pairing: joshua hong x reader
genre: angst, murder mystery, slowburn romance, plot heavy
description: Rule settles into routine, but beneath it, something ancient begins to shift. As you follow the trail your brother left behind, the line between memory and inheritance blurs, between what was stolen, what was hidden, and what was denied to you. Old gods stir, the earth cracks open, and the quiet becomes unbearable. Whatever is coming has already begun to move.
warnings: major character death (not lead characters, but central to narrative) political and power struggles, religious themes, violence, fighting, swords and weapons mentioned, psychological distress, and as most of my works go: slowburn. as hell.
w/c: 16.5k
MASTERLIST | ACT 1
The Quiet Before
You’re a bit disappointed when you realise you’ve forgotten where the nursery used to be. Almost shamefully, you ask Joshua to take you there. It’s odd, asking someone else who doesn’t exactly belong here to show you—the one who was born here—around. But Joshua makes it easier by not pointing it out or teasing you.
He leads you deeper into the palace, away from both your chambers and closer to the ones your parents occupied while they were still alive. You wonder why you didn’t think of searching from here. Of course it would be close to them.
As you walk past their chambers, you can’t help the displeasure that courses through you. Your mother’s stern face, lips curled up in anger and your father’s cold, impassive attitude towards you are some of the only things you remember about them. The only time you’d ever seen your father show so much as a different emotion around you was in the days after your prophecy had been told.
Those days, you shall never forget. The way the palace and its people seemed to curl away from you, in fear, in distaste, in something you never understood as a child. The halls had felt longer then, stretching into whispering voices and grave glances. Servants that once smiled at you had begun to turn their faces away, hands trembling when they passed you anything. Even Jeonghan, your twin, the one person who had always been at your side, had looked at you differently that night. Not with fear, no—never fear—but with something else. Something you still can’t name.
When it had begun, you wondered why everyone had just decided that you were the twin that would bring destruction. Was it because Jeonghan was more mellow, less energetic and much less fiery compared to you? You were a child. What fifteen-year-old could’ve brought down an entire kingdom? What fifteen-year-old could’ve done something to warrant a punishment like exile?
You shake yourself free from the thoughts. There is no point in mulling over these now. You’ve had enough time to do so.
When you reach the nursery door, you hesitate. Your fingers twitch at your sides, but you don’t move to open it just yet.
“You don’t have to,” Joshua says quietly.
“I do.” Your voice is level, though it surprises you how much effort it takes to keep it that way.
Taking a breath, you push the door open.
The scent of dust and old wood greets you immediately. It’s strange—this room, untouched for years, feels almost frozen in time. Like if you listen hard enough, you might still hear laughter, hushed voices conspiring in the dark, the creak of the wooden rocking horse Jeonghan used to push you on.
Your gaze sweeps across the room, taking in the abandoned relics of your childhood. Then, it lands on the wooden chest in the corner.
You walk toward it, pulse thrumming in your ears.
The chest is exactly as you remember. Sturdy, worn from use, the edges chipped from years of restless hands opening and closing it. You kneel before it. Weirdly enough, it’s the only thing in the room that isn’t coated with layers of dust. Your fingers hesitate for only a second before you lift the lid.
Inside, you see old toys, yellowed pages of stories you once read over and over, small trinkets you and Jeonghan used to collect. And then—
Your breath catches.
A folded piece of parchment. You unfold it slowly, and the swirling, almost unreadable handwriting of Jeonghan greets you.
"I am a game where the queen carves paths the king cannot walk. You must use me wisely, or you will be trapped. What am I?"
You blink, reading the riddle over again, your thoughts racing. It’s simple enough—too simple, maybe—but there’s something about it that still tugs at your mind.
Joshua leans over your shoulder to take a look, his eyes scanning the parchment. His voice is low, thoughtful. “It’s chess,” he says after a moment, his tone carrying the hint of a rueful smile.
You nod. The answer makes sense, but the way the riddle is phrased doesn’t feel like a coincidence. It feels like a clue, a deliberate step toward something more.
As if on cue, your eyes flicker across the room, landing on the wooden chessboard sitting in the corner, untouched and gathering dust. The pieces are scattered across the board, a few pawns and a rook placed outside, next to it. Your pulse quickens as you walk over to it.
The game has been left mid-play, the pieces unmoved. The faint outlines of where someone’s fingers had rested on the pieces are still there.
Your heart stutters as you lean closer. Beneath the bishop, there's a scrap of paper wedged between the pieces. You reach down and pull it free, your fingers trembling as you unfold it.
It’s another note from Jeonghan.
"A game that is never finished. A move left undone. Follow the pieces. They lead you to what you seek."
Your throat tightens. He had always loved chess—almost obsessed with it, really. You’d spent countless hours in this very room, playing together, challenging each other. But this was different. The game had been left unfinished, just like everything else that had been left behind.
Joshua’s gaze flickers from the note to your face. “What does it mean?” he asks quietly, his voice gentle but laced with curiosity.
You close your eyes for a moment, taking in the words. The pieces. The unfinished game. Follow the pieces. It repeats in your head, over and over, just out of reach. You look down at the board again, eyes tracing over the pieces.
Joshua is still watching you, waiting. He already knows better than to interrupt when you’re thinking.
And then your gaze catches on the placement of the white knight.
Your breath stills. The move was left undone.
Jeonghan had always been careful with his games—methodical and precise. He never left a match unfinished unless… unless it meant something. You reach for the knight, running your thumb over the carved surface, then glance down at the board, searching for where it was supposed to go.
Your fingers hover over a square, and suddenly, it clicks.
This wasn’t just any move. It was the opening to a gambit—the same one Jeonghan used to teach you when you were younger, back when he insisted you learn strategy, not just instinct.
You press the knight into place.
The board shifts—the smallest click of wood against stone, but it’s enough to make both you and Joshua freeze.
Then, slowly, the base of the board creaks open, revealing a hidden compartment beneath.
You stare.
“…Huh,” Joshua mutters beside you.
Your pulse pounds in your ears as you reach down, fingers grazing the edge of whatever is hidden inside. Not a book—not something grand or heavy. Just another small scrap of parchment, folded neatly.
Another note.
You unfold it, a little hastier than before.
"A game of kings and queens is nothing without the knowledge to wield it. If you seek answers, find where the stories never end."
Joshua leans in slightly, reading over your shoulder. “Where the stories never end…” His brows knit together for only a moment before realization dawns. He exhales softly, shaking his head. “That’s not much of a riddle, is it?”
You let out a small breath, something between amusement and disbelief. “No,” you agree, tracing the words again with your thumb. “It isn’t.”
It’s obvious. The library.
A shadow moves in the doorway before you can turn to Joshua with your next thought.
“Digging through the past, are we?”
You know that voice. You haven’t heard it in years, but it still slashes through your thoughts like a knife. You rise slowly, schooling your expression before turning to face them.
Your uncle.
The years have not been kind to him. His face is gaunt and more lined than you remember, his features sharper, and his mouth drawn into a thin line of displeasure. He is dressed finely, as always, the insignia of your family stitched across his chest—ironic, considering that he was never really a part of your family’s core anyways.
You let the silence stretch before answering, letting your gaze flick over him, cool and detached.
“When did you get here?” you ask.
His expression barely changes, but you see the faintest flicker of irritation. “I arrived this morning.”
“You’re not welcome here anymore.”
He exhales a short laugh, the sound devoid of amusement. “Funny. I was about to say the same to you.” His eyes drift over the room, taking in the open chest, the chessboard, the dust disturbed by your presence. “You always did have a habit of poking at things best left alone.”
You tilt your head slightly, studying him. “I don’t recall asking for your opinion.”
His expression darkens, but he recovers quickly. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t. You never did care much for authority, did you? That was always your problem.” His voice is smooth, practiced, but you hear the weight of resentment beneath it. “Not that it matters. You forfeited any right to this place when you—”
“When I was exiled,” you finish for him, your words devoid of emotion. “Yes, I remember. This is starting to get a bit old now.”
Your uncle’s eyes narrow slightly, as if he had been hoping for a stronger reaction.
Joshua remains silent beside you. He knows you don’t need him yet.
He steps further into the room, his presence almost lazy, but there is an edge to him—a blade hidden beneath silk. “It’s amusing,” he continues. “You, walking these halls like nothing ever happened. Like you still belong here.” His gaze sharpens. “You don’t.”
Something in you hums with quiet, restrained anger, but your face remains impassive. You step forward, towards him—a small deliberate movement to make him pause.
“And yet,” you say, “here I stand. And here you are, standing in front of me, still pretending you have power over something you never did.”
His mouth presses into a thin line. “Your arrogance is exactly why we ended up in this mess.”
You raise an eyebrow. “We?”
He scoffs. “Don’t play games. We spent years repairing the damage you could have caused. Years ensuring this kingdom stayed standing despite the shadow you left behind. And yet here you are, dragging your filth back into our home.”
Joshua bristles beside you, but you barely acknowledge it.
You take a slow step forward.
Your uncle doesn’t move, but you see the tension in his shoulders, the way he braces himself. For what, you wonder? Raised voices? A loss of composure?
You don’t give him the satisfaction.
“You can rewrite history all you want,” you sigh, impassive. “Twist it into something that lets you sleep at night. But you know as well as I do that my exile wasn’t about what I did. It was about what you feared I would do.”
A flicker of something—real anger, real hatred—crosses his face.
“Call it fear if you want,” he bites out. “But the only mistake we made was letting you live long enough to prove us right.”
Your breathing is slow. Measured. You meet his eyes, and for the first time, you let yourself smirk, just a little.
“You talk about mistakes,” you murmur. “And yet, here you stand in front of me, spitting empty words like they mean something. Like I am the one who should be ashamed.”
His lips curl down.
“You should be ashamed,” he says slowly. “You are a stain on this family. A parasite. You should have stayed gone.”
You don’t blink.
And that, it seems, unsettles him more than anger ever could.
And then, finally, Joshua moves.
He doesn’t step in front of you—not fully—but it is enough. A slight shift, making his presence too unwavering to ignore. His voice is level when he speaks, but there’s an edge to it, quiet and sharp.
“You talk a lot for a man who wasn’t even important enough to make that decision.”
His jaw tightens. “What did you say?”
Joshua’s expression doesn’t falter. “You didn’t decide her exile. You were just the one who was left behind to watch her leave.”
The words hit like a slap. Your uncle visibly flinches, but his pride prevents him from acknowledging it fully. He straightens, as if trying to tower over Joshua, but even in his own rage, there’s hesitation now, the tiniest crack in his composure.
There’s something almost relieving about it—watching him falter. You’d forgotten how satisfying it was to see someone backpedal from the truth.
Your uncle’s voice lowers to a growl. “I see. The little prince’s lackey finds courage to speak now that he has someone to hide behind.”
Joshua tilts his head slightly, not responding to the taunt, just letting it hang in the air between them.
“Your words mean nothing here. Not anymore. In fact, they haven’t for a long time.”
Your uncle’s hands ball into fists at his sides. For a moment, it looks like he might strike—his fingers twitch, his body coiled tight like a spring ready to snap—but something in Joshua’s unyielding stance, something in the way his eyes never leave his, makes him stop.
Your uncle sneers, finally breaking away from the confrontation. He doesn’t look back as he storms out, though you can feel the simmering hatred in his retreat.
It’s only when he’s gone that you let out the breath you’ve been holding. For a moment, there’s nothing but the quiet echo of his footsteps fading down the hall.
Joshua stands there for a beat longer, his posture still rigid, still watching, as though waiting for something else to happen. But nothing does. When he finally turns around to face you, you speak before he can.
“Get him out,” you say flatly. “As soon as possible.”
Joshua nods, stepping behind when he realises how small the gap is between you two.
“And,” you continue, looking away from him, “You didn’t have to do that.”
Joshua opens his mouth to say something, but he waits for a few seconds and when he answers, you have a feeling that it is not what he means to say. “I’m sorry if I overstepped, Princess.”
You clear your throat. “It’s fine. Thank you, I suppose.”
When you walk past him to the door, your shoulder brushing past his, you stop—looking over your shoulder. “You don’t have to keep calling me that, too.”
He looks puzzled for a second before the realization dawns on him. His lips part as he nods. “Ah. If that’s what you prefer. What do I call you?”
You shake your head as you walk out. “I have a name. You could use that.”
Joshua remembers.
He remembers the shift in the palace before he understood what it meant. His family was new to court then, still learning how to navigate the rules unspoken and otherwise, but even he could sense the tension in the way people spoke—too carefully, too deliberately. The way they watched you when you passed. The way they didn’t meet your eyes.
Mostly, he remembers Jeonghan’s mood, how it curdled into something sharp and restless. He had always carried himself with a certain untouchable ease, but in those days, something had changed. He was irritated with people, impatient. Joshua remembers finding him in one of the courtyards, pacing furiously, his fingers tangled in his hair. The ground littered with the remains of some potted plant he’d knocked over, the broken shards of ceramic stark against the stone. Joshua had asked what was wrong, and Jeonghan had only given him a look. Not quite a glare, not quite an answer. Just a look, like he was daring him to keep asking.
He hadn’t. He’d learned quickly that from then on, Jeonghan only spoke when he wanted to.
But later, he started to notice other things. How Jeonghan would pull you aside, speaking in hushed, urgent tones, how your face stayed unreadable. Joshua had walked in on one of those conversations once, stepping into the hall just as Jeonghan was saying something—low, frustrated, almost pleading. You had seen him first, and whatever you had been about to say vanished from your lips. Jeonghan turned, his expression slipping back into place like a mask, and the moment was gone.
In those moments, as a fifteen-year-old who was desperate to fit in and make friends, Joshua remembers feeling incredibly lonely. Now, it seems like a futile attempt, trying to get close to people who were inseparable from birth. It had gotten easier to talk to Jeonghan, to become friends with him, but only after you left.
Joshua remembers trying to speak to you once. He hadn’t meant to pry, but curiosity had gotten the better of him. He caught you outside the library, standing with your arms crossed, looking at nothing in particular. He asked if you were alright. You had turned to him, meeting his eyes for a beat too long before saying, in a tone too even, too careful, “I’m fine.” He had tried again—something lighthearted, something to ease the quiet between you—but you had only given a vague response, an excuse to leave, and then you were gone.
After that, he stopped trying. But he watched.
And that was how he saw you leave. The sky still dark, the palace heavy with silence. He hadn't meant to be awake—hadn't meant to be wandering through the corridors at that hour—but something had stirred him, something restless in the air, something wrong.
He hadn’t expected to see you.
You stood in the courtyard, just past the stone archway, the faint glow of lanterns casting long shadows around you. Jeonghan stood in front of you, gripping your hands so tightly that his knuckles had turned white. Your head was bowed slightly, your shoulders stiff, and your expression a mix of pain and grief.
Jeonghan was speaking, hurried and quiet, his words almost frantic. Joshua couldn’t hear them, but he could see the way he leaned in, the way his fingers wrapped tighter around yours, like he was trying to hold you there through sheer force of will. You shook your head once, slow, like you knew it wouldn’t change anything.
And then Jeonghan pulled you forward, arms wrapping around you, holding on like it was the only thing he could do. You didn’t hesitate. Your hands clutched at the back of his coat, gripping the fabric so tightly it looked like you were afraid to let go. It was almost eerie, how similar you looked in that moment—like two reflections pressed together, mirroring each other’s grief. Like you had been made to stand side by side, two halves of a whole.
Neither of you moved.
Joshua felt like he shouldn’t be watching, like this moment wasn’t meant for him. But he stayed.
Eventually, you were the first to pull away, though not by much. Jeonghan’s hands lingered at your elbows, as if he could still stop this, as if there was anything left to do. But you only took a step back, breath unsteady, gaze lowering.
And then, with no more words, you turned toward the waiting carriage.
Joshua didn’t know why he followed your movement, why he kept watching as you climbed in, as the doors shut behind you. He didn’t know why his chest felt tight as the carriage pulled away, vanishing past the gates.
But he knew, even then, that Jeonghan wasn’t going to recover from this easily.
Jeonghan stood frozen, fists clenched at his sides in the cold morning air. He swayed forward slightly, like he wanted to run after you, before catching himself at the last second. When he finally turned back toward the palace, Joshua saw his face clearly.
Jeonghan wasn’t someone who wore his emotions too openly, but that morning, Joshua had seen it all—anger, grief, helplessness, all so sharp it looked like it physically hurt.
For the next few weeks, Jeonghan barely spoke. He snapped at people, shut himself away, ignored anyone who tried to ask what had happened.
It was in those days that Joshua had gotten closer to him. He supposed that his quiet, unintrusive presence had been a comfort—Jeonghan never said as much, but Joshua could tell in the way he never asked him to leave. He would sit nearby, sometimes reading, sometimes just existing in the same space, while Jeonghan lay stretched across the couch in his quarters, staring at the ceiling. He’d been like a ticking bomb, silent, almost too calm—but Joshua knew the storm that was brewing under his skin, threatening to tear through any moment.
The outbursts had come in waves. Jeonghan was not known for his temper, but Joshua had seen the way he had snapped at courtiers, how he had pushed too hard during training sessions, reckless in a way that made others hesitate. The sharp remarks, the scathing looks, the way his hand had curled into a fist at his side before he forced it to relax—Joshua hadn’t had to ask what was wrong. The palace was full of whispers, and it hadn’t been hard to piece together the truth.
Your exile. That’s why you had left.
That’s why it had been a quiet thing, in the way all things were when they were inevitable. No dramatic outcry in court, no grand proclamations—just the suffocating weight of decisions made behind closed doors. But for Jeonghan, there had been nothing quiet about it. Joshua had watched as he argued with your parents even after you were gone, his voice hoarse from shouting. Had seen him storm through the halls in the aftermath, reckless with his grief, his presence a warning in itself.
Joshua remembers the years that followed. The way Jeonghan carried the absence of you like a wound that never quite healed, like an ache just beneath the surface. At first, he had written to you constantly—letters scrawled in a curling, familiar hand, filled with stories of court, of the people you had both once known, of the things he thought you would want to hear. He never spoke of his grief in them, but Joshua could see it in the way his fingers tightened around the parchment before he sent each letter away, the way his gaze lingered at the horizon, as if expecting something to return.
Then one day, he’d just stopped. Maybe it had been a few weeks before his coronation, or maybe after. Joshua had heard that argument too, loud and clear for it had unfolded in front of him. Your parents, calling you a blight on their kingdom, threatening to send you even further away, where he wouldn’t even know where you were, if he didn’t stop.
The stacks of paper on his desk grew untouched, the ink in his inkwell dried. Joshua had watched as Jeonghan threw himself into something else—his duties, his training, his place at court. He became sharper, colder in a way that was difficult to name. But there were small and fleeting moments where Joshua would catch him staring at a letter half-written, at your wing of the palace, at your nursery, at your unoccupied seat at the table.
Joshua had grown alongside him, watching as Jeonghan became something immovable, something that had learned to withstand loss without breaking. And yet, in those rare moments, Joshua wondered if he had ever truly stopped waiting for you to return.
As he sits in front of you at one of the tables in the library, Joshua remembers something Jeonghan said a few weeks before his passing. Twin swords—inseparable, balanced, two halves of the same whole. It had been a casual remark, something muttered between conversations.
Jeonghan had his in hand that day, the blade catching the light as he turned it over. The metal was pale, silver so bright it was almost white, the edge honed to a sharp, merciless gleam. The hilt was carved from ivory, smooth and cold to the touch, with intricate designs etched into the guard.
"They were forged together and so were never meant to be apart," Jeonghan had said, not looking up. He traced a finger over the symbols on the pommel, a mirror of another sword that no one had seen in years. "But they hid hers away. I don’t know where."
His grip on the hilt had tightened, jaw set. "It was never theirs to take."
And when Joshua stands in the library now, in the corner that Jeonghan occupied in his last days, his fingers brushing against the spine of that very book, he knows it’s the one you should read. The one that Jeonghan would have wanted you to read.
He sets it down in front of you, the leather worn, the title barely legible due to the effect of time. You look at him, a bit puzzled, but Joshua only settles back into his chair, watching you as if waiting for something.
"You should read this," he says, finally, his voice quieter than usual, thoughtful. "I think you'd understand why."
And as you reach for the book, fingers brushing against the worn cover, he feels taken over by the feeling that something’s about to change.
“In the earliest days, when gods still walked among mortals, there existed two divine brothers—Ethys, the Bringer of Dawn, and Evnos, the Keeper of Dusk. They were the Twin Aspects of Balance, and their swords shaped the world itself.
Ethys wielded the sword of dawn, a radiant blade of silver-white steel, forged in the first breath of morning. It was said to heal as swiftly as it could cut, a weapon of both mercy and retribution. Evnos carried the sword of dusk, a blade as dark as a starless sky, tempered in the last light of day. It severed all things—body from soul, light from shadow, past from present.
For centuries, they reigned in harmony, their powers equal, their bond unbroken. Until the day a mortal changed everything.
There were twin brothers, mortals, born to war. One was a warrior, fierce and unyielding; the other, a scholar, wise beyond his years. Bound by blood, their loyalty was absolute. But no bond—divine or mortal—can escape fate.
On the battlefield, the warrior fell.
His brother carried him from the carnage, calling upon every god who would listen. He did not ask for victory or vengeance—only that his twin be returned to him.
And Ethys, moved by the mortal’s grief, answered.
Descending from his celestial throne, he placed the sword of dawn into the scholar’s hands. "With this blade," Ethys said, "you may sever death’s hold. But when your brother stands once more, my sword must be returned."
With the power of a god, the scholar struck down death itself. The warrior drew breath once more, his wounds vanishing as if they had never been. The miracle had been granted.
But when Ethys came to reclaim his sword, the scholar hesitated.
The blade had brought his brother back, and had undone the cruel hand of fate itself. If he returned it, what then? Would he be powerless the next time death came for someone he loved? The gods claimed balance must be maintained—but what was balance, if it demanded suffering?
The scholar did not return the sword. He vanished, taking the blade of dawn with him.
The world trembled at the theft of a god’s weapon. But it was not Ethys who hunted him. It was Evnos.
The god, bound to the law of dusk, knew the price of imbalance. He descended to the mortal world, seeking to restore order—to take back what was theirs.
But the warrior had seen the power wielded by a mere mortal’s hands. And he had listened, as his brother whispered to him:
"One blade can defy death. But imagine what we could do with both."
And so, the warrior helped his brother turn his sword against a god.
Evnos, blinded by grief and fury, met him in battle. The fight was long, the sky dark with the wrath of a deity. But the warrior was no longer merely a man—he was a thief wielding the strength of stolen divinity.
In the end, he cut the sword of dusk from Evnos’ grasp.
The balance was broken. The twin gods had been unmade.
Ethys, still weakened from his act of mercy, tried to intervene—but it was too late. The blade of dawn, still in the hands of the scholar, did not rise to protect him. The warlord struck him down.
The Bringer of Dawn fell beneath a blade he had once wielded.
And so, the twin swords were lost. Not given, but stolen. Not entrusted, but claimed.
The kingdom that rose in their wake carried their legacy. And ever since, through bloodlines and conquest, through war and peace, the twin blades have passed to twin heirs, a tradition rooted in the treachery that birthed a nation.
But the gods do not forget.
One day, the swords will be reclaimed. One day, balance will be restored. And on that day, the kingdom built upon theft will stand at the edge of reckoning.”
