkook had offered him a flyer for a kebab place he wasn't interested in. Like this whole hour meant absolutely nothing.
Jungkook stares. Surely there's more, surely there's a ‘but’ or an ‘unless’ or a ‘however’ waiting in the air, ready to step on stage and save this moment from being exactly what it sounds like.
There isn't.
Your father takes another sip of tea.
Jungkook blinks. His mouth feels dry. His ears are ringing. "Sir?"
"No."
"I understand, but—"
"No."
"Can I ask why?"
Your father nods. "You can."
Jungkook waits. Your father waits too.
Nothing happens.
"...Why?"
"Because I said no."
Jungkook nearly laughs. Not because it's funny, but because otherwise he might cry, and he's pretty sure crying in your father's kitchen would be the final nail in a coffin that's already been nailed shut, buried, and had a parking lot built over it.
⏔⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ♡ྀི ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔⏔
The drive home feels longer. His pride aches took, his heart too…everything aches, actually, in a way that makes him wonder if this is what adulthood feels like. He should probably be upset, and angry, and embarrassed that he poured his heart out to a man who responded with a single syllable.
But Jungkook finds himself smiling, a small smile that tugs at the corners of his mouth while he waits at a red light because beneath the frustration is something unexpected.
Your father didn't laugh or mock him or send him out, and he didn’t tell Jungkook to find someone else’s daughter to love and cherish. He didn't say Jungkook wasn't good enough, wasn't successful enough, wasn't worthy. He just said 'no', and then he said it again, and then he kept saying it until Jungkook ran out of questions. He smiles because for two whole hours, he listened.
And Jungkook overthinks about it… a man doesn't spend two hours questioning someone he doesn't care about. A father doesn't interrogate a future son-in-law candidate unless the answer matters… unless the person sitting across from him is a real possibility.
‘No’ wasn't the end.
Jungkook glances at the road ahead, next Friday isn't far away. Five days, six hours, maybe less if he leaves work early. He can survive five days. He can survive anything if there's a chance at the end of it.
That evening, you're both sprawled across his couch, casually stealing fries from his plate. Your own plate sits untouched, still full, but you keep reaching for his anyway. Not because they're any different, just because they're his. This is the thing that you always do, and Jungkook loves it; it’s predictable and is exactly what he wants to come home to, exactly what he's fighting for.
Jungkook watches you. You glance up, caught, a fry halfway to your mouth.
"What?"
"Nothing."
Suspicious. Very suspicious. You narrow your eyes, and he sees your father in you for just a moment.
"What are you smiling about?"
He shakes his head. He can't tell you. Not yet. Not until he has something real to offer, something earned, something that proves he's serious. "Nothing."
You throw a fry at him. It bounces off his forehead and lands in his lap. You look proud, as if you've accomplished something significant, and your boyfriend laughs. Suddenly, the rejection doesn't feel so heavy anymore, because at the end of the day, every difficult conversation leads back to this. To you, to the future he's trying to build, one Friday at a time.
Jungkook picks up another fry. You steal that one too, quick as a cat, and he lets you. He doesn't even try to stop you. He watches you eat it, watches you chew, and for now, he lets you.
After all, he has bigger battles waiting for him next Friday. And the Friday after that. And however many it takes until your father finally says yes.
Now, 6 Months later
You are folding laundry when your phone buzzes against the coffee table, skittering like an insect that can't decide where to die. It's a text from him.
jk: Still at work, might be late for dinner, don't wait up
You smile because, of course, he is. He's always at work, or the gym, or somewhere building his body while you eat instant noodles in sweatpants that have a hole in the left thigh. (no shame)
What you don't know is that your boyfriend is not at work. Your boyfriend is currently sitting in his car in front of your parents' house. He's been here before. Many times. 6 months of Fridays, to be exact, which is 24 Fridays, which is 24 times he's climbed out of this same car with his heart hammering against his ribs.