The silence lingers, thick and heavy like smoke over a battlefield. You trace the curve of a letter with your fingertip, following the grooves where the ink has begun to fade. The weight of the book is more than its leather binding and its thick pages—it is history pressing against your skin, against your bones.
Joshua shifts in his chair, the sound pulling you back. He is watching you, as if waiting for something—perhaps for you to say you understand, to speak the thoughts circling your mind, to voice the unease curling in your stomach.
You close the book gently, your fingers still resting against the cover. "They never returned them," you say, the words barely above a whisper. "Neither of them."
Joshua nods, his expression unreadable. "No. They didn't."
Your heart beats slower now, steady and deliberate, like footsteps through a place long abandoned. "The kingdom was built on this story," you murmur. "On stolen things."
Joshua's gaze drops to the book. "And lost ones."
You know where Jeonghan’s sword is. It sits, shining bright and proud in the throne room. A display of power, of authority, of Jeonghan’s fated rule. Yet it is separated from its twin.
The Oracle’s prophecy rings through your ears, words you shall never forget. Two born of one, twin flames in the dark.
“Do you know where my blade is?” you ask Joshua, voice hard.
You know that it was hidden away as soon as the prophecy was told. They thought you’d be too powerful if you got your hands on it, they feared you. A mere child. They took what was yours and denied you the power written in the prophecy, to shape their rule with half of a truth and called it fate.
They denied you a birthright.
Joshua watches you carefully, but he only shakes his head. “Jeonghan spoke a lot about the swords before his death. I think he knew, or he was close to figuring it out.”
You exhale slowly. If Jeonghan had been searching for the truth, then maybe he had left something behind. A clue, a whisper, a trace of the sword’s existence buried in the kingdom’s secrets.
“Why did you give me this book, Joshua?” You ask, exhaling slowly. Your mind races with possibilities, with theories, with confusion and a hundred other thoughts.
“I saw Jeonghan reading it.” Joshua admits after a few seconds. “And you two always had some sort of sixth sense when it came to things like this, so I thought you could do it too.”
His words do not ease your mind. A part of you resents Jeonghan for not telling you. For keeping his suspicions to himself. If he had known, why hadn’t he spoken to you about it? Why hadn’t he said anything before it was too late?
You inhale sharply, forcing the frustration down. It will do you no good now.
“If he was looking for it,” you say slowly, your voice quieter now, “then he must have found something.”
Joshua nods. “I think so too.”
Your fingers tighten around the book’s edges.
They took what was yours. Hid it away, buried it beneath years of secrecy and fear. But you are here now, and Jeonghan is gone, and maybe—maybe—his search is something you are meant to finish.
You meet Joshua’s gaze. “Then I need to start looking.”
The room tilts when you try to stand.
It’s almost laughable, really, how the world swims at the edges of your vision, how the fire blurs into something molten, fiery gold bleeding into the dark. You grip the armrest of the chair, blinking hard, but it doesn’t help. There’s a warmth in your veins that isn’t yours, something borrowed, something stolen—
Wine. You hadn’t meant to drink this much.
The door creaks open, and the measured steps that follow are ones that you’ve grown accustomed to in the past few weeks. You don’t turn your head, but you know it’s him. A pause, then a soft, strangled sound.
“You’re drunk.”
You scoff, pressing your fingers against your temple. “Didn’t think it would hit that fast,” you murmur. “They watered it down, didn’t they?”
Joshua exhales, slowly. “Clearly not enough.”
Something in his tone makes you look at him. He stands a few feet away, arms at his sides, watching you like he’s seeing something impossible. Like he doesn’t quite know what to do with it.
Right. He’s never seen you like this. Worn down, unraveling at the edges. Not quiet in a way that isn’t calculated. A flicker of embarrassment sparks in your chest, but you’re too tired to hold onto it.
Joshua pulls out a chair, the scrape of wood against the floor cutting into the silence. He sits across from you, posture stiff, uncertain.
“You don’t have to hover,” you mutter, sinking further into the chair.
“I wasn’t planning to,” he says, but there’s no bite to it.
The room is too warm. The air is thick with the smell of sandalwood and the wine in your glass that sits at the side-table is fruity in a way that you hate. You close your eyes for a moment, but the quiet doesn’t settle the way you want it to. If anything, it makes the unease worse.
You swallow. You should not be talking to anyone right now, because you know you’re about to say things that the sober you would never let out. But you are tired, so, so tired and confused. So you speak anyway.
“I don’t remember what I was like back then.” The words feel foreign, like you’re prying them from somewhere deep and locked away. You don’t have to explain—he knows. The exile, the years lost, the pieces of yourself that no longer fit. “Do you?”
Silence stretches between you. When you open your eyes, Joshua’s looking at you with something almost wary, like he’s not sure if he should answer.
“You were…” He hesitates. “Brighter.”
A dry laugh leaves you. “Brighter,” you echo, and the word feels strange in your mouth.
He nods slowly with a distant look in his eyes. “You used to argue with the palace tutors. You never sat still, even when you were supposed to. You’d leave lessons halfway through and come back with dirt on your clothes. You climbed the garden walls even when you were told not to.”
The words stir something in you. The flicker of a memory—Jeonghan’s laughter, the wind in your hair, the rough stone beneath your fingertips as you pulled yourself up and over. The exhilaration of it, the freedom.
“And you never liked being told what to do,” he adds after a moment. “Everyone knew that.”
That, at least, draws a faint scoff from you. Even now, it rings true.
Joshua shifts. He’s still watching you. But then, quieter, almost like he isn’t sure if he should say it, he continues.
“And you were kind. But you never wanted anyone to know it.”
You look away. “I don’t remember that.”
“I do.” His voice is softer now, like he isn’t sure if he should say it aloud, but something compels him anyway. “I remember when I was first asked to start training with all of you.”
Your eyes flick to him, brows slightly furrowed.
He exhales slowly, like recalling it is peeling something open inside of him. “I didn’t belong, and everyone knew it. I was an outsider. My family had only just come to court, and the others had been raised there, bred into it. I wasn’t one of them but I was suddenly training with the Prince and the Princess and the higher nobles. So I ended up making a few enemies without intending to.” His fingers rub at his knuckles, a habit you’ve noticed before, but never commented on. “It didn’t help that I wasn’t strong enough. I hadn’t been trained the way you all had. It was obvious I was behind.”
He hesitates, and for a moment, you think he won’t continue. But then—
“I was put against one of the older trainees in a sparring match,” he says, quieter now. “Someone who’d been fighting since birth. I knew I was going to lose. He knew it too.” A pause. “And he wanted to make sure everyone saw it.”
You know how those fights went. How the court worked. Strength was power, and humiliation was a weapon as sharp as any blade.
Joshua glances down, like he can still see the bruises, the memory of hitting the ground over and over again. “Before he could land the final strike, you distracted him.”
You blink. “I did?”
A faint, almost rueful smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “You said something to him—something sharp, something biting. I don’t really remember what it was, but it was enough to throw him off. Just enough for me to move.” He shakes his head slightly. “I still lost. But not as badly as I would have.”
You try to remember it, but the memory doesn’t come. It frustrates you, because Joshua has no reason to lie, but you can’t picture yourself doing it. Not for him. Not for anyone.
You shake your head. “That doesn’t sound like me.”
Joshua shrugs before getting up. “People change. Come on,” he says, tilting his head toward the door. “You should go to bed.”
You scowl, leaning further into the chair. “I’m fine here.”
Joshua exhales through his nose, unimpressed. “You’re not.” He gestures vaguely at you. “You can barely sit upright.”
You roll your eyes. “You sound like an old man.”
“And you sound like a drunk one.”
Your glare sharpens, but Joshua is unmoved. He steps closer, offering you a hand. His palm is open, steady. You don’t take it.
“I can walk,” you mutter, gripping the armrest for support. The dizziness still clings to you, but you push past it, forcing yourself onto your feet. But to your luck, the room tilts again.
Your breath catches as your balance wavers, the floor shifting beneath you like the deck of a storm-tossed ship. Joshua moves before you can fall, his hands firm against your arms, steadying you before you can pitch forward.
For a moment, neither of you move.
The warmth of his palms bleeds through the fabric of your sleeves, and you realise, distantly, that this is the closest you’ve ever been.
Then, before you can think better of it, you pull back.
Joshua lets you go immediately, his hands falling back to his sides. Without another word, he steps behind you, his presence a mere shadow as you move toward your bedroom.
Before you shut the door behind you, you remember to mutter, “Tell the servants to hide the wine. I don’t ever want to see it again.”
You assume he nods, but you turn around again, slower this time. Joshua stands at the threshold of your door, eyebrows slightly furrowed and gaze fixed on you. His hands look tensed, like they’re ready to hold out to you any second, lest you lose your balance again.
“And don’t bring tonight up. I am drunk and I am sorry for making you uncomfortable.”
Quietly, he says, “You didn’t.”
You don’t know why that makes your breath catch.
Joshua holds your stare for a moment longer before stepping back. “Goodnight.”
That night, you dream of Jeonghan.
He sits beside you in the dark, the way he used to when you were young, when the halls were quieter and the world seemed smaller. His presence is familiar, yet not—like an old song sung in a different key. His hair falls into his eyes, and you know that if you reached out, your fingers would pass through him.
“You look tired,” he says. His voice is the same. Steady, knowing. It makes something ache deep inside you.
You exhale sharply. “And you look dead.”
Jeonghan laughs, tilting his head, the corners of his lips curling up. “Charming as always.”
You don’t answer. You don’t tell him that you feel like a ghost too, that this place is foreign even though it was once your home. That every step you take is unsteady, like you don’t belong in your own skin.
Jeonghan sighs, almost dreamily. “Little thorn, you’ve forgotten something.”
The nickname makes you frown. You haven’t heard that in years. “What?”
He shifts closer, his voice quieter now, as if sharing a secret he cannot risk the walls overhearing. “The night before they exiled you,” he says, “you told me you’d hidden something. Somewhere only you would know.”
Your breath catches.
You don’t remember.
Jeonghan watches you carefully, like he’s waiting for it to come back to you. Like he’s hoping.
“I don’t—” you start, but he cuts you off with a small shake of his head.
“You will,” he says simply. “When it’s time.”
A silence settles between you, heavier than it should be. Your hands clench in your lap. “Why are you here?”
Jeonghan tilts his head, watching you. “You called for me.”
Your lips press together. You don’t remember calling for anything, but maybe—maybe some part of you had. Maybe some part of you still aches for the past, for a time when you weren’t alone in the dark.
Jeonghan shifts closer, his expression softening. “Go to sleep,” he murmurs. “You never could sleep without a fight.”
You want to tell him to stay. You want to say you’re sorry. For what, you don’t know.
But the dream is slipping, and so is he.
The last thing you hear is his voice, low and comforting. “I’m still here, you know.”
The midday sun streams through the tall windows, casting long beams of light across the polished wooden floor.
Seungcheol sits at one end of the long table, his arms crossed over his chest, his expression alert, face scrunched as he stares at a spot on the table. Across from him, Joshua is slightly more composed, hands loosely clasped on the table, his brow furrowed in thought. The silence between them is thick—not hostile, but heavy with the weight of the matter at hand.
As you step into the room, their eyes lift up to you. Your heels click softly against the floor as you move toward your seat at the head of the table. Neither speaks until you lower yourself into your chair. Joshua shoots a small smile—if you can even call it that. In reality, it’s a slight tilt of his lips in acknowledgement. Seungcheol exhales, his fingers tapping against the wooden surface once before he finally speaks.
“We received another message this morning,” Seungcheol begins, his voice edged with urgency. “Velior is under siege. Their defenses are holding, but barely. They’re asking for reinforcements.”
You let his words settle. This is not unexpected. The letters from Velior have been arriving for weeks, their pleas growing more urgent each time. But knowing and acting are two different things.
“If we don’t send aid, we risk losing them as allies,” Seungcheol continues, leaning forward slightly. “Worse, we risk our reputation. Others will start to question our reliability. If one ally falls and we do nothing, who’s to say the rest won’t follow?”
“And if we do send troops?” You ask, calmly. “If we weaken our own defenses to bolster theirs, only to find ourselves vulnerable next?”
Seungcheol responds without hesitation. “Then we manage. We shift our defenses, reposition forces. Our army is strong enough to hold on multiple fronts if we prepare properly. But doing nothing isn’t an option.”
Joshua speaks for the first time, quiet but firm. “And if this is a calculated move? If our enemies are waiting for us to divide our strength before they strike?”
Seungcheol exhales through his nose, unimpressed. “Then we account for that. We don’t send everything—we send enough to turn the tide, not enough to cripple ourselves. We fortify key locations at home before committing any forces abroad.”
Joshua shakes his head slightly. “That assumes we have time to prepare. What if this attack is designed to force a quick response? What if we send our troops and then find ourselves unable to recall them in time?”
You let them speak, listening, weighing every argument. Seungcheol isn’t reckless—his approach is calculated, decisive. He understands the political implications, the message your response will send to every other kingdom watching. Joshua thinks ten steps ahead too, wary of unseen dangers.
“There’s too much we don’t know,” you say finally. “We cannot afford to act blindly.”
Seungcheol watches you carefully. “So what do you propose?”
Joshua is already prepared. “We send envoys. Trusted ones. They assess the situation, verify the strength of Velior’s forces, and determine the true threat level.”
Seungcheol exhales sharply. “And how long does that take? A week? Two? They don’t have that long.”
Joshua doesn’t waver. “And if we rush in blind, we risk sending men to die for a lost cause. If Velior’s collapse is inevitable, we gain nothing by throwing our forces into the fire.”
Seungcheol’s jaw tightens. “And if it’s not inevitable? If we stall, hesitate, and that hesitation is what damns them?”
You press your fingers together, steady. “Then we move on both fronts.”
Both men turn to you. You continue, measured. “We send the envoys, but we also begin preparations. We reposition troops, reinforce defenses at key locations, and ready a force for deployment. If the reports confirm Velior can hold with our aid, we move immediately.”
Joshua nods, but Seungcheol studies you for a long moment before leaning back slightly. “And if the reports say otherwise?”
You sigh. “Then we do what’s best for our kingdom.”
It takes a few minutes for Seungcheol to finally nod, looking satisfied with what you’ve suggested. “I’ll begin preparing the troops, then. If we send reinforcements, they need to be ready to move immediately.”
“I’ll see to the envoys, then. They’ll leave by sundown.” Joshua pushes his chair back, eyeing both of you.
You nod, also getting up.
You don’t go back to your chambers. Instead, your feet take you elsewhere, your body moving before your mind fully catches up. The hallways are quieter than usual at this hour, servants busying themselves elsewhere, guards standing at their posts with unreadable expressions. No one stops you. No one questions where you’re going.
You take a turn you don’t usually take. Then another. It isn’t until you step outside, the warmth of the afternoon pressing against your skin, that you realise where you’ve ended up.
The garden is smaller than the grand courtyards of the palace, tucked away behind stone walls draped in ivy. It isn’t overgrown, not exactly, but it hasn’t been tended to with the same care as the rest of the grounds. The grass is uneven, the flower beds scattered with petals long since fallen. There’s a bench near the center, its surface worn smooth by time, and a fountain that no longer runs.
You don’t remember this place.
You reach out, fingertips skimming the back of the bench, the rough grooves of the stone cool beneath your touch. Something shifts beneath your hand. A vine, curling up the side, snagged on something. Metal, glinting faintly beneath the leaves.
You crouch, pushing the ivy aside. And there, hidden in the dirt, is something left behind.
It’s small—no larger than your palm. The metal is dulled with time, edges softened by dirt and weather. You pick it up carefully, brushing away the soil clinging to its surface. A pendant, you realise. Or at least, half of one. The design is familiar, its engraving half-worn but unmistakable.
The twin swords.
Your chest tightens. This belonged to Jeonghan.
You straighten slowly, the weight of the pendant cold against your palm. It shouldn’t be here. If it was left behind, then—
Then he came here. Often enough, or at least once, with enough intent to leave something behind.
The thought is unsettling in a way you can’t quite name. You exhale, pressing your thumb over the engraving as you turn back to the garden. You take it in properly this time—the way the walls enclose the space, the way the world feels quieter here, smaller. A place meant for privacy. For secrecy.
Did he come here to be alone?
The fountain is dry, its stone cracked along the edges. You step toward it, running your free hand along the rim. There's nothing at first—just worn stone beneath your fingers—but then you pause. A mark, carved faintly into the base. It’s almost invisible, buried under years of dust and neglect, but now that you’re looking for it, you can’t unsee it.
A letter. A single initial.
J.
It’s his. It has to be.
The water in the fountain is still, dark in places where the overgrowth has cast shadows over its surface. Somewhere, unseen birds rustle in the trees, their chirps breaking the otherwise quiet hush of the space.
You try to imagine him walking these same pathways, tracing his fingers over the same stone, stepping over the same roots that have begun to break through the cracks in the ground. You can almost picture him—head tilted, a half-smirk playing on his lips as he watched you try to figure out why he had been here in the first place.
In your head, the version of Jeonghan that you see is him at fifteen. To imagine him now is a task that you will not ask yourself to do. The only images that come to mind are his coffin. His still hands folded over his chest, his face too pale, too still. The way the candlelight flickered against the gold of his adornments, casting long shadows over the hollows of his cheeks. The flames engulfing him.
You refuse to hold that version of him in your mind. You refuse to let that be the last way you see him.
So instead, you picture him at fifteen. Sharp-eyed, quick-tongued. Laughing at your frustrations, always a step ahead, always dragging you along even when you tried to resist.
Your eyes sweep the space again. The garden is unlike the carefully manicured ones closer to the palace. This one feels untouched, half-forgotten. The hedges grow wild, the flowers bloom freely rather than in the strict patterns dictated by royal gardeners. It feels hidden—meant for fewer eyes.
And yet, someone has been here.
The signs are subtle, but undeniable. The faintest disturbance in the dirt where the ivy doesn’t quite cover, the way the grass near the fountain has been flattened by careful footsteps. Even the bench, one you suspect has remained untouched for years, bears the faint imprint of recent use.
Your fingers brush against the stone, tracing over an engraving you hadn't noticed before. The letters are worn, softened by time and weather, but they are still there.
A name.
Not Jeonghan’s, but one you recognize. One tied to the stories of the twin swords, to the history that has haunted your kingdom for generations.
A shiver crawls down your spine. It’s not the cold—there is no breeze, no shift in temperature. It’s something else, something older, woven into the air itself. The feeling of being watched, of unseen eyes tracking your every movement.
Your fingers twitch at your sides as you glance around—nothing but the still fountain, the hedges, the archway leading back toward the palace. The garden is empty. And yet, it isn’t.
The weight of it presses against your back as you take a step away. Then another. Your heartbeat picks up, an instinct you don’t quite understand pushing you to leave.
You don’t run. You refuse to.
But you don’t look back, either.
The festival begins before the sun has fully risen.
You didn’t want it to happen.
You said as much, when they first brought it to you—weeks ago, maybe longer, the ministers speaking in soft, measured voices as if they knew this was something you’d fight against. “The people need something to gather around,” they told you. “A symbol. A celebration of hope.” What they meant, of course, was you. They needed to see you alive, standing where Jeonghan no longer could.
And in the end, you said yes.
Not because you agreed, but because you were tired of arguing with men who had already made their decisions. And maybe, just maybe, because a part of you wanted to know what it would feel like to reclaim this day.
The celebration of the twin heirs. Your birthday. His.
You never used to think of it as a burden. When you were younger, it had been the highlight of the year—something bright and loud and wholly yours. A night that belonged to no one else, not even the gods, though their blessings were always invoked in ceremony. For once, the court bent around you and not the other way around. The palace would transform overnight—courtyards blooming with imported flowers, silks draped across stone pillars like the whole kingdom had dressed up for your sake. The cooks baked honey-cakes in the shapes of phoenixes and lions. Everyone bowed a little deeper when you passed.
You and Jeonghan used to stay up the night before, curled in the same bed even when you were too old to do so. It didn’t matter. The night before your birthday had its own kind of magic. You’d whisper predictions in the dark, shoulder to shoulder under the sheets, trying not to giggle loud enough to wake your nurse. What gifts would come this year? Would the northern court send more lacquered boxes of sweets, or finally something useful? Would the fireworks be bigger than last year’s?
Jeonghan always claimed he could guess it all before the sun rose. You never let him win, even when he was right.
He used to joke—every year without fail—that he’d fake a fever just to see the court panic. “We’ll see if they still light the lanterns without us,” he’d whisper, grinning in the dark. “Bet half of them would fall apart trying to write an official statement.”
You’d threaten to elbow him if he tried, and he’d dramatically clutch his heart like you’d already bruised him. But you both knew he wouldn’t. Neither of you ever missed your birthday.
Not until circumstances finally forced you to.
You wake early, not from excitement, but because sleep has become a stranger again. The palace is already stirring. Outside your window, you hear the first crackle of firecrackers echoing across the rooftops, mingled with the muffled yelling of people outside and the flapping of the thick banners as they drop from the spires near your wing.
You wonder how they held this festival while you were gone.
Did the people remember that this was to celebrate two instead of one? They will remember today, you know for sure. But you can’t help the bitterness that strikes you when you think that maybe they’d forgotten you. Or maybe they’d prefer you gone anyways.
Surely the court kept up appearances. Surely the people celebrated, lit the lanterns, tied the banners, handed out sweets to children who didn’t know your name. You were gone, but the crown was still here. Jeonghan was still here. Maybe that was enough for them.
Your attendants dress you in silence, the robes heavier than you remember. Red and gold. The colors of fire, of old divine blood. Jeonghan used to complain about how scratchy the brocade felt around his collar. He’d always find a way to loosen it the moment no one was looking. You’d pretend not to notice.
You touch the edge of your own collar now and let it stay tight.
The streets below are already filling. The scent of roasted meats and sweet wine drifts in on the wind. Laughter rises too easily. You watch it all from behind the silk veil of the balcony curtain, unmoving, until one of the attendants clears her throat gently and murmurs, “It’s time.”
And so you go.
Standing in the middle of the square again, crownless but not unseen, you wonder who made the decision to continue the tradition. Was it your father, insisting that the people shouldn’t suffer for court politics? Was it your mother, keeping up appearances? Did the court throw this celebration in your name while you were far from reach, while you learned to keep your head down and your back straight and your anger quiet?
You never asked. You don’t ask now.
The Festival of Twin Skies is what they used to call it. A name from the old stories, when the first twin rulers were said to be born beneath a blood moon, their cries ringing out together across the mountains. The same stories that the scribes reshaped to suit you and Jeonghan, long before either of you could understand the weight of the mythology being stitched around your lives.
It’s still called that, even now. Even with only one of you left to walk the square. The banners still carry the same emblem: a half-sun and a half-moon, stitched in gold thread.
You move through the crowd with practiced ease, dressed in the colors the people expect—deep crimson, the hue of royal fire, edged with gold. Jeonghan used to hate this shade. Said it made him look like a spilled glass of wine. You’d always argued it made you look like war.
Your guards follow at a distance, unobtrusive. Joshua is near but never too close, his eyes always moving. Seungcheol flanks your other side, less formal, but no less alert. You feel the weight of their presence more than you see them—shadows that do not touch you, but never leave either.
The festival is vibrant, yes. But it is not joyful. Not like it used to be.