Jungkook checks his reflection in the rearview mirror. He looks good. He looks great, actually, black sweater, hair styled in that particular way that took him 45 and 3 YouTube tutorials. He looks like a man who deserves a ‘yes.’ He looks like a man who is about to get another 'no', but hope, as they say, is a stupid and beautiful thing that dies slowly.
"Okay," he whispers to himself. "Okay. This time."
He reaches into the backseat for the flowers, peonies this week, because last week your mother mentioned she liked them and Jungkook remembered. He bought pastries again from that French place across town that requires a reservation three days in advance. Your father sees him coming up the walk through the living room window, and he doesn't move.
"Who is it, dear?" your mother calls from the kitchen.
"Nobody," your father says, which is technically true because, as far as he's concerned, Jungkook hasn't earned the right to be somebody yet.
"Nobody" rings the doorbell. Your father counts to ten before he stands. He opens the door.
"Sir," Jungkook says.
"Jungkook," your father says, like he's surprised, like he hasn't been watching the car sit in the driveway for fifteen minutes. "Again?"
"Yes, sir. If you have a moment."
"I suppose I have a moment."
This is their ritual. Your father steps aside to let him in, and Jungkook enters your childhood home. He can smell your mother's cooking from the kitchen. Something with garlic. His stomach growls, which is embarrassing, but your father pretends not to notice because even he has limits to his cruelty.
"Flowers," Jungkook says, holding them out. "For Mrs. … he clears his throat…for your wife."
"She'll appreciate them."
"And these are from Maison Blanc. The almond croissants you mentioned."
"You remembered."
"I remember everything, sir."
This is the part where your father should feel bad. This is the part where a normal person would see the earnestness in this young man's face. Your father is not having any of it. "Sit," he says. "I'll make tea once again."
They sit in the living room. The couch is old, and Jungkook sinks into it the way he always does, while your father sits in his armchair. The tea is green and bitter. Jungkook hates green tea, but he drinks it anyway.
"So," your father says.
"Sir," Jungkook begins, and he sets down his cup because his hands are shaking again and he doesn't want to spill on the carpet. "I know I've asked before. Many times. But I'm here to ask again."
"Mhm."
"I love your daughter. I have loved her for…" He pauses, does the math "…two years, four months, and sixteen days. Not that I'm counting. I mean, I am counting. I have a calendar. That sounds creepy. It's not creepy. It's —"
"Jungkook."
"Yes, sir?"
"Deep breath, son."
Jungkook takes a deep breath. Your father watches him.
"Sir, may I have your blessing to marry your daughter?" The question hangs in the air between them.
Your father takes a sip of tea. He thinks about you, his daughter, his only child, the person who once cried for three hours because her goldfish died and then forgot about it by dinner time. He thinks about the way you looked at Jungkook the first time you brought him home, like he was made of magic and promises. He thinks about the way Jungkook looks at you, like you are the only thing in the world that matters, like he would burn down every building between here and the sea if you asked him to.
He thinks, good.
Then he says: "No."
Jungkook nods. He expected this, but something in his chest still sinks, still curls up small and wounded. 25 rejections. 25 times he's asked.
"Can I ask again why, sir?"
"Because," your father says, and he leans forward, and Jungkook recognizes this posture. This is the posture of a man about to deliver a lesson. "You still flinch when I say no."
"I … what?"
"You flinch. Your shoulders go up, your eyes go down. You look like a dog that's been kicked." Your father's voice is not unkind, but it is firm. It is the voice of a man who has spent thirty years teaching high school English and knows exactly how to make a point land. "If you want to marry my daughter, you need to be able to hear 'no' without breaking. You need to be able to hear 'no' and keep standing anyway."
Jungkook stares at him. "You want me to… you're testing me??"
"I'm teaching you," your father corrects. "There's a difference."
"How long?"
"Until you stop flinching."
"And if I never stop flinching?"
Your father smiles. "Then you're not the man I thought you were, and my daughter deserves better."