There are the usual things: the street plays re-enacting the tale of the twins who forged the kingdom, children in painted masks darting between the crowd. At one stall, they sell glass pendants in the shape of the sun and moon, completing each other. You buy both. You nod. You smile. You bless the babies pressed into your hands, wondering ironically if the kingdom doesn’t believe that you are cursed anymore and accept the garlands draped over your shoulders like chains.
When a group of performers begin the retelling of the royal birth—the symbolic one, with godly omens and constellations lining up just right—you feel your hands go cold despite the firelight.
Once, Jeonghan had mocked this very performance as a child. He’d stood too close to the stage, arms crossed, whispering critiques to you, loud enough for the players to hear.
“That's probably not how I cried,” he’d muttered. “And you probably weren’t born with your fist raised like a warrior, you just hated being cold.” You’d nearly choked trying not to laugh.
Now, no one mocks. No one breathes wrong. The people watch in reverent silence, and you stand still in the shadows of memory.
You stare at the stage long after the performers have bowed and stepped off. The firelight crackles. More garlands are offered. Somewhere behind you, Seungcheol is saying something to a local governor. You barely hear it.
You shift your grip on the glass pendants in your hand. The sun. The moon.
Joshua speaks before you realise he’s stepped closer. “Do you want to walk?”
You blink and turn. His eyes are softer than usual, but also unreadable in the way that always feels just a bit too perceptive. There’s a gentleness to the way he asks it—like it’s not really about walking.
You nod once.
The crowd is thickest near the main square, but you both move through it with ease, because people part as soon as their eyes fall on you. The people that notice bow low and wish you a happy birthday, a child runs past shrieking with laughter. Somewhere, someone is singing. Joshua doesn’t say anything until the sound fades behind you and the palace gates come back into view, its edges softened by the festival lights.
“The first time I was here for the festival, the horses were set loose,” he pipes up suddenly.
You glance at him.
“One of the smaller processions. I think Jeonghan dared the stableboy to untie them.”
You snort before you can help it. “He did. Said it would make the parade more exciting.”
Joshua laughs softly. “It did. You must’ve been furious.”
“I had spent the whole morning getting into those robes. He knew that.”
“He also knew you’d chase after him the second they started running.”
You smile. “Well, there was always some amount of predictability to our actions.”
There’s a long pause but it is not uncomfortable. You know you’re both reminiscing, different memories but the same event.
When Joshua speaks again, his voice is quiet. “I used to watch you both sometimes. The way the two of you fit. It was like you had your own language.”
You look down at the pendants in your hand. “He was always louder about it,” you say after a moment. “But I think I needed him more than he needed me.”
Joshua doesn’t argue with you. He just walks beside you.
You stop when the gardens come into view—lanterns strung up between trees, casting warm pools of light over the gravel path. No one else is here. The sounds of the festival are distant now, dulled to a murmur. You reach for the vine-covered archway out of habit, fingers brushing the stone.
“I didn’t want to have this,” you say, voice low. “The festival. I thought it would be… wrong. Too much. But the court said the people needed it.”
Joshua waits for a moment before he replies “They weren’t wrong.”
You shoot him a look that is very close to annoyance. He rushes to clarify. “I don’t mean that I like it either, but they were right.”
You don’t respond to that. Instead, you hum softly, eyes glazing over the lanterns on the ground, waiting to be lit.
“Did they still celebrate it when I was gone?”
You hadn’t meant to ask. Not tonight. Not at all. It comes out too quickly, too sharply.
Joshua looks at you for a long moment. Then, quietly: “They tried.”
You wait.
“But it was never the same.”
You study his face. There is sincerity, and absolutely nothing performative. But still, some petty part of you wonders if he’s only saying it to make you feel better. If that’s just what people do with you now. Even so, that childish, aching sliver of your heart is pacified just enough.
Sighing, you turn back to the lanterns. You hesitate for a few seconds before you finally ask your question.
“Would you help me light another lantern for him?” Maybe it’s because you don’t feel like you have the strength to do it alone, or maybe it’s because you know this is something Joshua’s been thinking about too, but you want to share this moment with him.
Joshua wordlessly bends down and picks up one of the unlit lanterns near your feet—careful and quiet, as though the moment might break if he moves too quickly. He delicately holds it in both his hands. Then, without looking at you, he nods.
You kneel beside him, fingers grazing the edge of the lantern’s thin frame. The paper is softer than you remember, dyed in faint blues and yellows. It takes a few seconds to steady your hands and you’re grateful that Joshua pretends not to notice.
There is a brazier burning low near the garden path. Joshua lifts the lantern and carefully guides it over the flame. You keep your fingers on the wire handle as the paper catches, soft gold blooming from the base, eating upward.
“There was this bakery stall,” Joshua starts, eyes tracking the lantern as you both let it rise into the sky. “The kind that is only ever set up during the festival. Sweet bread, I think. Braided, filled with orange jam and something else. The line was always absurd, and he’d still go. Every year.”
You blink. “He hated sweet bread.”
“He grew to like it, I suppose.” Joshua says, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “He claimed they’d changed the recipe. Said it didn’t count anymore. I think he just liked the warmth. The way the stall always smelled like something safe.”
You don’t respond. Jealousy settles down in your stomach, green-eyed and heavy. You’d never heard of that stall. You never saw him wait in any lines. You can’t picture him standing there, arms crossed, patiently inching forward, of all things. A small part of you hates that Joshua knows your brother almost as well—maybe even better—as you do. Hates that there’s a huge part of his life you’ve missed out on that Joshua has lived through.
The lanterns above you drift higher. You feel small beneath them.
“Tell me more.” It almost comes out as a whisper, so soft and vulnerable that Joshua waits to see if you really said it.
“He was quiet, at first,” Joshua says, eyes fixed on the lanterns. “After you left. I don’t think he knew how to be loud without you.”
You feel the words cut through you. You don’t move. You don’t breathe.
“He used to stay up late in the library. Not reading—just…sitting. Staring out the window. There’s one alcove on the east side, where the wind always makes the drapes move even when the glass is shut. He said it was the only place in the palace that didn’t pretend too hard.”
You think you know the one.
“He stopped asking for you, after a point,” Joshua says. “Not out loud. But he left books in the west wing hallway every week. Just in case.”
The ache behind your ribs is unbearable, but you want to know.
“By the time we were nineteen, he’d stopped being angry. At least on the surface. He threw himself into court duties. Started remembering important days, important deals. Gave the kind of speeches people quoted the next day. But whenever he smiled too long, his right hand would twitch. He hated that because he thought it gave him away.”
You smile, faintly, though it trembles at the edges. “He used to do that when he lied.”
Joshua nods.
“He traveled more after that. Went to the border cities. Rode with caravans. Once, he got caught in a dust storm and spent three nights in a healer’s hut. Came back with a scar on his shoulder and a new obsession with storm-watching.”
“He always hated storms,” you murmur.
“I think he stopped,” Joshua says. “Or maybe he just wanted to understand them.”
“He tried to leave,” he continues, voice quieter, “once.”
You turn to look at him.
“Only for a while. Said he needed to find something. Didn’t say what. He got as far as the southern cliffs before turning back.”
You wonder what it was. If it was you, he’d never written about it.
Joshua exhales slowly.
“Once he was crowned, things changed,” he says. “But not all at once. I think he thought it would feel like something—it didn’t. He didn’t even wear the crown properly the first time. Said it pinched behind the ears. Kept slipping it off when no one was looking.”
“It does,” you admit softly.
“He hated the throne room,” Joshua adds. “Never said so, but you could tell. Sat too stiff. Never leaned back. I think the silence there made him nervous. The kind that echoes. He used to say it felt like the room swallowed you whole.”
“At twenty-seven,” Joshua says, “he stopped trying to be liked.”
You glance at him, brows furrowing.
“Not in a cruel way,” he adds. “Just… he didn’t flatter. Didn’t soften. He’d enter a room and everyone would straighten. They knew he didn’t miss a word. Didn’t waste time. If he asked you a question, you answered it honestly. That’s the kind of ruler he became.”
You don’t say anything, but it stings in a way that’s hard to name. You never saw him like that. You remember a boy who stole pastries from the kitchens and fell asleep in the library with ink on his hands.
“He was the kind of king who remembered everyone’s names. Who’d pause a meeting to ask after someone’s mother, or stop his horse in the middle of a ride just to speak to a child who waved. It didn’t make him soft. Just made people follow him without needing to be told.”
Joshua’s voice is quiet, almost careful. Not eulogizing. Just remembering.
You try to picture Jeonghan like that, a man who didn’t have to raise his voice to command a room. A man whose legend was built while you were gone.
“And the people loved him?” you ask before you can help it. The bitterness isn’t in your tone, but it’s in the question.
Joshua nods. “Fiercely. Not blindly. But they trusted him. Even when they didn’t agree.”
You look away, throat tightening. You missed so much. You missed him.
“He once told me,” Joshua murmurs after a long moment, “that ruling with you would’ve been like fighting with both hands. That he always felt like something was missing in the way the world looked at him.”
You can’t find the bravery in you to tell Joshua that you feel the exact same way.
“He was better than I remembered,” you let out quietly.
Joshua is silent beside you.
And for a moment, with the weight of your brother’s absence feeling like the weight of the world on your shoulders, you wish you could hate him for that. Hate him for becoming someone without you. For being loved anyway.
But you can’t.
Joshua stays with you until your fingers unclench, until you look at him and nod. You don’t say good night. There are no words left in you.
That night, sleep finds you quickly—too quickly.
You walk.
There is no sound. No wind. The world has been drowned in violet light, and the earth beneath your feet is dust—fine as ash, silver-gray and weightless. Every step leaves no print. You are barefoot and unarmed, but not cold.
The sky above is a vast, unmoving bruise. Not night, not quite. The stars are there, but dim. Watching. Waiting. One of them trembles—then begins to fall.
You follow the line of its descent with your eyes.
And then you see him.
Far ahead, on a rise of broken stone, he stands.
Evnos.
God of the dusk, of endings, of last light and long shadows.
Your god. The one whose sword should burn in your hand.
The one who has not spoken since the world forgot how to listen.
He is facing away from you. You cannot see his face, only the shape of him—tall, robed in black and bone-white, a crown of twilight burning in thorns above his head. His hair falls long, tangled in strands of silver that catch no wind. There is a stillness to him so profound it suffocates the air.
Beside him, plunged into the earth, is the sword.
It is darker than night. Not gleaming, not grand. Its edge is dull. The hilt is wrapped in something you can’t name, something that shifts when you try to look too closely. You want to run to it—want to wrench it from the ground and scream why now, why now, but your legs don’t move.
Evnos does not turn.
He does not speak. But he sees you.
You feel it. That impossible pressure—like the moment before a storm breaks, like the moment before a cry escapes your throat. He is waiting. But not for you. Or perhaps only for you.
And then you see it. Beyond him, at the edge of the rise, the land is cracked. A great fault carved into the world, wide enough to swallow a city whole. From within it, something flickers. Gold light. A flame, or a soul, or a warning. You cannot tell which. You only know that whatever is coming has already begun.
The sword hums.
The falling star vanishes beyond the horizon.
And Evnos raises his hand—not toward you, but toward the rift.
As if to say: There.
Then everything dissolves.
You wake with the taste of ash in your mouth and the bedsheets twisted around your legs. Somewhere in the dark, you think you hear a voice you were never meant to hear whisper your name.
You sit up.
The room is cold. The embers in the hearth have died down to nothing, and your throat aches like you’ve been screaming.
You throw off the sheets and dress with fingers that won’t stop shaking.
The hallways are empty. No guards outside your door, though you know they were posted. The silence feels wrong. Not dangerous but expectant, like the hush between a question and an answer.
You don’t remember leaving your wing. Only that you’re walking again, barefoot again, though this time the stone is real and cold beneath your feet. The corridors twist and unspool, and you don’t question where they lead until you see the light spilling beneath a door left half open.
The library.
You don’t know why you push it open. You only know that your hands are still trembling, and there might be only one person whose voice might steady them.
He’s already there.
Not reading or searching like you may have expected but just standing at the edge of the fireplace, half in shadow, his coat thrown over the back of a chair, sleeves rolled to the elbow, as if he’s been pacing and forgot how to stop.
Joshua turns when you enter.
He looks at you, mouth hanging slightly in surprise before he finally speaks. “Why are you up?”
You don’t answer. You just cross the room and sit down in the chair opposite his, hands clenched in your lap, still breathing like you haven’t fully come back from wherever you were.
He watches you for a long moment.
Then he moves slowly, like you’re something fragile he’s afraid to startle. He doesn’t sit still. He crouches beside the hearth, feeds kindling into the ashes, coaxes the embers back to life with practiced, patient hands. The fire catches with a soft hiss, casting flickering light across the hollows of his face.
Only once it’s burning steady does he sit.
Joshua’s voice is quieter now. “You look like you saw something.”
You wait until your breathing returns to normal, your nails carving half moons into your palms.
“I don't know what it was,” you say finally. “A dream, maybe.”
Joshua doesn't press. He only watches you in silence as the fire crackles, throwing shapes across the walls that belong to neither of you.
“I just woke up…” You add, a bit quieter, “And couldn't sleep.”
Joshua nods. “I can stay, if that's what you want.”
His words are too soft, too kind. They slip beneath your skin like a butter knife. And you don't want to be alone, not tonight. Not with the image of the god and his sword behind your eyelids. Besides, you have a feeling you walked here to look for him in the first place.
So you nod, slowly.
Joshua doesn't say anything else. He just leans back in his chair, stretching one leg out towards the fire and watches as the flames reach higher, like he's guarding them. Guarding you.
Eventually, your shoulders start to loosen up. The trembling in your hand fades and your throat doesn't feel like it's been closed off anymore. You sit in the type of silence that doesn't press or pry.
When your eyes begin to reluctantly close again, slow and heavy, he's still there.
You wake before the sun rises. The light in the library is dim, the fire long gone cold. Your neck aches where it’s been resting at an awkward angle against the back of the chair, and when you shift, the blanket slips slightly from your shoulders. Joshua must’ve placed it there.
He is gone.
You sit up slowly. The room is quiet, filled with that strange hush that only exists in the early hours before morning truly begins. Folding the blanket carefully, you place it back on the arm of the chair, and make your way out of the library. The hallways are empty. Pale light creeps through the stained glass windows, casting slanted colors along the stone. You pass a servant carrying a tray of candles and nod without speaking. They nod back, wide-eyed, and hurry on.
The guards are at their post outside your chambers, just as they always are.
You stop when you reach them.
“Where were you last night?” you ask, voice low and still rough from sleep.
Both men look at you sharply. One blinks. The other straightens.
“Your Majesty?”
“You weren’t here.” You don’t raise your voice. There’s no need to. “The door was unguarded.”
The older of the two glances at his partner. His brow furrows.
“We never left our post,” he says slowly. “We were here until morning. No one came to relieve us.”
You don’t have the energy to question them more. It has been an exhausting night and the last thing you want is for more information to muddle up your mind, so you say nothing and push open your doors.
Inside, everything is exactly as you left it. The curtains are drawn, your bed is untouched, the basin still full of yesterday’s water. Your boots are lined neatly against the wall. Your coat hangs from its hook. Nothing out of place. Nothing that suggests anything strange occurred at all.
You cross the room in a few silent steps and lean over the basin. Your reflection swims in the rippling water, shadowed and strange. You don’t look at it for long.
Instead, you dip your hands into the cold and splash it over your face.
The temperature bites—sharp and relieving, cutting through the fogginess in your head. You breathe in. Exhale. Once, then again. The water drips down your chin, along your throat, soaking the collar of your shirt. You don’t care.
You’re still bent over the basin, palms slipping over the rim, when the knock comes—three short, purposeful raps. Not urgent, but not soft either. You freeze, water slipping down your wrists before you reach for the cloth on the side and blot your hands dry, slowly. You already know who it is.
When you open the door, Joshua is standing there, coat back on, hair damp at the temples like he’s washed and dressed in a hurry. He looks relieved, and then vaguely annoyed.
“I went to the library,” he says. “You weren’t there.”
Something in his voice suggests that he lingered, waited. That maybe he thought he’d missed you by minutes. Maybe he thought something else entirely.
You blink at him, still a little too dazed for proper answers. “I came back. I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”
His eyes flicker past you—to the edge of your quarters, where the bed is half-unmade, the basin still full, the curtains half-drawn. “Are you alright?”
You nod, though it feels like a lie.
Joshua doesn’t press. Instead, he exhales and shifts his weight like he’s about to say something else, something quieter. But then another knock sounds—this one louder, less familiar. One of your guards, this time. The second stands a few paces back, awkwardly waiting.
“Apologies, Your Majesty,” the first says, bowing slightly. “You’re expected in council. They’ve been waiting.”
You glance back at Joshua. His jaw tenses subtly.
“I’ll come with you,” Joshua says before you can even nod.
When you reach the chamber, the guards open the doors without announcement. The room inside is already full—ministers and lords and captains of the watch, all half-turned toward the entrance, their voices low and overlapping until they see you.
Then silence.
At the head of the table, Seungcheol stands. His hair is still damp from riding, and there’s dirt on the hem of his coat. “Your Majesty,” he says with a nod. “Apologies for the hour.”
“I was not informed,” you say, eyes flicking toward the attendant who should’ve knocked. He pales but says nothing.
Seungcheol doesn’t wait for permission. “There’s been a landslide due to increasing cracks in the fault lines near the western ridge. Just past the old pass.”
Joshua tenses beside you, but he stays quiet. You don’t look at him and instead step further into the room.
“How bad?”
“Worse than we thought.” Seungcheol’s jaw tightens. “The ridge cracked open sometime during the night. Three men were injured. One nearly lost his leg. Said it was like the earth swallowed itself and left a hollow behind.”
You blink slowly. “A hollow.”
“Big enough to bury a fort. They threw a torch in and said it kept falling.” He pauses. “And there was something else. The rock at the edge was hot. Like it had been scorched from below.”
A few seconds pass in silence. Your throat is dry.
“And?”
Seungcheol exhales. “One of the scouts went closer. Said he saw something in the dark. Something that shouldn’t have been there. The next moment, the ledge gave way. He fell.”
You stare at him. “Was the body recovered?”
“No. We sent ropes down, but there’s no sign. No sound either. Just the heat. And this… humming. Like the air down there is moving, but not from wind.”
You don’t speak for a moment. The room feels smaller now. Tighter. You glance once at Joshua, and find him already watching you.
He doesn’t understand. Not fully. But he sees something in your face, and that’s enough for his brow to furrow, his arms to cross like he’s bracing for something worse.
You look away.
“I want the area closed off,” you say at last. “No one goes near until I say so. No more scouting. Just hold the line there to make sure the villages nearby aren’t affected, or are evacuated if required. ”
Seungcheol nods. “Understood.”
“And send word to the archives. I want every old map of that region. Every mention of faults, earthquakes, or anything that even resembles this. I want to know what that land looked like two hundred years ago.”
The council begins to murmur again, voices turning speculative, uncertain. But you hear none of it. Only the rush of blood in your ears.
You should tell Joshua. You know that.
But not here. Not yet.
“You didn’t say much back there,” Joshua finally says once you leave the room. The door closes behind you with a soft finality.
“I didn’t need to.”
“Still.” His tone almost sounds accusing. “You knew more than what they told you. I could see it.”
You stop walking.
So does he.
The corridor is empty here, light slanting down from a stained glass window that scatters it in violet and blue across the floor. You turn toward him.
“I don’t know what I saw,” you say, not quite lying. “But I dreamt of something last night. Something similar.”
Joshua studies you. He doesn’t ask again, but his brows draw together, like he’s trying to piece something together that won’t sit still.
“Was it about the sword?”
You hesitate. “I’m not sure. I think it was.”
It’s the truth, and it isn’t. You saw Evnos. You saw the sword. But you haven’t made sense of what it means yet, not fully, and until you do, you can’t risk saying it aloud.
“You think there’s more to it.”
“There’s always more to it,” you murmur.
The only sound is the distant shift of footsteps in another hall. Somewhere behind the walls, bells chime the next hour.
Then, softly, he says, “You didn’t sleep long.”
You glance at him. “Neither did you.”
That draws a faint smile, or something close to one.
“I apologize for asking you to stay,” you sigh, looking away in shame. “I was just…”
As you trail off, Joshua shakes his head. “It’s fine. Sleep wasn’t coming easy to me either.”
You clear your throat. “You should get some rest.”
“So should you.”
“I will,” you say, though you’re not sure it’s true.
He doesn’t leave. Just stands there, as if waiting for something you haven’t given him yet.
And maybe you do want to say it. That you saw the god of dusk. That he was waiting in a dead world with a sword that belongs to you. That something’s coming, and it already knows your name.
But instead, you say, “If anything comes back from the archives, I want to see it first.”
Joshua nods. “Of course.”
“I’ll stop by again later,” he says, almost as an afterthought, though his eyes linger on you longer than they need to. “In case you want to talk. Or not.”
The silence that follows when he leaves after walking you to your chambers is heavy.
You let it sit. You let yourself sit. Still in your half-dressed state from before, sleeves rolled, hands loose at your sides like you’re bracing for something, but it hasn’t come yet.
You think of the ravine. Of Seungcheol’s expression. Of the boy who disappeared into the crack in the earth and did not come back out.
You think of Evnos. Of the sword planted into dead ground, humming with a voice you’ve never heard but have always known.
You press your palms to your eyes. Count to five. Breathe out.
Then, slowly, you rise.
There’s still too much to do.
You peel off your shirt, tug at the ties of your underlayers, and cross to the washroom with slow, deliberate steps.
The steam rises quickly once you pull the cord for hot water, filling the chamber with warmth. You sink into it like it might scrub away more than sweat and dust.
When you step out, the world feels quieter. Less sharp around the edges. You dress slowly—soft linen, clean clothes—and pull your hair back with damp fingers. By the time you return to your chambers, the sun is climbing higher, stretching its fingers across the stone floor.
No new messages wait at your table. No knock at your door.
The archives will take time. At least a day, maybe longer, assuming the old records haven’t crumbled or gone missing like so many things have over the years.
You move to sit by the window, one knee tucked under you, watching the slow bloom of movement in the courtyard below. The castle is fully awake now, its rhythm returned to the same strained normalcy it always wears after bad news. Somewhere out there, Seungcheol is barking orders. Joshua is... where? His own quarters? The council room again?
Your gaze drifts toward the western tower in the distance. The ravine isn't visible from here, but you can feel it. Like a splinter buried deep in the land.
And maybe it’s the silence that follows—just long enough for your thoughts to surface fully—or maybe it’s the memory of the god’s voice, still quiet in your bones. But it hits you all at once: there should be a shrine here.
There was one, once. Two, actually.
You rise slowly from the window seat, the thought sharpening as you move. You try to recall the last time anyone mentioned the twin gods by name. Not in passing or in old stories, but with reverence. With faith. Ethys, god of light. Evnos, god of dusk. No one ever said they were banished, but the palace has a way of erasing things it no longer wants to remember.
And maybe you wouldn’t have thought of them either, not like this—if not for the dream.
You remember the ruins, though. Just fragments now—cracked pillars swallowed by moss, old stones repurposed to build what came after. Shrines turned to storage sheds. Statues melted for coins. Somewhere along the way, Evnos and Ethys stopped being gods and became myths. Quiet ones. Forgotten ones.