They sit in silence. From the kitchen, your mother's voice rises in a question about dinner, and your father calls back that they'll be a while.
"You can go," your father says. "Unless you want to stay. Daeun made enough for three."
Jungkook should go. He knows he should go. He's supposed to meet you in two hours, and he needs to shower, and he needs to practice his smile so you won't know that he's been here again, that he's been rejected again, but the smell of garlic is making him dizzy with hunger, and your father's face has softened in a way it never has before, and something in Jungkook makes him stay.
"I'd like to stay," he says. "If that's okay."
Your father nods. "Set the table, then. You know where the plates are."
He does. He knows where everything is. He's been here enough times to have memorized the layout of your childhood home. He knows your father takes his coffee black and your mother hums when she cooks. He knows these things because he loves you, and loving you means loving where you came from, even when where you came from keeps telling him no.
⏔⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ♡ྀི ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔⏔
You just got out of the shower when he texts again.
jk: “omw saved you some dumplings. It was a coworker's bday today.”
Y/n doesn’t question anything. You don't know about the tea, or the conversation, or the way your father's eyes went soft when Jungkook finally laughed at one of his jokes. You have no idea that somewhere in your childhood home, there's a drawer where your father keeps the cards Jungkook has brought. And you definitely have no idea that your father talks about Jungkook to his friends, calls him "that persistent kid" with something like pride in his voice. You don't know that your boyfriend is learning how to be the kind of man who doesn't flinch. You don't know that his heart that's been broken so many times and still beats hopeful.
He thinks about you. He thinks about the way you look when you first wake up, he thinks about the way you laugh, he thinks about getting down on one knee and offering you everything he has, which is not much, which is everything. Because many months ago, he made a promise to himself that he would do this right, that he would have your father's blessing.
You text him
You: hurry up, I'm hungry, and the TV show just started!! <3
Three socks and a suspicion
You are standing in front of your open sock drawer when you realize something is wrong with your boyfriend. Not wrong-wrong, not cheating-wrong or lying-wrong or has-a-secret-family-in-a-whole-different-country-wrong.
Jungkook has been... off.
Not distant, if anything, he's been more present than usual, texting more, calling for no reason, showing up at your apartment with food he claims is "leftover from the guys" but is clearly freshly bought because since when does Namjoon eat salmon with lemon dill sauce? Since when does anyone in that dorm eat vegetables that aren't covered in cheese? (again, no shame)
You hold up three socks. None of them match.
"You're thinking loudly," Jungkook says from your bed, where he's sprawled on his stomach, scrolling through his phone. He always knows when you're thinking. It's one of his most annoying qualities as a boyfriend.
"I'm not thinking," you lie.
"Your forehead does this thing." He finally looks up, and his eyes… those big, dark eyes that you fell into like a well you never wanted to climb out of… crinkle at the corners. "It wrinkles. Right here."
"Maybe I'm just getting old."
"You're 23."
"24 in three months."
"Ancient," he agrees, solemn as a funeral. "Should I buy you a cane? Or maybe one of those chairs that lifts you up?"
"Jeon Jungkook."
"Yes, my elderly girlfriend?"
You giggle and throw a sock at him. "You've been weird lately," you say.
"Weird how?" he asks, and his voice is casual, perfectly casual, too casual.
"I don't know. Distracted. Happy distracted. Like you're not telling me something."
Something flickers across his face. Something that looks almost like panic, or maybe hope, or maybe a little bit of both.
"Maybe I am," he says, and then he smiles and pats the space on the bed next to him. "Come here. I'll tell you, angel."
You go because you've always been weak when it comes to him. After all, he could ask you to follow him into a burning building, and you'd follow. The bed dips under your weight.
"Tell me," you say.
"I can't."
"Jungkook."
"I literally can't. It's not my secret to tell…But I promise it's a good secret. The best secret, and when you find out." He stops and swallows… "when you find out, I hope you'll say yes."
Your heart does something complicated in your chest, a backflip, a small, confused seizure. "Say yes to what?"
"Everything," he whispers.
You should push. You know you should push, but he's looking at you like you're the only thing in the world, and you forget how to form words. You forget your own name. You lean in to kiss him because that's the only thing your brain will allow, you kiss him and he kisses you back.
Your mother knows.
She's known since week three, when she came home early from her book club and found Jungkook washing dishes in their kitchen while your father dried. They were arguing about baseball, and your father was laughing. She stood in the doorway and watched them.
"Mrs. Y/L/N" Jungkook had stuttered when he saw her, dropping a plate back into the sink with a splash that soaked his shirt. "I can explain."
"Can you?" she'd asked, one eyebrow raised.
"Not really. No. I'm sorry."
She'd looked at your father, who was doing a terrible job of looking innocent. Your father, who had told Jungkook ‘no’ 13 times at that time, showed no signs of stopping.
"How long?" she'd asked your father.
"13 weeks," he'd said, like he was proud of it. Like this was an accomplishment.
"And how many more?"
"We'll see."
Your mother had sighed then, it's the sigh of a woman who has been married to this man for 22 years and has learned that some battles are not worth fighting. She'd picked up a towel, started drying the plate that Jungkook had abandoned, and said: "He likes the almond croissants from Maison Blanc. But the chocolate ones are better."
Jungkook had stared at her. "You're not... mad?"
"Oh, I'm furious," she'd said, and smiled. "But I'm also hungry, and you two have clearly been eating without me, so you're taking me to dinner. Somewhere expensive."
That was week 13.
⏔⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ♡ྀི ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔⏔
Now it's week 27, and your mother has become Jungkook's accomplice. She texts him recipes your father likes. She has, on two occasions, lied to you about where Jungkook is on Friday afternoons, which makes her feel slightly guilty, but she's never seen your father have this much fun. Not at your graduation, not at your sister's wedding, not when he finally beat his brother at golf after 15 years of losing. This ridiculous ritual of weekly interrogation is the most fun he's had in decades.
"He's coming today," your father says now, not looking up from his newspaper. It's Friday. It's 3:30. He checked the clock four times in the last hour.
"I know," your mother says.
"He's bringing those almond things."
"You love almond things."
"I tolerate them," he corrects.
She sits down across from him. "You know you're going to ahve to say ‘yes’ eventually."
"Do I?"
"Yes. Because, despite your best efforts, you like him. You like him more than you liked Minji's husband, and you liked Minji's husband enough to cry at their wedding."
Your father sniffs. "I had allergies."
"You had feelings." She reaches across the table and touches his hand. "When are you going to tell her?"
"Who?"
"Your daughter. The person this actually concerns."
Your father is quiet for a long moment. Outside, Jungkook's car pulls up, and your father straightens his shoulders and puts on his mask of indifference to become the man who says ‘no.’
"When he stops flinching," your father says. "Or when she figures it out. Whichever comes first."
"And if she never figures it out?"
Your father smiles. It's a small, complicated smile, the smile of a man who has spent his life teaching other people lessons they didn't know they needed to learn. "Then she's not as smart as I raised her to be," he says, "and Jungkook will have to keep coming forever."
The doorbell rings. Your mother gets up to answer it, leaving your father to his newspaper and his anticipation and his strange, stubborn hope.
⏔⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ♡ྀི ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔⏔
Jungkook is not flinching today.
He's thought about it all week, actually, ever since your father said those words like a challenge.
He's practiced in the mirror. He's practiced in the shower. He's practiced saying ‘no’ to himself, which felt ridiculous but also necessary.
He stands on your parents' porch with lilies-of-the-valley in one hand and chocolate croissants in the other. He switched because he suspects your father is tired of pretending to like almonds.
I will not flinch, he thinks.
Your mother opens the door. "Chocolate," she says, looking at the box. "Smart boy."
"I have it on good authority that almonds are overrated."