You’re halfway down the hall before you realise you’ve made a decision. Whether out of fear or desperation, you’re not sure. You’ve known fear, yes. But not the kind that shakes. Not the kind that makes you cower. This is the colder kind, the one that settles when you realise the ground beneath you isn’t as solid as you thought. That something is shifting beneath the palace, beneath the kingdom, beneath you. A silent undoing in the dark. And desperation—well. You’ve known that before too, but never like this. Not with the weight of history pressing down on your shoulders, not with the taste of divinity still bitter on your tongue.
There is no shrine, the thought bangs around in your head. Not to Evnos. Not to Ethys. The kingdom that once held their names like blessings in its mouth now forgets them like a curse. You hadn’t thought of it in years. Maybe no one has. But now, all at once, the absence is unbearable.
And you wonder if the god of dusk is watching—if he was waiting—what does it mean that there’s no place left for him to be remembered?
What does it mean that even you, with blood once touched by the divine, have never offered him a place to return?
So you walk faster. Not toward comfort or answers but towards something you can build before the cracks spread too far.
You stop outside the wide wooden doors and breathe in slowly. The scent of chalk and sawdust seeps out through the cracks. Quiet voices echo from within—plans being reviewed, measured, redrawn.
Then you push the door open.
There are six of them inside, clustered around a central table piled high with scrolls and carved scales of marble. They all turn when you enter. The room stills.
You don’t waste time with courtesies. “There used to be shrines,” you say. “To the twin gods.”
They blink at you. One of them stands so abruptly he nearly knocks over a stack of drafting boards.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” the eldest says cautiously. “There were several. In the early days of the capital. Most have been dismantled.”
“Why?”
He hesitates. “The court turned away from them after the Last Reconciliation. With no formal priesthood, no rituals… the public interest faded. The new temples—those consecrated to the virtues—took precedence.”
You glance toward the arched windows lining the room. Sunlight spills across a parchment half-sketched with an aqueduct system no one has asked to build in years.
“And there’s nothing left?” you ask.
“Some of the foundations remain,” one of the younger architects murmurs. “Near the palace archives, behind the oldest wing of the palace. We reference them sometimes when measuring load distribution. But no functional structure has stood in decades.”
You nod slowly, as if this confirms something. Maybe it does.
“Then I want one rebuilt.”
The silence that follows is not surprise so much as disbelief. The way someone might react to an eclipse—something once impossible returning in the shape of a memory.
Another architect speaks, this one slightly older too, voice polite. “Your Majesty, to commission a shrine of that scale… it would require time. Resources. Permits from the Council of Rites and maybe the Oracle’s temple too. The gods haven’t been worshipped in any formal capacity in generations. And politically—”
He doesn’t finish. He doesn’t need to.
You nod slowly, absorbing it all. “I know,” you say. “And I understand the risk. But is there a way?”
The architects glance at each other silently. One of them, a kind-looking woman with stark black hair and ink on her cuffs, clears her throat.
“If you want to avoid the Oracle’s sanction, the site would need to fall outside temple jurisdiction. The west gardens, maybe. There are ruins there, old foundations beneath the earth from when the court was smaller. It’s hallowed ground, though disused.”
“And if the Council protests?”
She hesitates. “Then we stall. Appeal through the Crown’s restoration rights. It’s an old clause, but it still holds in the archives.”
You’re quiet for a moment, considering. The wind stirs faintly through the open stone slats of the hall, carrying with it the scent of old pine and something faintly charred.
“I don’t want to wage a war in the Council chambers. I want to build something quiet. Measured. But it must be real. Something lasting. For both the gods.”
They hesitate a little more, but no one protests.
“Can you do that?” you ask.
After a moment, the older man bows his head. “We’ll draw up the preliminary plans. If the ground holds, we’ll begin.”
You step out of the chamber with the architects’ low voices still murmuring behind you, half-formed plans already beginning to take shape. Your thoughts are slow to settle, your mind still caught in the image of stone rising from soil—something ancient returned to light.
So you don’t see him until it’s too late.
You turn a corner too quickly, too lost in your head, and collide with a shoulder that wasn’t supposed to be there.
A sharp inhale—yours or his, you can’t tell—and then Joshua’s hands are steadying you, one on your arm, the other lightly at your waist. You blink up at him, startled. He looks just as surprised.
“I—sorry,” you start, pulling back, heart catching in your chest.
“Sorry,” Joshua says, his hand falling away just as quickly. His eyes search your face. “I didn’t realise you were—what are you doing here?”
You don’t answer right away. The surprise in his voice sharpens something in you. Of course he didn’t know. Of course no one did. You hadn’t told him, hadn’t told anyone. And now he’s looking at you like you’ve done something reckless.
“I met with the architects,” you say, each word clipped.
Joshua frowns. “About what?”
“The shrines.” You keep your tone even, but it takes effort. “I asked them to draw plans for a new one. For Evnos. And Ethys.”
He’s quiet for a few seconds. You know that he’s thinking of how to go about this, and the surprise in his expression is obvious.
“You didn’t think to tell me?” he asks. Maybe you’d feel better if he had snapped, or sounded accusatory and angry, but he just sounds uncertain.
“I don’t need to consult you about everything, do I?” you say, more sharply than you mean to. “Not when it’s already decided.”
His mouth opens slightly, as if he might say something else—but then he just closes it again. His gaze flicks away. He nods once, slow.
“You don’t. Sorry.”
You glance away too, jaw tight.
The silence stretches just long enough to become uncomfortable.
Then—quieter this time—you ask, “Why are you here?”
He doesn’t answer immediately. When he does, it’s with that same gentle reserve he always wears when he’s trying not to make you feel worse.
“I was meeting them about reinforcement plans for the outer hall. One of the pillars near the east wall has shifted since the last quake.”
Right. That makes sense. Of course it’s something practical, something mundane. He’s always thinking ahead, keeping the palace from falling apart piece by piece while you go chasing ghosts and gods.
You glance at him from the corner of your eye. His face is unreadable again, still turned slightly away.
“I shouldn’t have—” you begin, then stop. Swallow. Try again. “I wasn’t angry at you.”
You take a slow breath. The words feel clumsy in your mouth, too vulnerable but you try anyway. “I’ve just been thinking about too many things. And the council, and the ravine, and—” You gesture vaguely, as if that might encompass the fear blooming just beneath your ribs. “It’s not an excuse. I should’ve told you I was coming here.”
Finally, Joshua nods once, and when he speaks, his voice is quiet but not cold. “It’s alright. You don’t have to explain everything to me.”
You hate how that makes your throat tighten.
Because of course he says that. Of course he lets you off the hook before you even properly apologize. He always has.
“What did they say?” He asks softly.
“They’ll do it. Find some loophole.” You murmur, running a palm over your face.
“Okay.”
Joshua steps past you, turning toward the door you’d just come from. He pauses, just for a moment, his hand on the frame—as if he might say something else, might look back. But he doesn’t. The door swings open and then he’s gone.
You stay for a few seconds longer than needed. Then you turn and walk.
You had gone there alone. You had chosen to do it alone. And you had justified it to yourself with quiet, confident conviction because it was the right thing, because the gods had been forgotten long enough, because some old thread in you was tugging hard toward something that felt like purpose.
But as your footsteps echo against the stone and the sunlight casts shadows behind the archways, your mind circles back to Joshua.
You shouldn’t have snapped at him.
You shouldn’t have hidden it either.
He had stayed with you when the dream left you shaking. He hadn’t asked for explanations, only waited and waited, for so long, every single time you needed time. And you—what had you done? Shut him out the first chance you got.
Not because you didn’t trust him. You do. You always have, almost against reason. His presence doesn’t unsettle you like others’ do. The quiet, calming nature around him settles the restless part of you.
So then why this? Why the secrecy? Why the sting of guilt now?
Maybe it was the fear that if you spoke it aloud—this thought, this decision, this quiet yearning to return something sacred to a kingdom that’s long since buried its gods—then it would become real. And real things have weight. Real things ask to be carried.
But why would you carry this alone? A small part of you pipes up. You shut it down quickly as you enter your room again.
For the first time, you wonder if there’s only so many times Joshua will wait.
pairing: joshua hong x reader
genre: angst, murder mystery, slowburn romance, plot heavy
description: After fifteen years of exile, you return to a kingdom that has learned to fear you in your absence. Your twin, Jeonghan, is gone. The crown is unclaimed, and the silence left behind is heavier than any decree. Blood grants you entry where mercy never would, and as you step back into halls that remember you too well, it becomes clear that what was once delayed has not been undone—only waiting.
warnings: major character death (not lead characters, but central to narrative) political and power struggles, religious themes, violence, fighting, swords and weapons mentioned, psychological distress, and as most of my works go: slowburn. as hell.
w/c: 10.5k
MASTERLIST
a/n: i’ve been working on this fic for almost a year now, and finally sharing it feels a little strange and a little exciting. it’s been a challenge, but also something i’ve grown pretty fond of and proud of, so I hope you like it as much as I do. also made a few post formatting changes to see if i like them!
as always, my love and gratitude goes to hershey ( @junplusone ) for being my number one hypegirl and reader, and a huge, huge thank you to viv ( @heartepub ), without whom this fic would be far rougher around the edges. your feedback and care mean the world to me hehe!!
comments/rbs/asks are always very much appreciated—please do spread the love🐦🔥
The Return of the Twin Flame
The sky is a dark, rumbling grey when you walk in through the palace gates. The guards hesitate behind you, but the power to deny royal blood has never been vested in them.
The cold southern wind blows past the tall central spires, the sconces struggling to keep the fire burning in them. The courtyards are mostly empty, and while it's been years since you've set foot in this place, it almost feels familiar, bearing a small semblance to something like home.
You hear the clinking of armor as a guard catches up to you, matching your stride.
“May I take you to your brother, Princess?”
You nod wordlessly. After all, it is what you're here for.
He leads you through halls that you once knew and have long forgotten now, corridors that you spent your childhood in. Chasing, hiding, and seeking for your brother.
You haven't seen him in years either. Only heard of the news of his achievements. Oh dear, he's managed to bring the neighbouring kingdoms into alliances, managed to keep the economy stable, managed to keep the people safe and happy. Managed to maintain his end of the prophecy.
You wonder if he has changed now. Whether, when you see him, he’ll look on with a peaceful expression, the serpentine curl of his lips settled, the sparkle in his eyes slightly subdued.
It's been years. So long, that on some nights, you wonder how much longer you'll remember the way he looks, the way he talks, the way he walks and the way he carries himself.
When the guard finally stops, you realise you're in the innermost courtyard, the one right at the centre of the palace. There is a small crowd at the centre that parts like the Red Sea when they catch sight of you.
Your lips harden, pursing in distaste as you walk forward, head held high. Your skin itches with the urge to see every single one of them drop dead at your hands.
But for now, you hold it in. For now.
When you finally peer down, Jeonghan looks nothing like you expected him to.
For the first time since you made your decision to come back, your heart stutters—hard, like an animal cornered.
Jeonghan looks…troubled. Even in death, surrounded by the flowers thrown at his casket, dressed in the finest robes this kingdom could offer, Jeonghan looks troubled.
His lips are curled almost bitterly and his muscles seem tense, jaw locked. The thought that he might have carried this expression in his last moments alive disturbs you. For a moment, you wonder what his eyes look like behind those lids. But you'd rather not know.
The first person to approach you is someone who is slightly familiar. Joshua Hong, from the third Hong family, comes to a stop nearly two feet away from you, but his voice is carried by the mourning wind. Strong and clear.
“Princess. We did not expect you to be back so soon.”
You almost scoff at that.
“I'm sure you didn't. In fact, I suppose it was made clear that I was to never come back.”
No one has the audacity to reply to you. You can hear the uneasy murmurs passing through the crowd, mainly consisting of ministers and court officials.
You turn back to your twin. The savior, the shield, the well-fated of the two of you. You give yourself a few minutes to mourn, in pin-drop silence.
Hearing about it was one thing. Seeing it is another. When you finally start thinking that there is nothing else that this godforsaken kingdom can take from you, it always comes up with something new. This one hurts the most.
For the first time since you left, all those years ago, you feel this part of you breaking off again. It's belonged to Jeonghan, ever since you were born.
It's hard to believe that the boy who completed you, in all aspects, is gone for good. Dawn and Dusk, you've heard. The Good and the Bad, the Pretty and the Ugly, the Shield and the Sword, the Savior and the Destroyer.
No more ‘and’.
The wind numbs your cheeks, so that you don't even notice the few teardrops that fall down your face.
When you finally turn back to them, your face is set back into stone again, shoulders rolled back, chin up and eyes sharp. You look at Joshua.
“You were my brother's advisor and right hand man, yes?” You ask, voice cutting through the thick atmosphere as clear as the first drops of rain that are about to hit.
He nods, face solemn.
“Good. You shall be mine, from now on.” You turn away from him, looking at the guard now.
“Get my brother out of the casket.”
A ripple of shock and confusion spreads through the crowd, and the guard looks stunned, wondering if he should follow your instructions. You pay no mind to it all.
“Get him out of the casket, now.” You repeat, leaving no room for argument as you search through the crowd for any challengers. Many men sit with their lips pursed, tongue pressing against them like they might speak out any moment. But a lot of them are cowards. They wouldn't dare say anything to you. Not right now.
“He shall be burned upon a pyre.” You continue, stepping away from Jeonghan. “His ashes are to be given to me when it is done.”
You notice the tick in Joshua's jaw, his eyes observing you carefully. You don't look away from him, and after a few seconds he nods. The guard hurries away to call for help.
“Princess, are you sure? It's custom to bury—” He begins, but you raise a finger, instantly shutting him up.
“If you were his closest friend, you would know that my brother would've never wanted to be one with the soil of this place.” You almost grit out.
The silence that follows is thick. Joshua stands, frozen for a few seconds before he looks away, shaking his head. You’re quick to recognize the doubt and frustration in his eyes when he glances back at you. But before he can speak again, a new voice cuts through the tension, deep and commanding.
“You’re making a mistake.”
You turn sharply, your eyes narrowing in response to the voice. A man steps forward, tall and imposing, his dark military cloak billowing slightly in the cold wind. His face is stern, eyes sharp and commanding, but there’s something about him—something in the way he carries himself—that speaks of years of authority. He’s a stranger to you, but the people around seem to find solace in his presence.
“You are?” you ask, barely masking your disdain.
“General Choi Seungcheol,” he replies, stepping closer, unbothered by your clear distaste. “Head of the royal military forces.”
“And?” You sound almost bored when you look away from him, back to Jeonghan. You know this is what he would’ve wanted. It doesn’t matter that the last time you spoke was more than ten years ago. Doesn’t matter that this courtyard is probably full of the people your brother had spent his last days talking to.
It’s something you find hard to explain, but in a way Jeonghan has always been with you and you have always been with him. Even when sent to exile, the invisible string that held you two together had always been taut, tugging at your heart and gut from thousands of miles away. It was a presence, a quiet knowing that stretched beyond time and space. Your sorrow, his. His happiness, yours. Today, the string slackens the longer you stare at him. There’s empty, hollow and cold silence from his side.
Seungcheol’s voice is still firm when he replies. “It’s my duty to ensure that the kingdom’s traditions are followed. Your brother—”
“My brother, yes.” You interrupt, eyes narrowing at him, “And as far as I know, I am the only living blood of his.”
The general bristles at that, glancing at Joshua. The latter doesn’t say anything. His eyes have been trained on the ground from the moment Seungcheol stepped forward. You have the feeling that he is on your side.
“Am I not?” You ask.
“Princess, you must understand. The crown has its rules and customs that are to be carried out. You have no right to—”
“I do,” You are unwavering in your stance, “And I will have him burned. The flames shall show him more respect that this kingdom’s soil ever has. You will take him from that casket and carry out his last wish, as I’ve commanded.”
Seungcheol’s eyes flash, and he opens his mouth to protest, but you’re already moving past him, eyes cold, voice clipped. “And if you try to stop me, you shall find yourself at the wrong end of my sword, General.”
You turn to the man whom your brother trusted with his life. “And I trust that you shall keep your oath to serve the crown, yes?”
Joshua’s face hardens. There’s no more hesitation as he meets your eyes. He understands, you realise. Maybe he was against all this in the first place. You suppose out of all the superficial bonds Jeonghan must have made here, their’s must have been the realest.
He bows his head in your direction, low and respectful, before looking up again. “It is my duty, Princess.”
He steps forward, brushing past Seungcheol with barely a glance his way. This is him offering his loyalty. You are grateful.
You’ll need it.
By the time you step back into the palace halls, Joshua has caught up with you. But he doesn’t walk beside you, only behind. He is careful and smart, you realise. You are angry and upset at everything this place has ever symbolized, and he knows.
Your boots click loudly against the marble floors, echoing in the otherwise quiet halls. Every step feels like a defiance, a protest against the expectations this palace has forced on you since the moment you were born. You wonder if the floors tremble under you, forced to provide a path for the very being that has been told will bring their destruction. Do the tapestries of all your ancestors on the walls look at you in distrust, silent waiting in fear? You hope they do.
Outside, the skies thunder. If you were any less fired up, maybe you would’ve shivered from the cold.
When you finally stop, it’s in front of the doors that—if your memory serves you right—open up into the throne room. You don’t want to go inside yet, no. So you stand there and stare at the carvings on the huge doors. A pair of wings stretches wide across the wood, their feathers curling as if caught in an eternal wind. Below, a crown rests precariously atop a broken sword, the tip just barely touching the door’s edge.
Joshua waits for you to ask him. He thinks you will. You must. Who would not want to know about how their twin died?
But instead, the only thing you ask is—
“Aren’t you afraid?”
His brows furrow in confusion before he forces himself to clear his face of any expression.
“No, Princess.”
You hum, arms crossed as you inspect the door for a few more seconds before turning around on your heel. Your eyes are dark and piercing when you look at him. Joshua hasn’t met you many times before, but not much is required to tell him that you are nothing like your brother was.
“Shouldn’t you be?” you sigh, almost mockingly, “The Savior gone, the kingdom on edge… his evil twin sister in his place. How could you not be?”
Joshua remains quiet, but he doesn’t look away. He seems to be trying to figure you out, but it’ll take more than that. Finally, he replies.
“I do not believe in the prophecy, Princess.”
He hears you laugh for the first time. It’s a short, bitter sound, one that echoes in the halls—moments after you’re done.
“I trust Jeonghan,” he continues, “And Jeonghan trusted you.”
You nod multiple times, like you still don’t believe him. To you, it doesn’t matter. Not for now. You’d rather people fear you. Fear teaches. Fear disciplines.
“Sure,” you nod again, “You may not. But the kingdom will, and so will the court. They would hate to see the kingdom destroyed, would they not? How do you suppose we go about that, Joshua. Will they just accept me as their ruler?”
“You are the only one with royal blood.” Joshua nods, swallowing. “The court shall have no other choice.”
"No other choice, huh?" you repeat, almost amused. "But what if they don’t like the choices I make? The kingdom has despised me the moment that oracle opened her mouth. You think my fifteen years of exile has changed that?"
Joshua doesn't flinch, but you see the tension in his shoulders. He holds his ground, like he’s trying to understand where you’re going with this.
“The kingdom doesn't choose its rulers,” he says quietly, “The bloodline does. And that bloodline is yours.”
You tilt your head, "And you believe that’s enough to make them obey? To make them fear me, to make them respect me?"
Joshua hesitates, clearly torn. "Respect is earned, Princess. Fear is only temporary."
You shake your head, huffing out a scoff. "I think you misunderstand me, Joshua. I don’t need respect. Not from them. Not from anyone."
He has no reply to that. You don’t mind; you’ve made your stance clear.
“Where is the oracle?” You ask, turning back to the doors. The sight of the twin swords in the throne room never leaves your mind. You could push them open and see for yourself.
“Still in the village, Princess.”
Your fingers twitch, almost involuntarily. You remember her face, her eyes glowing with power as she spoke that cursed prophecy that had you exiled in the first place. The words still echo in your ears. One will build, and one will break.
“Bring her here.” You try to keep your voice light.
Joshua hesitates, “We’ve tried. Your brother tried, Princess. She would not come.”
“Then tell her that I am back, and that I am the one who summons her.” You order.
You hear his quiet breathing, him taking in a deep breath before he mutters. “Consider it done.”
Your lips curl into a smile, cold and calculating, before you push open the door and step inside.
The door to your old chambers creaks closed behind you, the sound eerily familiar. The room is cold, but it doesn’t faze you. It never did. Not when you were a child, and certainly not now. The walls—once adorned with vibrant tapestries, now faded and ghostly in the dim light—feel more like a cage than a sanctuary.
You step further inside, boots tapping against the worn floorboards. The same bed, the same desk, the same heavy drapes. Everything has stayed the same, frozen in time as if waiting for your return.
Your boots echo against the wooden floor as you walk toward the vanity, your fingers trailing the edges of the familiar pieces of furniture. Nothing has changed. Not really. The place feels empty, but it always did. The silence is different now, though. There’s a weight to it, like it’s pressing in on you, and it reminds you of something you can’t quite name.
You open the vanity drawer, the wood stiff under your fingers. Inside, there’s nothing but clutter—old trinkets, a half-empty bottle of ink, a few crumpled pieces of paper. But underneath it all, tucked carefully away, is a single feather. Too white. Too clean. Your fingers curl around it before you can stop yourself.
Jeonghan’s feather.
You know it’s his. Whose else could it be? That feeling of something familiar, something alive but long gone, fills the space around you. It's impossible, you think. He’s dead. There’s no reason for this. But the room feels like it’s closing in on you, the silence louder now, like a thousand voices whispering just out of reach.
You slam the drawer shut, swallowing hard.
It's nothing. Just your mind playing tricks on you.
The rain lashes against the windows. You stare at the vanity mirror, and for half a second, you could swear you see his face. His reflection flickers, just a glimpse, a heartbeat.
You blink, and it’s gone.
Your stomach drops, but you don’t look away.
The room feels colder. The silence is heavier. Then, in the corner, you hear something. A whisper. Barely there.
A voice.
You freeze.
The silence stretches. The rain slams against the windows in thick sheets, wind rattling the panes like a desperate hand trying to get in. A storm, just like before. The candlelight wavers again, and you watch as the shadows dance, growing longer, twisting into shapes that shouldn’t be there.
Your body refuses to move, caught between fight and flight. But where would you run?
The shadows stretch further, curling at the edges like outstretched fingers.
Your throat tightens. The room is empty. It is. But the whisper comes again, clearer this time. Close. So close.
A voice you know. A voice you could never forget.
The sound of three successive knocks crashes through the silence, sharp and sudden. Your whole body flinches. The candle flickers wildly, and the shadows collapse back into themselves, as if nothing had happened.
For a second, you just stand there, your heart hammering in your chest.
"Princess?"
Joshua.
Your fingers ball into fists, nails biting into your palms. You exhale slowly, gathering yourself. One step back into reality. Another.
Then you turn, crossing the room, and pull open the door.
Joshua stands in the dimly lit hallway, candlelight flickering against his face.
“You look pale,” he states, brows furrowed. “Is everything alright?”
You nod. “What is it?”
“I thought you'd want to know that the Council is assembling tomorrow morning.” The flame of the candle casts a wild look in his eyes.
You nod again, hand coming up to massage your temple. “Fine, we can talk there.”
After a few seconds of silence, Joshua cautiously starts. “You are back…for good, right?”
“Yes.” This time, your voice comes out firm and clear. It makes him nod before he continues.
“In that case, I'm sorry, for I know you must be tired from your travels, but we must talk now, Princess.”
You hate showing your exhaustion, but the travel has been draining, and nothing about this place provides solace or comfort to you anymore. Your voice comes out raspy when you finally answer.