"Your authority is correct. Come in. He's in his usual spot."
The living room is the same as always. The couch is waiting to swallow him. The armchair is waiting to judge him. Your father is waiting to break his heart, gently.
"Sir," Jungkook says. He doesn't sit. Not yet.
"Jungkook." Your father folds his newspaper. "You're early."
"I couldn't wait."
"Eager to be rejected?"
"Eager to try."
They sit. The tea is prepared, black today, not green, which Jungkook takes as a good sign, or maybe just as your mother intervening on his behalf. The chocolate croissants are placed on a plate.
"So," your father says.
"Sir," Jungkook says, and he sets down his cup, and he looks your father directly in the eyes, and he does not look away. "May I have your blessing to marry your daughter?"
Your father opens his mouth to say ‘no.’
Jungkook does not flinch or move, and your father notices. Your father notices, and something shifts in his expression like seeing a student finally understand the lesson.
"No," your father says.
Jungkook does not flinch.
"Okay," Jungkook says. "I'll ask again next week."
Your father leans forward. "Why?"
"Because I love her. Because I want to do this right. Because… because you saying ‘no’ doesn't change what I want. It just changes how long I have to wait."
Your father is very still. From the kitchen, your mother is listening, holding her breath, ready to intervene if necessary.
"And if I never say yes?" your father asks. "If I keep saying ‘no’ until you're old and gray and she's moved on to someone else?"
"Then I'll keep coming," Jungkook says, and he means it. "I'll keep coming because this isn't about you. It's about her. And she deserves someone who doesn't give up just because it's hard."
Your father looks at him for a long time. "You're not flinching," your father says quietly.
"No, sir. I'm not."
Your father sits back. He picks up his tea. He drinks it, slowly, thoughtfully, like he's tasting something new. "The chocolate croissants are better," he says finally. “Do you think I’m being cruel to you?”
"No, I understand you’re being careful."
"Do you?"
"I have a sister," Jungkook says. "She's younger, if someone wanted to marry her, I'd want them to work for it. I'd want to know if they were serious." He pauses, chooses his words carefully. "I don't think you're cruel, sir. I think you're scared. And I think that's okay. Because I'm scared too."
Your father laughs. It's a short, surprised sound, like a cough that turned into something better. "You're scared? Of what?"
"Of not being enough. Of messing up. Of all of it…marriage, forever, being someone's whole world. What if I'm bad at it? What if I hurt her? What if I try my best and my best isn't good enough?"
Jungkook realizes he's said too much, but your father doesn't attack. He just nods, slowly, like he's hearing an answer to a question he didn't know he was asking.
"So that's why you flinched," your father says. "Not because of me. Because of the fear."
"Yes, sir."
"And now?"
Jungkook thinks about the fear, which is still there; it will always be there, he knows that now. He thinks about the future, which is uncertain, which is terrifying, which is beautiful because it contains you.
"Now I'm scared," he says, "but I'm here anyway."
"Next week," your father says. "Bring the almond croissants. I changed my mind. I like them better."
"Yes, sir."
"And Jungkook?"
"Yes?"
Your father turns around and smiles, "Stop calling me sir. My name is Seojun."
⏔⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ♡ྀི ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔⏔
You are eating a salad when Jungkook finally shows up, two hours late.
"Sorry," he says, dropping onto your couch with the boneless grace of a man who has been through something and survived. "A meeting ran long."
"Liar," you say, but you're smiling because he's here. He's always here, because even when he's keeping secrets, he's keeping them with such obvious love that you can't really be mad.
"Am I?"
"You're wearing a hoodie. You don't wear a hoodie to meetings."
He looks down at himself, surprised, like he hadn't noticed. "Huh. Guess I'm caught."
"Guess you are. Where were you, really?"
"I was," he says slowly, "learning how to be brave."
"Jungkook…”
"And I think," he continues, "that I'm almost there, almost ready., my love." He reaches out, tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers are warm. "Soon," he promises. "Soon you'll know everything.”