“Why? Can't it wait till the meeting?”
“No,” Joshua admits, apologetically. “The council will try to send you back. We need to make sure to convince them that you are our only option.”
“That is not what you said a few hours ago,” You point out, leaning against your door.
“The kingdom doesn't choose its leader, and I still stand by that,” Joshua sighs, “But you're going to need the court and the military on your side. It's only a matter of time before Jeonghan’s power falls.”
When you don't reply, he continues, albeit a little hesitant with his next words.
“And although you may not like to hear this, you will need Seungcheol on your side, Princess.”
You nod, deep in thought. “I don't actually care. He hasn't personally wronged me yet, so I understand where he came from. But is it absolutely necessary?”
“He holds a lot more influence than I do,” Joshua admits.
You stare at him, and Joshua almost dislikes the way you try to see through him. But if there's one thing you and Jeonghan have in common, it's your observational skills. He couldn't hide for long with your twin, so with you, he doesn't even try to.
“I find it hard to believe that,” you murmur. “Whom was Jeonghan closer to?”
“I…I can't answer that—” Joshua tries to find the right words. “They were quite close too. After all, you need a successful army to lead a kingdom. Which is why we need to come up with a plan.”
You sigh softly before pushing yourself off the door. “Lead the way, then.”
As Joshua walks you two down the corridors, holding his candelabrum out, he asks you if you'd like to move your quarters somewhere closer to where the rest of the people live.
“This wing was abandoned after you left.” Joshua sighs, “Jeonghan was the only one who'd ever visit.”
“Why?” You think of laughing, but the sound—in this dark, gloomy night—would only freak you out a little more. “Did they believe that the prophecy that followed me, infected the chambers where I lived?”
“I couldn't tell you. I never understood it either.” Joshua shrugs after a pause.
“Either way, I'd like to stay here.” You assert, straightening your spine.
“I shall have guards stationed near your doors by morning then, Princess.”
“Oh, that is not required.” You start to wave him off, but Joshua shoots you a look that—surprisingly—makes you stop.
“Your safety is a concern, Princess.” He says only this much, but you hear it. The silent ‘after what happened to your brother’.
The sound of the rain is more muffled now, but the scent is strong, mingling with the smell of old parchment paper and cold stone.
Joshua's steps are steady beside yours, moving with familiarity. You wonder if he ever left these halls, or if he just learned to live with its ghosts.
“You've grown quiet, Princess,” Joshua comments suddenly, his voice soft. “You used to argue a lot more.”
The statement catches you off guard. Not because it is untrue, but because it has been so long since someone has spoken of you like they know you. You suppose that for a short time, Joshua did know you.
“I do argue,” you mutter, “I just pick my battles more wisely now. There's no one left to pick stupid fights with anyway.”
Joshua's steps waver, and maybe he is taken aback too. For the first time, you wonder how he has been holding up. He’s always been composed—too composed, maybe—but grief is a strange thing. It settles in places no one expects, hollowing out a person in ways they don’t realise until much later.
“I suppose that’s true,” he says finally.
You press forward, your boots tapping against the cold stone floor. “Did you ever argue with me?”
Joshua lets out a small, quiet laugh, shaking his head. “I knew better than to try.”
That makes you scoff. “Smart man.”
“I like to think so.” His tone is lighter now, but you know that it has a jagged edge. You want it to. There is no time to reminisce, no time to get soft, no time to mourn.
Joshua exhales, then nods ahead. “Come. We have a long night ahead of us.”
The council chamber is suffocating. Not in a literal sense—there’s plenty of space, the ceilings are high, and the flickering torches do their best to push back the heavy gloom—but the air itself is thick with expectation. Eyes bore into you, assessing, doubting, and waiting to see if you will stumble.
You don’t. You step forward and take your place before the long table, where the highest-ranking members of the court are seated. Seungcheol is among them, arms crossed and gaze unreadable. He hasn’t spoken yet, but you know he will soon enough.
Joshua stands a little to your side, as if he is the bridge between you and them. It’s an uncomfortable place to be, but he wears his usual calm expression. You know better than to take it at face value.
“Princess,” one of the older lords begins, voice wary. “You return after fifteen years. I’m afraid you must understand our… reluctance.”
“I understand it perfectly,” you reply. “It changes nothing.”
A few murmurs ripple through the chamber. You catch Seungcheol’s eyes flickering, watching, waiting.
The older lord exhales. “You must also understand the circumstances of your departure—”
“The circumstances of my exile,” you correct, voice sharp. “A decision made in fear by a dead king.”
A different council member scoffs, a woman with steel-gray hair and a sharper tongue. “And yet, here we are—with a kingdom in peril. And you believe your return changes that?”
You let the silence stretch before you speak. “The prophecy said I would bring ruin to this kingdom,” you say evenly. “But my brother is the one who died. The heir chosen in my place. So tell me—if the prophecy was so infallible, if it dictated our fates, why is Jeonghan gone?”
The weight of your words settles over the room like a storm cloud. No one answers. You glance at Seungcheol again. His jaw tightens, but his arms are no longer crossed.
Joshua had warned you about him the night before.
“You will need Seungcheol on your side,” Joshua says, fingers drumming on the table. “His support won't win you the throne, but his opposition could cost you everything.
You sit by the dying fire. “And what does he believe in?”
Joshua's expression is unreadable. “He believes in strength.”
You consider that. Consider the stories you've heard. “And he doesn't believe I have it yet.”
You meet Seungcheol’s gaze. “You led my brother’s armies. You knew him well. Tell me, then—would Jeonghan have wanted you to waste time arguing over whether or not I belong here?”
Seungcheol exhales sharply. Then, finally, he speaks.
“No,” he admits. “He wouldn’t.”
It’s not a declaration of support, not yet, but it is something. The weight of it shifts the room, forcing the council to reconsider.
You straighten. “The throne is mine, whether you like it or not. I am not here to ask for permission. I am here because we have no other choice.”
Silence. Then, slowly, Seungcheol nods.
But the steel-haired woman is not easily swayed either. “You expect us to forget the prophecy? To ignore what was written?”
You shake your head. “I expect you to think for yourselves.”
A murmur spreads through the chamber. Someone shifts uncomfortably. Another clears their throat.
You take a step forward. “The prophecy said I would destroy this kingdom. That I would be the cause of its ruin.” A pause. “But it never said how.”
The room stills.
“It never said I would turn against you,” you continue, voice even. “It never said I would bring war to our gates. It never said I would spill royal blood.” You let your words settle. “You filled in the blanks yourselves. And you were wrong.”
The council members exchange glances, uncertain now. The steel-haired woman opens her mouth again, but you don’t let her.
“My brother was meant to rule according to everyone's interpretation of it,” you say. “He was meant to be your king. And yet he is dead. Tell me—where was the prophecy then?”
Silence.
It is Joshua who breaks it. “The kingdom needs a ruler,” he says, voice calm and diplomatic. “That much is clear.”
Seungcheol glances at him, then back at you. His fingers drum once against the table. Then they still.
“You were gone for fifteen years,” he says. “You don’t know this kingdom anymore.”
You lift your chin, your eyes hard. “Then I will learn.”
He doesn’t nod. He doesn’t move to stand with you. But he doesn’t argue, either.
And for now, that is enough.
The castle does not hum with its usual life. It moves, yes, but slower, quieter—weighted by loss.
Atop the tallest spires, black banners hang limp in the morning air, their edges fraying in the wind. The great bells do not ring except for the hour, their silence a constant reminder of what has been taken. In the courtyards, the fountains run, but their waters are unadorned—no floating petals, no bright coins tossed in for luck. Superstition or not, no one dares to make a wish when the gods have already taken so much.
The council members wear dark threads woven into their finery—black sashes, silver embroidery shaped like falling leaves, a symbol of mourning. The servants, though less adorned, move with the same reverence. Their voices are hushed, their steps careful, as if even the echo of their heels against stone might be disrespectful.
And you stand, a ghost among them all—in your plain black dress, pooling around your feet like ink. You are neither fully accepted nor fully returned.
As you walk through the palace halls, you set your own course. The air is thick with the scent of incense, clinging to stone and fabric alike.
You move toward the courtyard instead.
There is no fanfare as you step onto the worn stone, but the shift in attention is immediate. A few guards straighten at the sight of you, uncertain whether to bow or simply watch. Some of the younger knights halt their practice, murmuring among themselves.
You let them look. Let them wonder.
Seungcheol is there, speaking in low tones to one of his captains. When he turns, his gaze finds you instantly, dark and unreadable.
"You’re not where you’re expected to be," he says.
You tilt your head slightly. "I hope people will learn to stop expecting things from me."
A flicker of something—amusement, maybe—crosses his face before it vanishes. He studies you for a moment longer, then gestures vaguely to the courtyard around him.
"And what is it you expect to gain here?”
You glance around, taking in the courtyard—the scuff marks on the stone, the disciplined movements of the knights, the sharp tang of sweat and steel in the air.
“I needed fresh air,” you say at last. “And something worth my time.”
Seungcheol raises a brow. “You think this is worth your time?”
“I think it is more useful than sitting in a room full of men pretending they don’t resent me.”
“And what is it that you plan to do here?”
Your gaze meets his, steady and unwavering. “What I must.”
His eyes narrow slightly, searching yours. He exhales through his nose, shaking his head. “You’re not a soldier.”
“I have spent fifteen years away, General. You must be smart enough to know that there is nothing you know about me other than what you've been told.”
The quiet challenge in your voice makes him pause. Then, after a beat, he sighs and draws his sword. The hush that falls over the courtyard is immediate.
He doesn’t taunt—just lifts the blade between you, measuring. Testing.
“Show me, then.”
You are not one of his soldiers and he is right to say that. You don't need to obey him. But you have a point to prove, and there are people to watch.
The first clash of steel is sharp, ringing through the courtyard like a bell. The force of it vibrates up your arms, but you don’t falter. You meet Seungcheol’s gaze through the lock of your blades, unyielding.
He pushes. You hold.
Then, in a breath, you twist away, breaking the stalemate.
Seungcheol follows immediately, fast and fluid, striking with a precision honed through years of battle. He fights like someone who has led wars, each movement efficient, controlled—meant to overpower, to end things before they begin.
But you have never fought like a soldier.
You duck beneath his next strike, pivoting fast, forcing him to turn with you. He expects a retreat, but you don’t give him one. Instead, you step in close, blade flashing in the torchlight as you angle for an opening.
He barely blocks in time, his sword sliding against yours with a sharp hiss. His stance shifts, defensive now.
Good.
The knights murmur among themselves.
Seungcheol presses forward again, this time sharper, faster. You don’t meet him head-on; you sidestep, forcing him to readjust, keeping him moving. You are quicker, lighter on your feet, unburdened by the rigid forms and disciplines of the court’s warriors. You can see the moment he realises it.
You grin.
Then you lunge.
Your blade slices through the air, a blur of silver. He barely manages to block, but you don’t let up. You strike again, pushing him further back, your movements relentless.
A beat too late, he realises your rhythm isn’t just fast—it’s unpredictable. You fight without pattern, without hesitation, adapting in the space between moments.
You see his next move before he makes it. You twist, redirecting his momentum, stepping inside his guard. And then—
A sharp sting.
A line of red blooms across his forearm.
The courtyard stills.
Seungcheol looks at the small gash on his arm. Then, at you.
For a moment, he does nothing. Then, with a sharp exhale, he steps back, lowering his blade.
“Enough.”
You recognize that it isn't a retreat, a loss. It's just the end.
His soldiers stand still, as if waiting for him to say something more, do something more. Press back, attack again, stand his ground like they're used to seeing him do.
But he doesn't.
Seungcheol studies you carefully. Not angry or frustrated, but very close to surprised. Then barely, just barely, his lips curve up.
“You fight well,” he says.
“Well, you expected me to fail.”
He shakes his head, “No. I just expected myself to win. You did say that people should stop expecting things from you.”
“I did,” you agree, handing the blade back to one of the onlookers.
Without a second glance at the General, you turn on your heel, only to find Joshua, leaning against the archway.
He wears a small smile on his lips. Not mocking, not surprised. Just there, like he knew all along.
“You wanted them to see,” he says as you near him. Not a question, just an observation.
You meet his eyes. “They should know better than to doubt.”
Joshua hums, considering. “And him?”
You tilt your head slightly, voice cool. “Seungcheol is not a fool.”
Joshua’s smile widens, just by a fraction. “No,” he agrees, “he isn’t.”
“I was looking for you,” you say, stepping forward.
Joshua exhales, rolling the parchment he holds in his hands. “And here I thought you were busy proving points.”
You don’t acknowledge the remark. “Tell me how my brother died.”
The shift in his expression is subtle but immediate. The amusement fades, replaced with something heavier. “You already know the answer they want you to believe.”
“I want the truth.”
Joshua regards you for a long moment, then gestures toward ahead, into the halls that lead away from the courtyard. “Walk with me.”
You follow, your steps falling in line with his as the two of you move through the cold. You've broken a sweat from the duel with Seungcheol, but the air is cool enough to dry you up almost immediately.
"He died in the palace," Joshua says at last. "In his own chambers."
You already knew that much, but hearing it aloud feels different. It sinks into your bones, cold and certain.
"And?" you press.
Joshua exhales, slow and measured. "And they say it was an accident."
You let the words hang between you. A hollow, meaningless answer. You know it. He knows it.
"Do you believe that?"
He doesn’t look at you. "Does it matter what I believe?"
Your fingers tighten at your sides. "It matters to me."
Joshua finally turns to face you, and there is something unreadable in his gaze.
"Then I’ll tell you this," he murmurs. "Accidents happen easily in the palace. But not to people like your brother.”
Not to people like your brother.
The weight of it presses against your ribs. You stare at him, at the quiet certainty in his face, the careful way he watches you. He isn’t telling you everything. But he’s telling you enough.
“Who?” you ask, your voice like ice.
Joshua doesn’t answer right away.
“If I knew,” he says at last, “do you think I would still be standing here?”
You don’t flinch, don’t let the implication sink its claws into you. But it does. It does, and it burns.
“So you suspect,” you say. “But you have no proof.”
Joshua licks his lips, swallowing hard. “Not yet.”
You nod. In a way, you think you've always known. Jeonghan wasn't a sickly man. He was the weaker one out of the two of you, yes. But he wasn't the type to just drop down dead at any moment. Not at his age, definitely.
“Listen,” you stress, turning your entire body towards him. He stops, just as you do.
“Yes, Princess.”
“I need you to think, Joshua. Of everything. Anything he told you, anything he did, anything he left behind.”
“He used to write you letters.” Joshua realises why you ask this of him. “But I am sorry to admit that he hasn't left anything of that sort.”
Your shoulders slump slightly, but you straighten up as soon as you realise. You don't know what to do yet, but with someone else thinking the same thoughts as you, your mind feels even more muddled up.
Nodding slowly, you realise Joshua has almost walked you back to your chambers. The two guards at your door bow their heads at you as you look on.
“So what now?”
Joshua watches you for a moment, then exhales, letting the weight of the conversation slip from his shoulders—at least for now.
“Well,” he says lightly, clasping his hands behind his back, “I imagine you have more pressing matters to attend to than entertaining me with grim theories all day.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Is that your way of dismissing me, Joshua?”
His lips curve slightly. “Merely an observation, Princess.”
You don’t dignify that with a response, only tilting your chin up before turning toward your chamber doors. The guards stationed there don’t so much as glance at Joshua as you step past them, though you can feel his eyes on your back as you go.
It doesn’t matter. There are other things to be done.
Dear sister,
I write to you, though I know not how many more letters I will be able to send. The days grow heavier, and with them, the weight of silence stretches further between us. I know you will wonder why I haven’t written sooner, why the words have been few and far between these past months. I can only hope that you’ll understand, though I’m afraid no explanation will ease the ache of this distance.
Our parents—well, you know them better than anyone—have made it clear that I am no longer allowed to send you letters. Their reasons, as always, are clouded in duty, politics, and power. The crown is a heavy thing, and they think my correspondence with you only strengthens the bond we once shared, a bond they are eager to sever. They fear that the ties between us may still hold power over me.
It’s almost absurd, isn’t it? I always imagined the two of us, side by side, ruling together. Two thrones, side by side, our voices united. I thought we would ascend together, just as we had always dreamed. You with your wisdom, your strength, and me with the duty I’ve always felt pressing down on me. I never wanted to wear the crown without you by my side. Never.
But that was before they forced me into this position. Before they made me promise to rule alone.
I’ve asked them. I’ve pleaded with them to lift your exile. To let us meet, just once more, to see each other before everything changes. But they won’t. They refuse. They say it would be too dangerous, that our meeting would be a threat to the stability they have so carefully built. It breaks my heart, more than I can say, to know that even now, I cannot fulfill the one thing I’ve always wanted for us both: to share this together.
I am ascending to the throne, as you know. The ceremony is soon, and I am expected to stand alone, without you by my side.
I will carry your memory with me every moment of every day, and I will continue to fight for your freedom, even if I cannot reach you. I swear that I will find a way. I will not rest until I can bring you back.
Please, know that I have not forgotten you. I never will. No matter how much time passes, no matter how many walls they build between us, you will always be my twin, my other half. And someday, we will meet again, even if the world does not want it.
Until then, little thorn, know that you are never far from my thoughts.
With all my love,
Your brother,
Jeonghan.
The truth is taking its time to sink into you. You try to remind yourself that Jeonghan is gone. Jeonghan is gone, and no amount of time, no amount of bitterness or anger, can bring him back. But it must be the memories that this palace holds, because every corner you turn into, every hallway and room you walk into, you expect to see him there.
There are still rooms you haven’t visited yet, ones that you spent your childhood in but can’t bear to enter now. His is one of them, but you suppose you will have to make that trip, sooner or later.
The other end of the string is not held anymore. You feel it dangling in the space that you cannot reach into. It’s empty, cold and fills you with a sense of dread that you have never felt before.
The first thing you thought of, when the kingdom’s messenger reached you, was that Jeonghan had faked his death. That smart, cunning, sharp boy that you knew, wasn’t the type to leave so easily. Definitely not so early. Even now, the thought lingers. A desperate, foolish hope clinging to the edges of reason. But you know better. If Jeonghan had a way out, he would have taken it. If there was a trick to play, he would have played it. And if he had any say in his own fate, he would not have left you behind.
Your eyes latch onto the urn that sits in a corner of your room, almost hidden by a vase with wilted flowers. That wouldn’t exist if he truly wasn’t gone.
A knock on your door tears you away from your thoughts. When you call out to the guards to let him in, Joshua strolls into your chambers, eyes trained on you with his palms clasped behind his back. You stare at him quizzically.
“The Oracle refuses to come here,” he admits with a sigh.
You expected that.
“But she wants to see you,” Joshua adds, eyeing your reaction. You expected that too.
You inhale deeply, thinking for a few seconds before you reply.
“Then to her, we shall go.”
Joshua doesn’t question your decision and nods. In the few days that you’ve lived here, you’ve come to understand why your brother kept him around. He is quiet, but never absent. Observant, but never overbearing. He speaks when it is necessary and holds his tongue when it is not. Joshua doesn’t waste words on comfort that won’t reach you. He doesn’t tell you things will get easier, doesn’t say Jeonghan would want you to be strong, doesn’t feed you the same empty reassurances that others have whispered in passing. Instead, he walks beside you, steady as ever, as if nothing in the world has shifted.
You can’t read him as well as he reads you though, and it bothers you a little. He feels like a mound of clay, mouldable to whoever uses him. You’d prefer if he was something solid—stone, perhaps, or steel. Something that does not bend so easily to the hands that shape it. But Joshua is neither. He is not rigid, nor is he fragile.
He is not someone you trust entirely, no. But you’ve come to realise that he is the only one who is willingly choosing to believe in you.
Joshua follows you out of your chambers without protest, without hesitation, but you can’t shake the feeling that he is watching, waiting. For what, you aren’t sure. Maybe for you to stumble. Maybe for you to break. Maybe for something else entirely.
You wonder, briefly, if Jeonghan ever felt the same way about him. If he ever questioned the man who stood at his side, the way you do now. But then again, Jeonghan never questioned things the way you do. He always knew. Always saw further ahead than anyone else.
“We should leave before nightfall,” he says. “The Oracle won’t wait forever.”
Neither will you.
The Oracle’s temple stands at the edge of the city, where the noise of the streets fades into the hush of sacred ground. The path leading up to it is lined with tall stone pillars, their surfaces worn smooth by time and prayer. Even from a distance, the scent of burning incense reaches you—cloying, thick, the same as you remember.
Joshua walks a step behind you, as always. The guards who escorted you this far linger at the base of the steps, uncertain. You do not need to look at them to know what they’re thinking. You are not meant to be here.
And yet, here you stand.
The moment you cross the threshold, the voices hush.
There are people inside—temple disciples, nobles, perhaps even a few common folk who had come seeking wisdom. Their robes shift as they turn, as bodies freeze mid-step, as eyes widen in disbelief.
A murmur ripples through the temple grounds like a stone dropped in still water. She's back. She shouldn't be here. I thought she was— No one says it, but you see the unfinished sentence in their expressions.
You can't be bothered by it right now.
You keep walking.
The weight of their stares presses against your back, but you do not falter. You've waited fifteen years for this moment.
At the far end of the temple, behind the burning brazier, the Oracle waits.
She sits where she always has, draped in white robes that seem untouched by time. The flames from the brazier cast flickering shadows across her face, but her eyes remain steady and piercing.
The last time you stood here, you were a different person. Younger. More reckless. Full of something that had not yet hardened into bitterness.
“Step forward,” the Oracle says.
You do. The rustling of your cloak is the only sound in the vast chamber, aside from the crackle of fire and the breaths of those still watching from the edges of the room.
The Oracle tilts her head slightly, observing you as one might observe a storm rolling in from the horizon—inevitable, unrelenting. “You have returned.”
It is not a question.
You hold her gaze. “I have.”
A slow exhale, like the wind shifting through the trees. “And why is that, I wonder?”
Joshua remains silent at your side, though you feel him watching, waiting. You do not look at him. This is not his answer to give.
The truth sits at the edge of your tongue, bitter and hard to admit. You could tell her the obvious—that Jeonghan is dead, that the life you were forced into is no longer enough, that you are tired of running from ghosts. But she knows.
So instead, you say, “Because it was time.”
The Oracle’s lips twitch into something that is not quite a smile. “Time,” she echoes. “A dangerous thing to claim control over.”
The murmurs do not stop. If anything, they swell, beating against the walls of the temple like a tide threatening to break through. It is starting to annoy you, like a bee droning right in your ear.
The Oracle doesn't silence them. She only watches you, waiting for your next words.
“You expected me.”
She waits for a beat. “Did I?”
You inhale slowly. You need to be respectful. No matter how you ended up because of her words, she is the spokesperson of the Gods. There is still some fear left in you, no matter how small.
“If you didn't, you would not have agreed to see me.”
She leans forward, her white robes cascading over her shoulders, her eyes wide enough to catch the flickering flames.
“Tell me then,” she says, voice soft, like comforting a child throwing a tantrum. “What is it you wish to hear from me? That your exile was unjust? That you were meant for more? That your brother's death is a wound that cannot be mended?”
You cannot tell me what I already know, you want to grit out, but you force yourself to be calm.
“I did not come for reassurance.”
“Then why are you here, child?” Her eyes are wild. You almost feel like she enjoys this.