"Okay," you say. "But if this secret is bad, if you're secretly a criminal or you have a twin, I'm going to be mad."
He pulls you close, rests his chin on your head, and you can feel his heartbeat against your cheek. "I love you," he says, like it's a promise, like it's a prayer, like it's the only true thing in the world.
"I love you too," you say..
The Blessing
You are standing in the middle of your apartment holding a spoon when the world changes. Your mother calls, and her voice, when you answer, sounds strange.
"You need to come home," she says. "This Friday. Four o'clock."
"Mom, I have work-"
"Four o'clock," she repeats, "And honey? Don't tell Jungkook."
"Mom...?," you say slowly, "what's going on...?"
But she already hung up.
⏔⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ♡ྀི ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔⏔
Jungkook knows something is different. He's known since Tuesday, when your mother texted him with instructions for this Friday that were more specific than usual.
Daeun: Wear the blue shirt, and bring the small box, not the big one. She's suspicious enough already.
He's been carrying the small box for four months. It lives in his gym bag, wrapped in an old T-shirt, tucked between his protein powder and his backup headphones. He's taken it to work, to the convenience store at 2 am, when you wanted ice cream. He checks his reflection in the rearview mirror. The blue shirt, your favorite.
Today feels different. Today feels like the last time, one way or another. He drives across town with the box in his pocket and his heart in his throat. He doesn't know you're already there. He doesn't know that your mother finally broke, finally told you everything, finally couldn't stand keeping the secret for one more day. He doesn't know that you're sitting in your childhood bedroom right now, listening to your mother's rushed explanation to you, “Every Friday, for 6 months, he…” with your hands shaking and your eyes filling with tears that you can't quite name.
Are you angry? You should be angry. He kept a secret. A big one. A secret that involved your father and pastries and some kind of ongoing test that you apparently needed to pass without knowing you were taking it. But underneath the anger is something else that feels like being chosen, over and over again.
"Why didn't you tell me?" you ask your mother, and your voice sounds small, like a child's.
"Because he asked us not to. Because he wanted to do it right. And because your father was having too much fun to stop."
"He's been rejecting him? For 6 months?"
"29 times," your mother says. "This will be 30."
"That's…" you stop, because you don't know what that is. Cruel? Romantic? "Where are they?"
"Living room…waiting."
You stand up. Your legs feel unsteady, and you walk to the door, opening it and hear:
"You're late," your father says.
"Traffic," Jungkook replies, and his voice is steady.
You walk slowly and silently down the hall. You can see them through the doorway. Your father in his armchair, the throne, Jungkook on the couch.
"So," your father says. "This is 30."
"Yes, sir."
"You know what I'm going to say."
"I think so," Jungkook says. "But I'd like to hear it anyway."
"You stopped flinching," your father says. "Week 26. Do you remember?"
"I remember."
"I thought that would be it. I thought I'd say ‘yes’ then, and we'd be done with this." Your father leans forward. "But then I realized… flinching was just the first test. The easy one. The real test is what you do after."
Jungkook is very still. "And?"
"And you've shown up," your father says. "29 times. Through my bad moods and my stupid questions and that week where I made you help me clean the garage because I wanted to see if you'd complain."
"I didn't complain, sir."
"Yes, that's right."
You are holding your breath. You realize this only when your lungs start to hurt, when the edges of your vision go blurry. You let it out, slow and silent, and you watch your father's face.
"Jungkook," your father says.
"Yes, sir?"
"Do you love my daughter?"
"More than anything."
"Will you keep loving her? When is she difficult? When she's tired? When she's been your wife for 20, and the newness has worn off, and you're left with just, with her ordinary flaws?"
Jungkook doesn't hesitate. "Yes."
"Will you keep showing up?"
"Every day," Jungkook says, and his voice breaks slightly, but he doesn't flinch. He doesn't look away. "Every Friday. Every Tuesday. Every day that ends in Y, I'll keep showing up until you believe me, and then I'll keep showing up so you don't forget."