The brazier crackles, the fire's heat licking at your skin.
“Because I need to know what comes next.”
“You seek an answer,” she murmurs, “And yet, you already know the path ahead of you.”
Unease coils in your stomach, settling down. “If I knew, I would not be here.”
The Oracle hums, her expression unreadable again. “Is that so?”
She reaches forward, fingers grazing the rim of the brazier. The heat doesn't seem to affect her. The fire flares in response, a sudden burst of gold and red before it settles into something more tamed again.
Then she speaks.
“Your return is a stone cast into still water. Ripples will follow, whether you intend them to or not.”
Her gaze lifts back up to you, and for the first time, you feel it—the weight of something vast, ancient, pressing against you.
“You are not the only one who has been waiting, my child.”
You do not like the quiet certainty in her voice. Wondering what she's already seen, you ask your next question, albeit being unsure if you want to hear the answer.
“Waiting for what?”
She only smiles, her teeth showing past her cracked, blackened lips. “For you, of course.”
You're aware of Joshua stepping closer, but he doesn't interrupt.
The Oracle doesn't elaborate. She only waves a deliberate hand, gesturing towards the temple doors. It is time to leave and she is done with you.
“You will see soon.”
Just as you turn to leave, your eyes meeting Joshua's, her voice rings through the temple, the loudest it has been till now.
“What the prophecy states,” she begins, making you whip your head around, “begins now, Princess.” She bows, head low.
You cannot tell if it is out of acknowledgement or mockery, but you don't reply. Joshua steps aside, waiting but left unsure by her words.
You walk out without a second glance.
The council chamber is already filled when you arrive. The moment you step inside, the murmuring stops, and all eyes turn to you. There is no hesitation in their stares—only expectation.
Joshua enters behind you, his presence steady. He has not said much on the way back from the temple, but you know that there is a lot to unpack. A lot you didn't understand.
Lord Kang rises first, hands folded neatly in front of him. “Princess, a coronation must be held.”
You exhale, managing to keep your expression neutral. You knew this was coming, but you had hoped, however foolishly, that they would not waste time with such things.
“There is no need for theatrics,” you say, moving further into the room. “I will take the throne. There is no need to waste time on ceremonies.”
A few of the older nobles exchange glances. You can already see the dissent forming, the argument building itself into something you are too exhausted to entertain.
Lord Kang does not back down. “That is where you are mistaken, Princess.”
Your fingers twitch, but you force yourself to remain still. “If you are asking whether I intend to rule, my answer is yes. That should be enough.”
“It is not enough,” another noble chimes in, voice firmer now. “The people need to see you take the throne. They need to know the kingdom is not leaderless.”
You glance at Joshua, expecting him to back you, to shift the conversation away from this unnecessary spectacle. But he remains quiet.
“The kingdom has a ruler,” you say, your patience thinning. “And they will know soon enough.”
Lord Kang only shakes his head. “The coronation is not for you. It is for them.”
You know this. Of course, you know this. But it still feels unnecessary. A waste of time when there are greater matters to be handled, when Jeonghan’s absence still lingers in the air.
From the corner of your eye, you see Joshua step closer, until his voice is just at your ear.
“If you do not let them see you,” he murmurs, low enough that only you can hear, “they will only whisper. If you take the throne quietly, they will doubt you. If you take it in full view, they will have no choice but to kneel.”
You say nothing, but your fingers curl at your sides.
Joshua tilts his head slightly, just enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath against your skin.
“You think you do not need a show.” He remains careful. “But you are returning from exile. There are those who remember you as a child, and those who will say you have no right to rule at all.” His voice is softer when he continues, “You need them to see you.”
You inhale, slow and reluctant.
Joshua steps back, resuming his usual place at your side, as if he had never spoken at all.
You lift your gaze to the gathered nobles.
“Fine,” you say at last. “We will do it your way.”
Joshua doesn't react. Doesn't so much as throw a glance your way, but you know—as you leave the room—that he has won.
The air in Jeonghan’s chambers is stale, untouched. Dust clings to the surfaces, motes dancing in the dim light. You hesitate before stepping inside, fingers lingering on the doorframe. You have not been here since your return.
It looks the same. Too much the same. His books are still neatly stacked, the ink pot on his desk dried at the edges. A part of you expects to hear his voice, a quiet laugh from the corner, some teasing remark about your reluctance to step inside.
But there is only silence.
You don’t know why you came. Perhaps it’s foolish, this need to prove to yourself that he is truly gone.
Your fingers trail along the edge of his desk, catching on the corner of a small, ornate box.
Something unsettles you as you pick it up. It’s heavier than it looks, the wood smooth beneath your fingers. Slowly, you lift the lid.
Inside, there is a single folded piece of parchment.
You freeze.
The handwriting is unmistakable. The ink is slightly faded, but the strokes are as familiar as your own.
With a sharp inhale, you unfold the letter.
Dear sister,
I suppose congratulations are in order, aren't they? If you're reading this, then it must mean that you are finally back. I'm sorry for not being around to welcome you home, but know that I am glad.
Your hands tighten around the paper.
I apologize for not writing to you, even after our mother and father passed away. And I am even more regretful that you hear from me in this way, after ten years. I want you to know that I have always kept track of you. Always know where you are and how you are. I just feared that you may think less of me, that you may want nothing to do with me after I gave up on us.
Your heart aches, beating loud and wild against your rib cage. You can feel your throat close up.
I knew it would come to this. Maybe not exactly like this, but I knew you were always meant to rule. And despite what they did to you, despite everything, trust me when I say that this is where you belong.
I wish I could be there to see you with the crown on your head.
I am sure that Joshua is helping you. I made sure to let him know that if you ever came back, we'd welcome you with open arms. Be nice to him, for he means well. You can trust the man, I give you my word.
A strained exhale leaves your lips. You cannot help the tears that begin to cloud your vision.
No matter what happens, don't let them turn you into something you aren't. I believe in you to set things right. And don't forget—you're not alone. You are never alone.
The letter should end there. He signs it off with his name, but even through your tears, you see the next lines scribbled after, almost like an afterthought.
Oh, and if you ever feel lost—go back to where we started.
You stare at the words, your pulse pounding in your ears.
Where we started. Where could that be?
The door creaks behind you.
You whirl around, instincts kicking in. But it's only Joshua. He pauses at the doorway, like he's surprised to see you here. Like he's surprised that he's here in the first place. Then, he takes in your expression before you quickly wipe at your eyes. His gaze narrows in on your face before trailing down to the paper you hold tightly in your hands.
He lets out a shocked noise. “You found something?”
You swallow, looking away in embarrassment. “It's nothing.”
Joshua doesn't look convinced. His gaze shifts to the box on the desk.
“He left a letter for me,” You finally admit, sniffling a little. “He somehow knew that I'd be back.”
“Of course he did,” Joshua sighs after a few moments of silence, walking in. He glances again at the letter still in your grip.
“Did he say anything about me?” he asks, and you know he's trying to make the situation a little lighter.
You almost let out a small laugh. “He told me to be nice to you.”
Joshua hesitates before throwing a soft smile in your direction. You can see the pity and the sadness creeping into his eyes too.
For a moment, you both say nothing. Joshua stands in the centre of the room, looking around like he hasn't ever seen the place. You actually haven't. Not in fifteen years anyway.
You remember the countless nights spent sneaking over to Jeonghan’s room because you couldn't sleep, or because he wanted your help with the homework your teachers had assigned. You'd always sit on his bed, forcing him onto the carpet on the ground. He'd complain that it was cold and that his body would hurt when he got up in the morning, but would always shut up when you pinched him softly, making a big show out of it.
The thought makes tears prick your eyes, again.
When you turn your attention back to Joshua, you find that he's already looking at you, a cautious expression on his face.
“Are you alright?” He asks softly.
You don't answer immediately. Instead, you fold the letter carefully before keeping it back in its place. Then, with a shaky sigh, you look back at him.
“I will be.”
But your mind lingers on Jeonghan’s last words.
“Joshua,” You call out to him as he closes the door behind you two. “What has been done with the nursery?”
“Nothing.” He answers simply, “I'm pretty sure that it's been left the way that it was. A few years ago someone suggested repurposing it but Jeonghan never allowed it. Said it was your place, somewhere where the two of you grew up. So.” He shrugs.
You nod, and Joshua can see the gears turning in your head.
“Do you want me to take you there?” He asks, tilting his head slightly.
You shake your head, rolling your shoulders back as you step into the corridors, noticing the servants that linger. “Not now, maybe later.”
The throne room is silent, the air thick with anticipation. The High Priest stands before you, his voice loud and clear as he leads the ceremony. The crowd, composed of nobles, guards, and advisors, watches closely. You can feel their eyes on you, their expectations pressing into you like a weight you’re not sure you can bear. Outside, you know the people of your kingdom await.
The throne that waits behind you looms larger than you remember. It’s been years since you last stood here, but nothing has really changed. The banners still hang, the same rich colors of your family’s house, the same marble floors that echo your footsteps back to you. But everything feels different now. The crown rests in the high priest’s hands, it's cold metal reflecting the light in sharp glints, as though daring you to take it.
You step forward, your heart pounding in your chest. This is it.
The High Priest places the crown on your head. It’s heavier than you thought. Not physically—no, it’s the weight of it all that’s unbearable. The pressure. The responsibility. The people you lost. But you're ready to bear it.
You glance at Joshua, standing just behind the priest. His face is unreadable, but his eyes meet yours with quiet understanding. He nods, reassuringly.
The room remains silent, the high priest’s voice still filling the space around you. But his words fade into the background as you look around at the faces in the crowd. They’re waiting for something from you. The throne is yours now, but it doesn’t feel much different.
You take a step back from the altar, your hands steady as you move to stand on the elevated platform.
The murmur of the crowd rises slowly. The ceremony is over. The crown is yours.
Joshua loses his breath at the way the crown sits so right on your head.
The jewels and the gold, the same crown that he thought would fit no one other than Jeonghan, looks like it was made for you in the first place. Joshua remembers the way Jeonghan had seemed to almost slump a little when he first wore the crown. He'd hated it, hated the weight of it, hated the way it sat on his head and how he looked with it on.
But you—you seem even more confident, shoulders straight, chin up, that hard look back in your eyes. He wonders what you're fighting.
But you are a sight to see as you step off the altar and walk to the balcony to see your subjects. The ceremonial robes hang heavy on your frame, embroidered with threads that shimmer faintly when you move, the crown catching the sunlight in all the right ways to make you seem like you walked out of a painting.
Joshua hears the crowd applaud when you step out, and it feels him with a sense of relief. The last few weeks have been testing, and he's sure that it won't get any easier.
But at least one thing is out of the way. The twin flame has returned.
WHEN THE SUN RISES IN NEW YORK ✶ Xu Minghao (PART ONE)
SYNOPSIS. You are sent to New York City twenty-four hours before your wedding to a man you've never met. On the train from your home to the big city, you meet Minghao, a struggling painter spending his final day in America before deportation. With the clock already ticking and no future promised to either of you, you spend one day wandering the city, knowing that life is already lining up to tear you apart forever.
PARING. Artist!Minghao x F!Reader
GENRE | TAGS. 1920s!au, non idol!au, strangers to (?), serendipity, fluff, angst, smut.
WC. 17.5k+ (this part)
RATING. Explicit adult content (MINORS DNI).
WARNINGS. Forced/arranged marriage, lack of personal autonomy, controlling family dynamics, emotional distress, gender-based societal restrictions, parental death, grief, references to deportation, period-typical class and gender norms, misogyny, drinking, smoking, sexual content (eventually), open ending.
A/N. 1. First of all, this was heavily inspired by Before Sunrise (1994). There are a three moments inspired by the original work, but that’s the extent of it, nevertheless, full credit to the creator. 2. The reader is somewhat naive, but not childish. Her life has just been a little like Rapunzel’s in some ways. 3. Also: there’s a fair amount of political discussion in this. 4. Dividers credit.
🎹 SOUNDTRACK. someone to watch over me – ella fitzgerald, i’m a fool to want you – billie holiday, almost blue – chet baker, at last – etta james, northern sky – nick drake, young and beautiful – lana del rey, strangers in the night – frank sinatra, like real people do – hozier, come away with me – norah jones, i'll be seeing you – billie holiday, clair de lune – claude debussy, aliança – tribalistas, ceilings – lizzy mcalpine.
— This story is part of the ✨Puttin’ on the Ritz✨ collab hosted by @studiosvt. I’m so grateful they invited me to join. It was genuinely so much fun diving into the 1920's for this. Please check out the other works in the collab, the stories are amazing and the girlies are insanely talented !! <33
GLEN COVE — LONG ISLAND, NEW YORK FEBRUARY 15TH, 1926 | EARLY MORNING
“Now.” Your grandmother adjusted the collar of your coat, eyes sharp as ever, taking you in as though she were memorizing your face. “Listen to me carefully, dear.”
“I am listening.”
You stood with your gloved hands folded neatly around your handbag, your cream-colored hat pinned securely atop your head, suitcase resting at your feet. From outside, you looked quite prepared to go. Inside, you were anything but.
The station at Long Island breathed in long, iron sighs. Steam curled lazily along the platform, the scent of coal and salt air clinging to everything, stinging your nostrils as it settled there. Porters called out destinations. Somewhere in the distance, a whistle shrieked its impatience.
Your stomach flipped, a sudden wave of nerves rising within you as you looked around you. All while your grandmother fixed you with a look that plainly instructed you to focus on her words.
“No, you are only hearing,” she corrected you. “Listening is different.” She leaned closer, conspiratorial. “You are not to go straight to that hotel room.”
You sighed. “Grandma—”
“No. You are only hearing,” she corrected coolly. “Listening different” She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone. “You are not to go directly to that hotel room.”
You glanced down at the platform, instinctively. “If Grandfather finds out—”
“Your grandfather,” she said sweetly, lifting your face by the chin with her index finger, “will learn exactly as much as I choose to tell him, which is to say, very little.”
That earned a laugh from you, surprised and breathless. The mere thought of what your grandfather might do if he discovered your grandmother’s scheme to send you to the city early—and alone—made you want to vomit right there. Yet the way she managed it all, as though it were nothing more than a harmless secret between ladies, soothed you, if only for a brief moment.
She smiled then, softer. “A girl should have one day that belongs entirely to herself before she becomes someone’s wife. One day where no one tells her where to stand, what to say, or how to smile.”
Not that your impending married life promised to be much different from the one you already endured. You were already living within the confines she so neatly described—even beneath her own roof—despite her frequent quarrels with your grandfather over the manner in which he chose to govern your life.
And that was precisely why the thought of being alone in Manhattan unsettled you so deeply: you had never, not once in your life, truly been alone. Everything seemed part of a long chain of actions and consequences that lead you to be like that. One that began with a motorcar accident when you were only seven years old and ended with your grandfather becoming the rigid man he is now.
You swallowed. “I wouldn’t even know where to go, Grandma.”
“That,” she said, tapping your chest with one gloved finger, “is precisely why you must go.”
“But Grandpa will be furious, and—”
She gave a careless shrug, rolling her eyes. “Your grandfather was furious when I cut my hair as well.” She lifted a hand, miming the short strands with a faintly triumphant smile. “And yet he survived.” Her expression softened, though the certainty remained. “So don’t trouble yourself. I shall manage him.”
The train gave a piercing whistle, metal groaned, and doors clanged open. A uniformed conductor stepped down to announce that it was time to board for Manhattan.
A faint shudder passed through you. You could not quite bring yourself to imagine the possibilities waiting at the end of the line. Instead, your thoughts fixed on the simple, inescapable fact that in a little more than twenty-four hours you would be marrying a man you scarcely knew. And so, almost recklessly, another thought followed close behind: perhaps you had nothing left to lose.
“Go,” your grandmother said. “Lose yourself for a while. Sit in a café. Watch people who have no idea who you are.”
Still, you hesitated, squeezing your handbag slightly between your fingers. “And if something happens?”
She met your gaze steadily. “Something will happen. That is the point, dear.”
The conductor called for boarding one last time.
Your grandmother pulled you into an embrace that smelled faintly of lavender and tobacco. “Tomorrow,” she murmured near your ear, “you will be a married woman. Tonight, be a stranger.”
About thirty minutes later, the train slid forward with a patient, rhythm clatter, wheels singing against steel like a lullaby for the sleepless. The car was neither crowded nor empty, a comfortable in-between, populated by businessmen folded into their newspapers, a woman with a hatbox balanced precariously on her knees, and a young mother coaxing a drowsy child into stillness.
You had chosen a seat by the window, your suitcase tucked close to your ankles, your pink coat neatly folded across your lap, alongside your gloves. In your hands rested a well-worn copy of Little Women, its pages already creased from rereading. Around you, the morning revealed itself in small noises: low voices, the soft clatter of luggage, the hiss of doors opening and closing down the car.
Outside the window, Glen Cove slowly gave way to Nassau County, open stretches narrowing as houses pressed closer together, dissolving into brick and steel. The landscape slipped past without pause, the city inching nearer with each mile.
As the train slowed and pulled into the next station with a soft hiss, a new wave of passengers began to board, but you were too absorbed in your book to notice him at first.
You were halfway down a paragraph when the seat across from you dipped subtly, the cushion responding to new weight. Only then did you look up, politeness guiding the motion, prepared to offer a small smile to whoever had taken the seat.
The first thing you noticed was how tall he was—impressively, almost—, his appearance catching your attention right after. Not because he was particularly striking in the traditional sense, but because there was stillness about him. He looked tired but content, as if he had accepted his solitude long before stepping onto the train.
He was young, perhaps only a few years older than you, with a face that held an odd balance of softness and intent. His dark brown hair was neatly kept, save for a stubborn lock escaping near his temple, refusing discipline and perfectly accentuating his sleek facial features.
He was wearing a long black coat, simple but well cared for, the sort worn by someone who paid attention to how things lasted rather than how they appeared. He carried no newspaper, no book. Only a leather satchel, scuffed at the corners, which he set at his feet with quiet care.
You watched everything with an almost rude attentiveness, something entirely unlike you, or at least unlike the version of yourself most people knew. Your tutors would have called it unladylike. Your grandfather would have called it inappropriate curiosity. And you had read enough to know that curiosity was precisely what women were taught to bury.
As you turned the page, his eyes lifted to you, and for a brief moment your gazes met. A faint blush warmed your cheeks immediately. You exchanged a brief smile and subtle shake of the head, sharing a silent understanding and acknowledgement of each other, before he turned to the window and you returned to your reading.
For several minutes, your world narrowed to the March sisters’ life, the murmur of the train fading into a distant hum as telephone poles slid past in steady intervals. Then, slowly, you became aware of something else. Not a sound, precisely, but a sensation: the peculiar awareness of being observed.
You did not look up immediately. That would have felt abrupt, almost accusatory of you, and you had a tendency to be discreet. Instead, you kept turning the pages you had already read, eyes skimming familiar lines even while your attention drifted elsewhere.
There was the faint scratch of pencil on paper.
It was quiet, almost lost beneath the sounds of the train, but once you noticed it, you could not unheard it. A soft, deliberate sound. Pause. Another stroke. Pause again.
You shifted slightly in your seat, trying to focus on the words, but you could feel a pair of eyes flickering up now and then before lowering back. Your pulse picked up, not from fear, but from curiosity, and you wondered if he was capturing the quiet of the morning on the train or if, perhaps, you unwittingly became his subject.
When you finally lifted your eyes, you did so calmly, slowly, just to check if you weren’t going crazy.
And he was looking at you.
Not directly, not in the way men sometimes did, bold and appraising, as though you were something to be weighed. His gaze flicked between you and a small sketchbook now balanced against his knee. His pencil moved with precision and assuredness, as if he were wholly absorbed in the act of capturing something you didn’t even know you were giving.
Your breath caught, unused to such attention, and he seemed to realize then that you were watching him too. His eyes met yours fully, widening a fraction, pencil stalling. Neither of you spoke, until the train lurched forward, bumping your knees together before tossing you back against your seats.
He looked as though he might close the sketchbook. Instead, he hesitated, waiting.
You felt a curious steadiness settle over you. Perhaps it was the morning, the advice your grandmother had given you. Perhaps it was simply the sense that this moment, once passed, would not return.
You tilted your head slightly, your voice gentle, unaccusatory.
“I hope you’ll forgive me,” you began, a hint of amusement threading through your tone, “but I believe I’ve been sitting here long enough to earn the right to ask… are you drawing me?”
Color rose instantly to his cheeks, lending him a boyish, almost endearing look.
“Yes,” he admitted, without pretense. He held up the sketchbook just enough for you to see, not fully revealing the page, but offering proof of what he was doing. “I can stop, if you’d prefer.”
You studied him for a moment, the sincerity in his expression disarming. He did not look defensive, only earnest. He had gentle eyes, you thought when you saw them narrowing slightly as they waited for your answer.
“I didn’t say I minded.” You shrugged, a soft smile tugging at your lips. If anything, you were flattered. “I was only curious.”
That made you laugh, surprised by his honesty. You can’t remember the last time someone had been so honest with you in such a short span of time, and it only deepened your curiosity about the stranger in front of you.
Which is why you decided to close your book and rest it atop your coat, directing all your attention to him.
“Well, in that case, I suppose I should sit properly.”
He waved his hands quickly, almost apologetically, the pencil still caught between his long fingers. “Please, you don’t need to change a thing because of me.”
You did anyway, just a little, angling your shoulders back, lifting your chin. He noticed, of course, and the corner of his mouth curved as his pencil resumed its quiet work.
“Do you always draw strangers on trains?” you asked, determined that if you were going to remain seated like this, you might as well make small talk.
It felt strange, doing so. A life spent in a large house, surrounded only by family and servants, had done little to prepare you for conversations with strangers, even less so with single men, as his bare ring finger quietly suggested. And yet, something in your grandmother’s words refused to let you settle quietly, as though she had lodged herself firmly inside your thoughts.
Be a stranger.
“Only the interesting ones.”
“That’s a dangerous habit.”
“So I’ve been told.”
There was an oddly comfortable silence between you, filled only with the sound of pencil and rail, his eyes examining your face, intently. Outside, you watched as the landscape shifted from open stretches to denser clusters of buildings, signs of the next city’s approach.
“Do you also make a habit of meeting people in such a fashion?”
“Certainly not.” He laughed briefly at your observation. You quickly noticed that he had a very beautiful laugh. “Whatever gave you that impression?”
“One never can be sure,” you replied, a teasing note in your voice. “Don’t take offense.”
“I assure you, I couldn’t,” he countered easily, a faint smile playing at his lips,
You arched a brow, truly confused. “And why is that?”
He hesitated, then met your eyes again. “Because it would be quite impossible to take offense at someone so lovely. You look as though you ought to be framed.”
“Good heavens.” You blinked, momentarily stunned by his frankness as your whole face heated up immediately.
He stiffened, his hands going still. “Have I… spoken out of turn?”
“No,” you said quickly. A smile tugged at your lips as your gaze dropped to your shoes, suddenly unable to meet his. “I simply wasn’t expecting it.”
What would your grandfather think of you, a young woman, unmarried—by a technicality, but still—if he saw you now, flirting with a complete stranger on a train bound for New York, where you would spend the whole day alone? That answer came easily: he would think you foolish. Too much influenced by modern ideas he did not care to understand.
And yet, you had never felt so free.
“Then I’m relieved.” He smiled back. “It was meant as a compliment.”
“Why a painting, though?”
“I’m afraid I relate most things back to my work,” he admitted, sighing as he pointed his head towards his sketchbook.
You watched him draw for a moment, fascinated by the ease of his movements and how natural the motion seemed as though his hands were made to be doing that. Understanding settled in.
“You’re an artist.”
“I try to be,” he said. “A painter, to be precise.”
“Anything I might know?” you asked, half in jest.
You weren’t an art expert, not truly. Your tutors had given you the foundations, at least the parts they believed mattered, but your grandparents’ house was its own gallery. Thousands of paintings filled its rooms, the result of a shared hobby among them and the social circles they belonged to. Wandering from room to room, admiring each piece, had always been one of your favorite pastimes.
A faint, almost self-conscious smile curved his mouth. “I doubt it. I’ve yet to earn the sort of reputation that travels ahead of me.”
“That seems unlikely.” You tilted your head, unconvinced. “You draw with too much confidence for that.”
He glanced down at the sketchbook, that stubborn strand of hair falling forward again. “Well, some insist I’m quite accomplished, though I remain unconvinced.”
“That’s remarkable,” you said, the warmth in your voice unmistakable, and it made him smile in return.
“So I’m told.”
You studied him for a moment. “You’re terribly modest for an artist.”
He chuckled. “I’ve never learned the art of boasting.”
“Not even when it’s warranted?”
“Especially then.”
“That’s rather admirable. Not many people possess such restraint.”
Well, you would know, raised among people who never missed a chance to boast, whether it was about their money or their accomplishments. Seeing someone like him was something to admire, and more comforting than you cared to understand.
The train whistle blew, cutting cleanly through the small intimacy of the car. The rhythm of the wheels changed, the singing lullaby growing into a guttural rumble as the train descended into a tunnel. The light in the carriage shifted, flickering yellow and artificial as the daylight was swallowed by concrete walls.
“I’m Minghao,” he said suddenly, glancing up as if he’d just remembered something important. “I realized I should have said that first.”
He offered his hand, and you accepted, placing your bare one into his. You couldn’t name the feeling that stirred where your skin met his, only that it lingered, threading its way through you. You gave him your name in return, and the way he repeated it quietly, almost thoughtfully, sent an undeniable flutter through your chest.
The way it sounded in his voice— almost reverent—made it feel newly minted, as though it belonged to this version of you sitting across from a stranger in the dim light of a train car, rather than the girl who had answered to it all her life in echoing hallways.
“It suits you,” he concluded at last, almost to himself, scratching absently beneath his chin before the pencil resumed its gentle movements.
You smiled, unsure what to do with that, and turned your gaze toward the darkened window. Your reflection stared back faintly, layered over the tunnel walls rushing past.
You wondered what he saw when he looked at you. Not the polished version presented at dinners or recitals, not the dutiful granddaughter, the orphan or well-tutored young lady, but this girl on a train, cheeks still warm from laughing, posture just slightly imperfect from trying not to fidget.
You were playing with your fingertips when you heard his voice again.
“Where are you headed?” he asked in a whisper.
“Manhattan,” you replied. Only then did it occur to you that you didn’t actually know this man at all, despite how trustworthy he seemed, and your mouth twisted slightly. “Which I probably shouldn’t be telling you,” you added, “seeing as I don’t know whether you’re Jack the Ripper or something equally unpleasant.”
A rich laugh burst from him, sudden and disarming, different from the low voice he’d used before. “I promise I’m not,” he said easily. “Just a lonely painter, I’m afraid.”
You looked down at your gloves, smoothing a nonexistent wrinkle in the fabric, laughing a little too.
“And you?” you asked. “Are you traveling toward or away?”
A corner of his mouth lifted. “Both, I think. But I do have somewhere to be later in the city.” He paused, then added, “But I would rather not be in my apartment right now.”
“Are you nervous about the place you have to be?”
“Terrified,” he corrected lightly. There was something in his gaze that suggested his fear reached far beyond, something you sensed but couldn’t quite grasp, and you didn’t know if it was yours to question. “It’s easier to be brave on a moving train,” he went on quietly. “Once it’s in motion, there’s no sensible way to escape.”
“That’s a dreadful metaphor.”
“Accurate, though.”
“Do you always confess your fears to strangers you’re sketching?”
“Only the expressive ones,” he said, that teasing, flirtatious lilt returning to his voice. You rolled your eyes despite the warmth blooming in your face.
The train roared on, metal screeching briefly as it curved along the track. A few seats down, the young mother had finally succeeded; the child slept heavy against her shoulder. The businessmen had lowered their papers, eyes distant. The whole carriage seemed suspended in a shared solitude that only exists in transit.
“Is this your first time being sketched by a stranger?”
“Yes.” You nodded slowly. “I imagine it’s not an experience somebody plans for.”
“You’d be surprised,” he said. “But, I’d say New York has a way of ignoring plans.” His brows rose in quiet emphasis, the hint of a smile playing at his mouth. “It prefers improvisation.”
You watched him as he spoke, the way his eyes drifted to the middle distance, as if he were already picturing streets you had only seen in photographs and paintings. You wondered what kind of life allowed a person to speak of a city the way others spoke of a lover.
You smiled. “So I’ve heard.”
Minghao gestured lightly toward your luggage. “You’re not from the city, then?”
“No,” you replied, a small shake of your head accompanying the word. “I’m on my way there now. For the first time.”
“Then welcome.” Sincerity threaded his voice. “Though I suppose it’s a bit early.”
“I’m not sure I’m ready,” you confessed under your breath, looking away again.
He considered that. “No one ever is.”
Before you could ask him to explain further, the calm of the carriage shattered as raised voices urged from two rows ahead, slicing through the morning hush like a snapped string. The sound ricocheted off the metal walls of the car, breaking the fragile cocoon that had formed around you and Minghao, and prompting everyone nearby to turn and search for its source.
They spoke rapidly in a language you did not recognize, their voices clear with frustration. You glanced at Minghao, catching the dark, almond-shaped focus of his eyes briefly, but he did not look startled. His pencil continued its steady passage across the paper, unhurried, as though the commotion were merely another thing to absorb.
Still, you could tell he was listening by the slight movement of his brows, the faint tilt of his ear toward the sound.
After a moment, he flicked a glance toward you, his expression carefully neutral, though you could see amusement lingered in it. Almost unconsciously, Minghao mirrored a sharp flick of the woman’s hand with two fingers, subtle enough that only you could notice.
“That sounds… unfortunate,” he murmured, his mouth tilting faintly, as though he understood exactly what their quarrel was about.
As soon as Minghao went silent, the argument reached its breaking point. The woman rose abruptly from her seat, and swept down the aisle without so much as a backward glance. Her heels struck the floor in decisive clicks. You followed her steps with your eyes until she vanished into the next carriage, the echo of her anger lingering behind her.
When you looked back, Minghao was watching you. He lifted his brows and made an exaggerated, almost theatrical expression of concern.
A loud laugh escaped you before you could stop it, earning you a few curious glances from the long-mustached men seated to your right. You clapped a hand over your mouth, shoulders dipping as you tried to smother the sound. The tension dissolved instantly, replaced by something lighter. Minghao’s lips curved into a smile he did not bother to hide this time, his eyes bright with quiet satisfaction at having drawn it from you.
“Did you happen to understand what they were quarreling about?” he asked, voice lowered just for you to hear it.
“No,” you admitted, a faint trace of self-consciousness creeping in. “I’m afraid my French is nonexistent. Did you?”
He nodded, a glimmer of mischief lighting his expression. “It seems I’ve become your accidental interpreter for this journey.”
“I see. And what is your professional opinion, Mr. Translator?”
Minghao leaned closer, conspiratorial, lowering his voice further. You followed his movements, standing just a few meters from him. “She’s furious because he forgot their anniversary.” His eyes flicked briefly toward the man still seated two rows from you. “He mixed up the date. And now they’re confined together on this train. A terrible combination.”
You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head. “It’s astonishing how quickly things can unravel. I do feel rather sorry for her.”
He hummed in agreement. “Me too. He won’t be redeeming himself anytime soon, I’m afraid.”
Another laugh slipped out of you. You were slowly beginning to forget to be careful with him, forgetting that being careful was what you had been taught to be.
“It’s nice,” you murmured after a moment, thoughtful. “That they have each other. Even when they’re angry.”
You wondered if your marriage would be like that. If whoever this Mr. Huntzberger was, he would be your companion through hardship, if he would take you out of your loneliness. And you definitely couldn’t stop yourself from wondering, only for a moment, whether Minghao would be that kind of husband. He seemed like it would be much better than that.
Minghao’s pencil came to a stop, and he met your gaze, something unguarded softening his expression. “Yes,” he agreed. “It is. I think marriage gives people good things… eventually.”
The train slowed slightly, signs that another stop was approaching, and eventually Manhattan would come. You felt a subtle tightening in your chest, the awareness that time, which had seemed suspended for a while, was moving again and soon you both would have to part.
You didn’t know why, but the thought of never seeing Minghao again made something sink deep inside you. It startled you how abruptly the sadness arrived, uninvited, settling as a dull ache low in your stomach. You couldn’t explain it. You weren’t sure you wanted to. It was so silly of you to feel that way, you didn’t even know him.
“I’m getting married tomorrow.”
The confession slipped out before you could think straight, your gaze dropping to the stained carpet of the train. It was the first time you had ever said it aloud to anyone, and somehow putting it into words did nothing to ease its weight. You still hated that this was your life, that it would happen whether you wanted it to or not.
How foolish you had been to believe that marriage was meant to be formed by two people who loved each other.
Minghao’s reaction was immediate. The pencil slipped from his fingers, landing softly against the floor. If you knew any better, you might have thought the disappointment crossed his face was meant for you. If that was indeed a disappointment.
The words settled between you like a fragile object placed on a table.
“Oh.” It wasn’t loud, but it held something. Something you thought could only be happening in your head. “Tomorrow,” he echoed, his expression shifting before settling into careful neutrality. He recovered quickly, though not quickly enough to conceal the shock entirely. “I see. May I ask… to whom?”
You hesitated, then smiled, a little rueful, shrugging. “I’ve never met him.”
Minghao looked at you then, studying you with an expression you couldn’t quite name this time, but very different from the one he was wearing while drawing you. It wasn’t pity or judgment, which you had half expected, given how plainly everything must have been written across your face. He didn’t laugh, didn’t frown. He simply looked at you, searching your features with quiet care, something softer surfacing in his eyes.
Respect, perhaps.
“That’s… very brave of you,” he finally said.
A dry, bitter laugh escaped you. “Or simply expected.”
His brow creased, understanding dawning slowly. “Those are not always the same thing.”
“In my life, they usually are.” You lifted your eyes to meet his, one shoulder rising in another casual shrug. It was clear you had already made peace with it.
The train roared on, iron shrieking against iron as it curved through the city. Neither of you spoke for several minutes. The quiet that settled between you was no longer companionable; it had thinned, grown careful, as if both of you were suddenly aware of how easily it could tear.
Minghao leaned down to retrieve his pencil, buying himself time to think about what you just revealed to him. When he straightened, he didn’t resume drawing right away.
“Do you want it?” he finally asked.
You frowned. “Want what?”
“This marriage,” he clarified. You could tell he wasn’t probing, only trying to understand where to go from here.
And no one had ever asked you that before. Not once.
Since the day your grandfather struck the deal, two years ago, your opinion had never been requested. Not about this. Not about the one decision that would bend the entire trajectory of your life, the single event around which everything else would have to rearrange itself.
You opened your mouth with the answer you’d been trained to give: Of course. It’s a good match. I’m fortunate. The words hovered, polished and ready to be said.
They didn’t come out this time.
“I don’t know him,” you repeated instead. “I know his family. His prospects. The size of the house. I know what our lives will look like on paper.”
“And off paper?”
You lowered your gaze to your hands, smoothing the fabric of your dress with your fingers, as if it might offer an answer. “I suppose, I’ll have to wait and find out.”
Minghao stared at you with that same careful attention he gave his drawing, as though afraid to press too hard and ruin something delicate.
“My mother used to say,” he began slowly, looking thoughtful, “that a life can be survived… or it can be lived. They often look similar from the outside.”
You swallowed. “Which did she choose?”
“She tried to live,” he said, a faint smile ghosting his mouth. “That’s how I ended up becoming a painter instead of a lawyer.”
That earned the smallest laugh from you, brief and almost disbelieving, though your chest felt tight as you spoke. “I think my parents did that too,” you said. “Even though it was against my grandfather’s wishes.”
“That’s how life has to be.”
“You make it sound so simple.”
“It isn’t.” Minghao’s gaze flicked to the window, where faint daylight was beginning to reappear between tunnel beams. “But my mom said the fear of disappointing others fades, eventually. The fear of disappointing yourself does not.”
His words had an effect on you, even though you didn't want to show it. You looked at him quickly, as though he might take them back. “You speak very boldly for someone who claims to be terrified.”
“I am terrified,” Minghao admitted, shrugging. “But I’m on the train anyway.”
That silenced you.
The train shuddered as it began to slow one more time, the tunnel walls giving way to streaks of morning light again. The carriage brightened in uneven flashes, yellow bulbs surrendering to the plate blue dawn filtering down between buildings. You caught your reflection in the window once more, but now the city moved behind with fire escapes, laundry lines, brick stacked high and close like a thousand lives leaning into one another. So different from what you’re used to in Long Island.
Minghao’s pencil slowed.
“We’ll be at Penn Station soon,” he observed, not looking up. His voice had changed, still gentle, but threaded now with something that sounded like reluctance.
You felt it too. Melancholy creeping into your thoughts as the unspoken warning settled over you. The strange, suspended world you had stepped into an hour ago was drawing to its close. Reality pressed back in through clipped announcements and the rustle of passengers gathering their belongings, preparing for arrival.
It stirred something else in you, another thought that was now echoing loudly at the back of your mind as the end of your journey approached.
“My grandmother told me to get lost today.”
An involuntary smile broke across his face. “She sounds extraordinary,” he said. “And remarkably clever.”
“She is.” You smiled too. She was the best thing in your life. “She said I should have one day that belongs only to me. Before I become…”
You couldn’t quite bring yourself to say it, but Minghao finished for you, “Before you become what’s expected of you.”
You only nodded. You couldn’t have said it better yourself.
“And what will you do with it?”
“I don’t know,” you admitted.
What could you possibly do? It wasn’t like you knew the city. You were afraid of getting lost, or worse, of something happening to you. It was a vast city, and you had heard a thousand stories about it, some good, some bad. If you stopped to think about it, your grandmother had to be at least a little crazy to send her only granddaughter alone to a place she had never been.
And yet… it wasn’t like you had much to lose. Not after twenty years of living a small, nearly invisible life in Glen Cove.
“Walk, perhaps,” you said, considering the possibilities as they slowly took shape in your mind. “Sit somewhere no one knows my name… and pretend I am someone else.”
Minghao tilted his head, curiosity flickering across his face, an amused smile at his lips. “And who would you pretend to be?”
Well, you had never allowed yourself to imagine that part. “Someone….” you began, the idea forming even as you spoke it, braver than you were used to being, “who makes choices without asking permission.”
His expression shifted, gentling into something that might have been pride. Though you couldn’t be certain. It startled you, how pleased you felt that a stranger—that stranger—could be proud of you.
“Well, then I hope you meet her today.”
“Me too.”
The train began to slow completely this time, its rhythm changing, the steady clatter giving way to a dragging groan. Outside the window, the city rose to meet you, buildings crowding closer until there was no mistaking it.
Manhattan. Penn Station.
You leaned closer to the glass. “This is it,” you said. “We get off here, don’t we?”
“Yes.” He lingered on it, before he said, almost under his breath, “A pity.”
You turned to him. “A pity?”
Minghao smiled, though it did not quite reach his eyes. “I wish I had met you sooner.” The disappointment in his gaze wasn’t for you, but at the timing, at the circumstances that had placed you here. “I’ve enjoyed speaking with you. More than I anticipated.”
You felt something warm settle in your chest. “I’ve enjoyed it quite a lot too.”
The train lurched one final time before coming to a full stop. The doors slid ope, and the cold air immediately rushed in, along with the sound of voices, footsteps, the impatient shuffling of lives crossing paths for seconds at a time. Passengers began to rise, gathering coats and bags, filling the aisle.
Neither of you moved for a moment. You didn’t look at each other either, only at the other passengers, at the small commotion of disembarking, careful to avoid one another’s gaze. You were simply enjoying each other’s company while you still could.
From somewhere down the carriage, the porters’ whistle pierced the air, announcing your arrival as though you hadn’t already know it, as though you weren’t deliberately avoiding the moment of getting out.
Were you foolish to think Minghao felt it too? Perhaps. But it seemed so. You had known him scarcely an hour, so why should you feel this way about someone you had only just met?
Life was cruelly, beautifully strange.
He stood first, placing his sketchbook carefully inside his briefcase and buttoning his long coat over it. Then he reached for your suitcase, lifting it like it weighed nothing. It struck you then that he carried himself like a former dancer, though you couldn’t quite have said why. He was simply light on his feet, every movement measured and intentional. There was a subtle and unforced confidence in it.
“Allow me.”
“Thank you,” you said, rising to your feet and following behind him. Your steps were deliberately slow, faintly awkward—those of someone who did not quite know where she was meant to go—as you pulled your gloves and coat back on.
You walked along the platform together until you reached a line of taxis, moving in complete silence, almost like any words would be too much for the moment to bear. There, you turned to face one another, and simply stared.
Outside the dim confines of the train and in the full light of day, you could see him clearly for the first time. The sharp line of his jaw. The dark sweep of his lashes. It struck you all at once how undeniably handsome Minghao truly was.
You cleared your throat, suddenly aware of yourself, and looked away first. “Well, I guess this is where we part.”
“Yes.” He nodded, disappointment flickering openly across his features. This time, you were certain of it. “You’ll be all right? You have enough for a taxi?”
“Yes, I’m all set.” You gave your handbag a light tap. “I’m quite prepared.”
At least in that regard, your answer could be considered true.
Minghao felt a twinge of selfishness. Even for a brief moment, he wished you weren’t prepared, that you needed him, because he would have been more than willing to help, simply to keep the conversation going, to be in your company a little longer.
Instead, Minghao simply shook his head, a small, almost sad smile on his closed lips, and handed you your bag. After a quiet farewell, you remained there for a few seconds, eyes following him as he drifted into the crowd, until at last he vanished from view.
You were nearly sealing a deal with a taxi driver, whose motorcar—a model remarkably similar to the one your grandfather had just acquired—was confirmed by your brief inspection, when you heard your name called across the station.
You turned just in time to see a breathless Minghao pushing through the crowd, weaving his way toward you. He came to a halt almost beside you, hands on his knees as he struggled for air, before straightening and walking toward you at a measured pace.
“Wait,” he begged
“What are you doing?” you asked, eyes widening in shock.
“I’ve had a thought,” he said, slowly closing the distance between you, his voice loud enough for both you and the driver to hear. “A rather mad one, I’m afraid. But if I do not speak it now, I suspect it will trouble me for the rest of my days.”
You studied him, intrigued by the tension in his posture, your eyebrows arching. “What is it?”
Minghao opened his mouth, then closed it again. His gaze flicked briefly to the floor, then back to you. For a moment, he seemed almost shy.
“Well?” you prompted, your voice softer this time. From the corner of your eye, you caught the taxi driver casting a faintly impatient glance, clearly weary of waiting.
He reached you in two strides, breath slightly uneven. “Would you… spend the day with me?”
You stared at him, startled, your lips parting to speak, still reeling, but he continued before a single word could leave you.
“I would like to continue speaking with you. I know nothing of your circumstances, truly, but I feel as though we have… met at an odd but meaningful one.”
You nodded slowly. “Yeah. I feel that too.”
Relief crossed his face, quick and unmistakable. “Then perhaps this will not sound entirely absurd,” he shrugged. “We could walk the city together. Be strangers together.”
You smiled at the idea, though uncertainty lingered behind it. “And where would we go?”
Minghao let out a quiet laugh, shook his head, and finally came to a stop right in front of you. You resisted the urge to reach out and brush that unruly strand of hair from his face, tightening your grip instead on the straps of the bags you carried.
“I wish I could say I have a plan.” He slipped his hands into his coat pockets, shrugging once more. “All I know is that I cannot return to my studio right now, so I will simply wander until it is time to go… somewhere. If I prove untrustworthy, tedious, or—heaven forbid—even remotely reminiscent of Jack the Ripper, you may leave and attend to whatever you had planned. Just…” He sighed, eyes soft and earnest as they met yours. “Please. grant me this one chance.
You said nothing at first, considering. You looked at him, at the city waiting beyond the open doors of the station, looked at the annoyed driver, at the narrow space between certainty and possibility, your grandmother’s words were louder than ever.
Be a stranger.
“Say it, yes, doll. Go on.”
Your cheeks burned immediately at the nickname, as if you weren’t already persuaded to go with him simply because you enjoyed being in his presence, even without knowing much about him, except for the fact that he was an artist. The thing was: you really, really wanted to find out more. Perhaps you simply had no survival instinct at all.
You were already convinced, yet still, you said, “Give me one good reason.”
“Because I won’t be here tomorrow.”
WASHINGTON SQUARE PARK, NEW YORK FEBRUARY 15TH, 1926 | MORNING
The café was already half-full when you stepped inside, likely owing to the late hour for breakfast. A bell chimed over your head as the door swung shut behind you, and Minghao paused just by the entrance, as though giving you a moment to take the room in.
“You first.” He made an exaggerated, almost theatrical gesture for you to step in front of him, a smile tugging at his mouth.
Warm air, thick with steam and roasted coffee, wrapped around you at once, the low murmur of conversation stitched together by the soft clink of cups and cutlery. You glanced at the counter, at the men standing with easy confidence, and at the chalkboard menu written in cursive letters.
“I’ve never ordered alone,” you admitted, almost ashamed and apologetically.
“Then today will be full of firsts,” Minghao replied, as if it were no great matter at all, guiding you through the place. “There’s both coffee and pastries, if you like.”
You followed his instructions precisely, heart fluttering more than it ought to have over something so small. When the cup was finally placed into your hands, you felt absurdly accomplished.
Outside, Washington Square Park stretched open and pale gold, dotted with figures bundled against the lingering chill. You chose a small round table by the fogged windows, settling into a mismatched chair across from Minghao. Your gloves lay neatly folded beside your cup, his sketchbook between you, pencil balanced loosely in his fingers like an extension of his body.
“So… you’re being deported?” you returned to the subject Minghao had started minutes earlier, while you were putting your things safe in a locker back at Penn Station. Your eyes were still a little wide, even now, minutes after he had revealed it to you.
He looked up from his cup, brows lifting slightly, then smiled, not defensive or alarmed, almost amused and resigned, as if he no longer cared to fight it. “Yes.”
“Why?”
“Let’s just say I managed to irritate some very important people.”
You waited, but he didn’t give you any more details. “That’s all?” you pressed, still stunned.
“For now.” He offered a small wink, treating it like an inconvenience he could simply set aside, not the unraveling of his life. “If we linger on it, I’ll lose my appetite. And I’m quite fond of this place.”
Minghao took a sip of his coffee and, without ceremony, reopened his sketchbook to the exact page he’d been working on during the train ride. The drawing there held the unmistakable contours of someone who looked very much like you. With so little, he had already captured so much, enough to make his talent undeniable.