"Jungkook," your father says.
"Yes, sir?"
"My name is Seojun."
"I know, sir. I mean — I know, Seojun."
Your father stands up. He walks to Jungkook, who stands too, automatic, respectful, ready for whatever comes next. He puts his hand on Jungkook's shoulder.
"Yes," your father says.
Jungkook's face crumples for a blink…the relief, the exhaustion, the pure happiness of finally being enough.
"Seojun," your father corrects, but he's smiling. "And you're welcome. Now…" he steps back, clears his throat "…you have a question to ask, don't you? Might want to get to it. She's standing right behind you."
Jungkook turns.
You are crying. You didn't realize you were crying, but your face is wet, and your hands are shaking, and you can't seem to make your mouth form words. You look at him. at your boyfriend, at this stubborn, persistent man who loved you enough to endure 29 rejections just for the chance to propose properly.
"You…" you start, and your voice breaks. "You idiot. You absolute…why didn't you tell me?"
"I wanted to- " he starts, and then stops, because you're walking toward him, and then you're in his arms.
"I would have said yes," you mumble into his shoulder. "Week one. I would have said yes."
"I know," he says.
"Ask me," you say.
"What?"
"Ask me. You came here thirty times to ask him, now ask me."
Jungkook's hands are shaking. He reaches into his pants pocket and pulls out the small box. It's worn from being carried, from being hidden.
He gets down on one knee. Your mother appears in the doorway, raising the phone to record this, to capture it, to prove that it really happened.
"Okay," Jungkook says, and he's crying now too; you realize the tears tracking down his face in the most undignified, most beautiful way. "Okay. I've been practicing this. In the car. In the shower. In my head, about a thousand times." He opens the box. The ring is simple, exactly right, exactly you. "I love you. I've loved you for two years and four months and thirty days. Your father told me I wasn't ready. But I think- I hope- I'm ready now. Will you…" He stops, swallows, starts again, " …will you marry me? Will you let me keep showing up? Will you be my family, officially?"
You look at him. You look at your father, who is wiping his eyes with the back of his hand and pretending he's not. You look at your mother, who is crying, who has been waiting for this for weeks when she first saw Jungkook washing dishes in her kitchen.
You look at Jungkook.
"Yes," you say. "Yes, you idiot. Yes, I'll marry you. Yes to all of it. Yes, forever."
He puts the ring on your finger. He stands up, and he kisses you.
⏔⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ♡ྀི ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔⏔
Later, after the crying and the laughing and your father insisting on opening the good wine that he's been saving for something important, you sit on the porch with Jungkook, your hand in his, the ring catching the light.
"30 Fridays," you say. "You came here 30 times."
"29 rejections," he confirms. "One yes."
"Was it worth it?"
He looks at you. He looks at you like he looked at you the first time, like he'll look at you when you're old and gray and arguing about whose turn it is to take out the trash.
"Every single one," he says. "I'd do 30 more. 300. However many it will take."
You lean your head on his shoulder.
Inside, your father is telling your mother that he knew Jungkook would make it, that he never doubted, that he was just testing him to be sure. Your mother is rolling her eyes and pouring more wine and smiling in a way that says she knows exactly what really happened. That her husband has already accepted your boyfriend somewhere around week twelve, and has been pretending otherwise ever since.
But that's their story.
This is yours.
The future is waiting.
It's going to be exhausting and beautiful and completely worth it.
friendship rule number one: don’t imagine how amazing your best friend’s cock would feel inside you. except that’s all you can think about after accidentally discovering taehyung’s kink for panties. specifically, the lacy ones you’re so fond of wearing.
pairing: taehyung x reader
genre: smut, fluff, a sprinkle of angst
words: 11.8k
contains: college au, roommate au, childhood best friends to lovers, underwear kink, masturbation, fingering, oral (f), condomless sex, so much softness, light dirty talk, definitely too much plot
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