He caught the way your eyes lingered on the sketch and paused, pencil hovering above the page. “Do you mind if I continue?”
You shook your head immediately. “No,” you said. “I think I’d mind more if you stopped.”
And if you were honest with yourself, you liked the attention he gave you; unconnected to duty or blood, and that you hadn’t known in years.
He gave you another smile and continued his work, occasionally looking up at your face.
“So…” Mingao drew in a deep breath, taking another sip of his coffee and a bite of the cake he had ordered. “Tell me a bit about yourself.”
Again, you couldn’t recall the last person who had asked you that, so it was no surprise that the question caught you a little off guard.
“What would you like to know about me?” you inquired back.
“I want to know everything about you.” Minghao’s voice carried a firmness and honesty that took you aback once more, yet he wanted you to understand that he truly meant it.
So you told him, while he continued to draw you, even as he listened attentively, about the fact that you lived with your grandparents in Glen Cove practically your whole life—carefully omitting that your parents had passed away. You spoke of the hours spent studying, reading, swimming, and wandering the vast gardens of your grandparents’ estate, often in the quiet company of a young girl tasked with keeping you company.
“There’s not much interesting about me to know,” you said, your voice tinged with self-awareness.
Minghao paused, pencil hovering over the paper, and looked at you. “I really doubt that,” he said softly.
You watched him for a moment, the concentration in his face, the way his world seemed to narrow to the paper when he sketched. Then you glanced around the café, suddenly aware of how unfamiliar everything still felt for someone like you who had barely set foot outside the house you lived in unaccompanied.
Your fingers curled around the porcelain cup, grateful for the warmth in your palms, for the sense of having nowhere to be, even temporarily.
“I’ve never done this,” you confessed suddenly, your eyes still fixed on the world beyond the glass separating the street from the café.
Minghao looked up then, his gaze thoughtful. “Ordered coffee?” he asked, smiling.
“That too.” You giggled, resting your cup on the table. “Being alone in a city. Truly alone, I mean.”
There would be no reason for you to be.
He considered what you’d said for a moment, the faint scratch of pencil on paper filling the pause, before he spoke. “You’re not completely alone,” he said. “Not if you’re with me.”
“And I’m grateful for that,” you hurried to say. “But it’s different. New York is altogether unfamiliar territory to me. And for once, I can explore it without my grandparents hovering over me and stealing the air from my lungs.”
“Well, lucky for you, I’m the best tour guide around.” He offered you another wink. “I’ve lived here for five years.”
“And you’re going to be deported after all this time?” The words slipped out before you could stop them.
He waved a hand, dismissive—of the subject, not of you—already retreating from it.
“What can you do?” He shrugged, putting the pencil behind his ear, and closing his sketchbook. “America isn’t exactly kind to its immigrants.”
You look down at the table. Living trapped on the other side of the island like Rapunzel hadn’t exactly prepared you for how the real world worked. It was remarkable how clever you had once thought yourself, until you brushed up against real problems and realized that even stealing the newspaper every morning to keep informed still left you ignorant in so many ways.
“I’m so sorry.”
“It’s not your fault, doll.”
Your cheeks warmed again, and you looked anywhere but at him, ready to change the subject and lighten the mood.
“If that’s the case, then tell me, what’s one spot I can’t miss here? Not just the tourist spots, I want to go off beneath the path.”
“Excuse me, my dear lady, but today’s itinerary is strictly confidential.” Minghao traced a finger across his lips before twisting it in the air, as if locking the secret away. You cursed yourself for noticing how red and full his lips were. “So,” he went on, eyes flicking to yours, “how does it feel to be alone for the first time?”
You considered the question, searching for the right word. “Like standing at the edge of something unknown,” you said at last. “Both exhilarating and terrifying.”
And somehow—without Minghao ever knowing it—he was the one who had coaxed that courage into your life when he made you that proposal at the station. You hadn’t even realized it was there. The seed, perhaps, had been planted by your grandmother, but he was the one who had watered it to grow, unknowingly.
Where fear had once crowded your thoughts, anticipation now took its place. You found yourself no longer bracing for what might go wrong tomorrow, but wondering, almost eagerly, where the day might carry you.
“That does sound about right,” he agreed with a small nod. “It’s how I felt my first year here.”
For nearly ten minutes, you listened as Minghao spoke about his years in art school, a spark lighting his eyes while you both ate. He told you about the crowded rooms filled with arrogant, confident men, and of professors who praised his skills even as they urged him to change his subject matter, to make it less about where he came from and more about what they believed modern art should be.
“It’s not like I’m against this new wave of Art Deco,” he explained, shaking his head. “I think it’s beautiful. But I also think that each artist has to have their own authenticity, otherwise everything becomes the same and soulless.”
“And did you?” you asked, brows lifting with curiosity as the coffee cooled between your hands. “Made Art Deco, I mean.”
“Sometimes,” he admitted, although he didn’t seem particularly happy with the idea. “When I need to.”
It was captivating to watch him speak like that, the animation in his face making every word feel alive. Hearing about Minghao’s experiences felt unexpectedly intimate, like being trusted with something carefully guarded for years.
Suddenly, Minghao looked at you, shaking his head as though only just realizing how long he had been speaking. “Forgive me. Am I boring you with all of this?”
“No, not at all,” you quickly reassured him. “I want to hear about it.”
Minghao held your gaze with something briefly passing through his eyes, before the corner of his mouth lifted in a small smile. If you hadn’t known better, you might have called it shy. But it looked grateful, too.
You left the café soon after, stepping back into the open air. Minghao tucked his sketchbook beneath one arm and, without ceremony, offered you the other as you walked.
Washington Square Park was beautiful and alive in a quiet, restless way. There was so much to see that you didn’t know where to look first. Despite the faint smell of coal smoke, damp earth, and tobacco, you found yourself unexpectedly happy to be there.
The park itself was uneven and worn, its paths packed dirt, but you didn’t care—you were simply happy to be walking there. Benches lined the walkways, wooden slats with iron arms, occupied by old men in flat caps reading newspapers, women in cloche hats and heavy coats smoking freely, a few children scattered here and there, and young people sitting close together.
You loved everything about it.
Minghao watched you watching the fountain, quiet fondness in his eyes, his hands twitching at his sides with the urge to brush a strand of your short hair from your face, one you didn’t seem to notice at all.
He was almost raising his hand when you looked at him again.
“My parents met here,” you said, a little lost in thought, the sound of the fountain nearly swallowing your voice. “Not in this square. In the city.”
Minghao seemed surprised, but curious about your sudden revelation. “Oh, really?”
You just nodded. “Five years before I was born.”
You told Minghao pieces of their love story as you crossed the square, and he listened attentively, never interrupting, while you passed clusters of people: artists with their canvases, men bent over chessboards, women chitchatting.
“My grandfather disapproved of my father, naturally.” You rolled your eyes, remembering how he used to freeze that at the mere mention of him when you were growing up. “They got tired of hiding it and ran away. Then my mother became pregnant with me, and suddenly the world rearranged itself. My grandfather could hardly refuse a marriage proposal after that.”
“Are they happy?”
You smiled sadly. “They were.”
His eyes widened a little. “I’m sorry, I didn’t—”
“They were extremely happy,” you said, cutting him off before you went there. “I don’t think I’ve ever met two people who loved each other as much as they did.”
“That’s how love should be, isn’t it?” He raised his eyebrows at you, as if you already knew the answer, or were meant to share whatever idea had just occurred to him. “Make you do crazy things. So in love that you act insane.”
You scoffed softly, looking away from him just in time to catch a horse-drawn cart rolling past on the opposite side of the street, followed closely by a modern automobile. You weren’t mocking him, only struggling to reconcile his words with a reality that had never quite made room for you.
“In books, maybe.” You shrugged. “I’m not sure society agrees with that.”
“Society rarely agrees with anything worthwhile.”
You told him how your mother’s death had changed your grandfather, leaving him rigid, angry, how control became his only language for grief and love. That to him, love was control, and so he treated the people he loved most as property, not as people. Which was the only reason that had brought you there, at the end of the day.
“He never forgave your parents for running away,” Minghao said as he looked like he came to a conclusion.
“No,” you confirmed, laughing humorlessly. “In fact, he believes that was the card in the pile that knocked all the others down, and ultimately triggered everything that came after.”
“How unfortunate it is,” he murmured, “that grief took over him completely.”
You nodded slowly. “Yeah. When mom died, I think all that love had nowhere to go. So it settled on me, and turned into rules and overprotection.”
You both slowed your pace, and with a small nod, Minghao gestured toward a bench set before a cluster of tall, impossibly green trees. Nearby, a violinist played for the passersby, his music drifting through the air, a straw hat resting at his feet for coins.
“He’s not a bad person, my grandfather.” You hesitated, biting the inside of your cheek. You liked to think he cared, perhaps a little too much, even if he expressed it in a strange way. You knew, though, that some would call you foolish for believing that. “I think he did everything the way his father taught him to, what he believes is right.”
“But you don’t think it's right for you.”
“That’s an understatement,” you whispered, eyes fixed on the violinist. The melancholy in your eyes was unmistakable to Minghao. “That’s why I like to believe that if love didn’t save my parents, it wouldn’t save me either.”
For a moment, Minghao didn’t speak, as if pondering your words with the same care he gave his lines on paper earlier.
“That’s a sad way to see love, doll,” he said at last.
You offered a small smile, meeting his gaze again. “I think it’s nice that you speak as though love strikes like lightning,” you said dryly, not meaning to be harsh. “As if a woman has a say in where it lands.”
He smiled at that too, a little rueful himself. “I like to think it does. That it chooses us before we’ve quite made up our minds.”
“That’s an artist's comfort,” you shot back. “And I’m afraid I’ve never had the luxury of that.”
You wouldn’t exactly call yourself a cynic when it came to love. You knew it existed because you had watched your parents in the short period of time they were with you. Sometimes you even allowed yourself to daydream that maybe your marriage could be like that. Still, even you knew you were being a little foolish for thinking so.
“But you have a mind of your own,” he argued, quickly. “Surely you don’t believe your future must be sold to the highest bidder.”
Minghao couldn’t understand why it was you, of all people, who unsettled him like this. He had lost count of the times he’d avoided arguments with cynics, choosing peace over persuasion, content to remain an incurable romantic on his own.
So why did it trouble him so deeply to hear you speak with such resignation? Why did your careful step into cynicism feel less like an opinion and more like a quiet wrong, something that demanded, for once, that he not stay silent?
“Except that… it already happened.” Your voice carried more resentment than sorrow. “What future do you imagine women are given?”
“Well, women are freer now, after the war, and, I suppose—”
“I was raised by a man who still thinks in pre-war terms. I don’t earn enough to stand alone, I’ve only learned the basics from my tutors, and I don’t think I could ever find a job anywhere, because I’m so inexperienced at everything.”
“But you could marry for affection,” Minghao insisted, resting his head on his hands, gaze fixed on yours as if that alone could make you reconsider. “For happiness. Isn’t that worth more than security bought without any feeling?”
“Happiness doesn’t keep a household,” you said firmly. “And affection won’t protect me when the law says I belong to a man, at the end of the day, will it?”
Minghao had to admit it: you were very clever and witty. Add that to being very good at arguing and keeping your ground and perhaps the only profession that would suit you properly would be a lawyer; something he knew society wasn’t so fond of.
He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “You see only the rules. I see what might exist beyond them.”
“And I envy you for that. But marriage, for most women, is not a romance. It’s simply a negotiation.”
It was becoming clear to Minghao that the two of you would not see eye to eye this evening. All he could do was hope that, before the sun rises tomorrow, your thoughts might lean another way.
For a few seconds, you both sit quietly, watching a group of boys scurry past, their eyes bright with admiration for the flowers they hold. The brisk winter wind tugged at the branches, and a handful of leaves drifted down to the earth. It only then occurred to you that you were having this conversation a day after Valentine’s Day.
Looking at Minghao, you couldn’t help but notice the disappointment in his eyes, and the thought that you had caused it made your chest tighten.
“Listen, I’m happy to talk to you about this, and I appreciate that you have all these progressive views about women’s lives, even if we still have a long way to go.” You carried an expression that told him it was all right to disagree. “But I was raised to be agreeable, Minghao. Everything in my life was arranged toward a single outcome.”
You didn’t need to say it. Minghao reached the conclusion himself, eyes now becoming softer. “Marriage,” he murmured.
You nodded in confirmation. “I always knew that I would marry a stranger. It was never presented as a possibility, only a certainty.”
His jaw tensed as his eyes lost a bit of the sparkle, and he looked away from you.
“I was taught how to be good,” you kept going. “And yet being good never saved anyone I loved.”
“And what did you want?”
The question came to you like a soft hand against a closed door. No one had ever asked you that before either, and yet the truth had always been far too intricate to be answered by anything so simple as fleeing an arranged marriage.
You paused, lips pressed together, then with another sad smile on your face, you mumbled, “Lots of things.”
You both let that answer rest between you, looking anywhere but at each other. You took in the scene around you once again, a new wave of students passing by, a sense of happiness filling you as you watched a group of girls walking beside each other with notebooks with hands, one with ink-stained fingers, making something twist inside your chest.
“I used to imagine myself here,” you confessed. “As one of them.”
He followed your gaze. “A student?”
“Yes. Learning something for myself.” He nodded, as though this were not strange at all. It made your chest warm that he thought like that. “Well, before I understood that I was never meant to be.”
Minghao didn’t contradict you this time. He only watched the students disappear down the path, their laughter thinning into the late morning air, before turning back to you.
He seemed to want to say more, to insist, perhaps, that it meant something, that it still could, but instead he rose from the bench and offered you his arm again, patient and respectful. As though he already understood that some doors were not meant to be forced open.
You took it, and as you walked with the city humming gently around you, it occurred to you that one day Minghao would make some lucky woman very happy. Deep down—maybe not as deep as you would have liked—, secretly, at least in another life, you wished it could’ve been you.
FIFTH AVENUE & 82ND STREET, NEW YORK FEBRUARY 15TH, 1926 | EARLY AFTERNOON
Minghao took you uptown next by subway, the two of you settling into a narrow wooden seat near the center of the carriage. He sat properly, knees angled away in practiced courtesy, though the closeness of the space left no avoiding the warm press of his thigh against yours.
Outside the rattling windows, the city passed in uneven glimpses of rows and rows of brownstones giving away to broader avenues. The February winter wind suddenly feeling rather colder and cleaner near open parkland.
You weren’t sure whether anyone found your presence there improper, but nearly no one turned to look your way. They must have taken you for a couple—together in every sense of the word—though nothing had ever been said aloud between you.
Minghao leaned closer so you could hear him over the rush of male voices around. “To pass the time,” he said in a conspiratorial tone, “we could play a game.”
You raised a brow and angled your body toward him. “I’m afraid I’m dreadful at games,” you said, though there was something curious in your tone.
“This one requires no skill,” he assured you. “Only your most truthful honesty.”
That made you smile. “All right.”
“Questions and answers. One each. No refusals.”
“Very well. But nothing scandalous.”
“I wouldn’t dare,” he replied, then promptly asked, “What frightens you most, doll?”
You were caught off guard by the seriousness of the question, momentarily ignoring the fact that Minghao had used that nickname again—and how it stirred something in a small corner of your heart. You had expected him to ask something light, even silly. But then again, none of your conversations so far had ever truly been about trivial things.
You watched the city blur past the window, taking a moment before answering. “Silence,” you finally said. “Not the pleasant kind. The kind that settles after something has gone wrong.” You swallowed. “I lived with a lot of it before my grandmother told me what had happened to my parents. Even now, it still frightens me.”
Minghao seemed to notice how quickly his game had become serious, so he simply nodded, his gaze thoughtful as he processed your response. You didn’t give him much time.
“My turn?”
“Yes.”
“What do you want to be remembered for?”
He didn’t answer immediately, thinking about the answer carefully in the same way you did. Then, softly, “For having made something that didn’t exist before me.”
“Impressive.”
“Thank you, my lady.” He bowed his head slightly, then looked back at you. “How old were you when you had your first kiss?”
You felt heat rise to your cheeks immediately, grateful for the dimness of the carriage and the fact that his eyes, though attentive, held no trace of mockery, only genuine interest in getting to know you. The answer, so ordinary for most people your age, felt suddenly idiotic in your mouth.
“I haven’t.”
Minghao blinked, clearly not expecting that. “Haven’t…?”
You shook your head, avoiding his shocked gaze. “Kissed.” After a minute, you added, “I was never allowed to be alone with boys. There was always a chaperone, or a door left open.” You gave a small, self-conscious laugh. “My grandfather would die first… before ever allowing me to become my mother.”
He didn’t smile this time. Instead, his expression softened. With each passing second, Minghao understood more clearly just how different your lives had been. How unfamiliar all of this must be for you. And yet, here you were, taking a chance to do something different, perhaps for the first time in your life.
“I’m sorry.” He was not pitying you, just being sincere. “I didn’t mean to pry.”
“It’s all right,” you said quickly, brushing it off with a small wave of your hand. “You said no refusals.” You hesitated, then shrugged, “Besides, I suppose it is a bit strange.”
Minghao shook his head immediately, eyes widening just a fraction, as though the idea of you putting yourself down truly unsettled him. “No, no,” he rushed to say, eyes flickering to your lips briefly. “It’s not strange. It just means no one has earned it yet.”
His eyes were so intense and sincere as he said this that your heart raced shortly. On his end, without meaning to, Minghao found himself wishing—secretly, silently—that he might be worthy of it.
The subway lurched slightly as it slowed at another stop, the lights flickering over your head. Your shoulder brushed his arm this time, and neither of you moved away.
“And you?” you asked, partly to reclaim your composure, partly because you truly wanted to know. “When was yours?”
Minghao smiled faintly. “Too young.” He scratched the back of his head briefly. “And far less meaningful than people like to pretend those things are. Though I’ve learned they can mean something, if you let them.”
You kept trading questions like that, though now they landed in safer, more harmless territory as the subway carried you through the city, the conversation drifting towards favorite places, childhood habits, and what he missed most about home.
The subway screeched as it pulled into Grand Central Station, and you only realized you had arrived when someone called out, the doors sliding open with a hiss. Cold air rushed in, carrying the scent of stone and metal. Minghao rose first, offering you his hand, if you wished to take it, and you took it without hesitation.
By the time you stepped down onto the pavement, you were still engrossed in the game, the conversation flowing naturally between you as though the world had chosen not to interrupt, with Minghao guiding you—hand in hand—through the busy streets of Fifth Avenue.
You headed west, weaving past grand hotels, office towers, and shouting newsboys. The pedestrian traffic grew heavier, until you were obliged to release each other’s hands. Then a cluster of impeccably dressed men and women slipped between you, dividing you on the crowded pavement.
Minghao circled around them to catch up, repeating the answer he had just given before his words were swallowed by the strangers’ overlapping conversations.
You walked a little farther, this time heading north, and everything around you seemed impossibly luxurious. Jewellers with glittering displays. Tailors’ shops with immaculate suits posed in their windows. Mannequins adorned in cloche hats and fur collars. There was so much to take in, so much that ought to have captured your attention.
Yet only one thing managed to hold it.
The MET rose before you in pale stone grandeur, flags flanking the entrance in the breeze, its broad steps crowded with figures ascending and descending beneath the winter sun. You paused at the foot of them, your breath catching as you took it all in.
You let out a quiet, almost disbelieving sigh. “I’ve seen it in photographs, but I don’t think they do it justice.”
Minghao watched your face instead of the building.
“No,” he agreed. “It rarely does. Shall we?”
You didn’t need to be told twice, almost pulling him up the stairs with you, excitement coursing through your veins. Minghao only chuckled behind you, letting himself be carried along as he squeezed your hand in his, so your hurry wouldn’t part you.
Inside, the noise of the city fell away, replaced by footsteps echoing softly against the marble floors and hushed voices. You moved from room to room at an unhurried pace, letting Minghao guide you once again as light filtered down from the high ceilings.
You were no longer holding hands, but he walked beside you with his hands and arms clasped behind his back, telling you about each work as if he had already memorized the route and every single one of them, from the countless hours he had clearly spent here.
Everything felt impressive to you. You were familiar with the paintings in your own home, but these carried pieces of history, and witnessing them in person felt incredible. Portraits followed you with their eyes: women painted into permanence, faces composed and beautiful, hands folded or draped just so, and, more often than not, unnamed. Gold frames, dark backgrounds, and lives distilled into posture.
You paused before one such canvas. “They’re so beautiful. And most of them don’t even have names.”
Minghao followed your gaze. “Wife of,” he read from a placard. “Daughter of.”
“Never simply herself,” you whispered, more to yourself than to him, though Minghao heard you all the same. “They were here, and yet… erased, somehow.”
“I saw it often in school. There were men who submitted work their wives had helped create, sometimes entirely.”
“I’d like to say I’m surprised, but…” You clicked your lips together in disappointment. “It hardly does. I bet they’d laugh about that too.”
“Precisely. Talent is easier to claim than to credit.”
It was sad on so many levels that you couldn’t even process it properly. What else could it be, if not history repeating itself in countless forms?
You walked on, unsettled and thoughtful, Minghao walking just behind you, quietly watching your reactions. “Do you think art remembers people better than history does?”
“Yes,” he said without a single glance of hesitation. “Art is meant to be proof that we lived. That we felt something strongly enough to leave a mark.”
You stopped before a landscape, turning to stand face to face with him. “And if no one knows who painted it?”
“Then it still exists.” He shrugs, hands still behind his back. “Which is something.”
You stared at him for a few seconds, and he did not look away, simply appreciating how you analyzed him and let his words filter through. Minghao intrigued you in so many ways, and though you felt you were beginning to understand him, there was still a depth that seemed endless, something you imagined was what led a person to become an artist.
“How did you come to paint?” you asked. “You speak of it as though… I don’t know, it saved you?”
You saw him hesitate, his gaze now slipping away from yours. “Doll…”
“Only your most truthful honesty.” You echoed his words, before Minghao could finish, and the corner of his lips lifted a bit.
“It’s a long story.”
“I don’t mind long stories. Besides,” you said, gesturing around at all there was still to see, “it looks like we have plenty of time ahead of us.”
“It isn’t a cheerful one.”
“I didn’t ask for anything cheerful.”
Minghao would like to say that what had convinced him to share the most personal, saddest thing in his life was the thought that there was a chance you would never see each other again after today. You had opened your heart to him earlier, without hesitation, and it felt only right to do the same.
But the way you were looking at him—those beautiful eyes blinking curiously behind impossibly long lashes—shattered every structure he had built in years. And the fact that you seemed genuinely interested in what he had to say, in his story, was something he hadn’t felt in months.
“Are you certain you wish to hear it?” Minghao gave you one last chance to back down.
Your eyes met his, and you stepped closer, nodding. “Please… tell me.”
He mirrored your nod, exhaling slowly. “I lost my older sister when I was very young… an accident. I survived, and she did not.”
“Oh.” You felt your chest tighten for him. “I’m so sorry.”
“It was… difficult,” he continued, offering his arm so you could walk together again, even if his voice sounded distant. “For a long time, I carried a great deal of anger at the world. At myself. I didn’t know where to put it.”
“And then?” You encouraged him to continue.
“One day, my father brought home paints. Just something to keep my hands busy, I think. He gave me paper and told me to draw what I couldn’t say.”
Minghao’s voice steadied as he spoke, though something in his eyes remained far away, caught in another time. You tightened your fingers around his sleeve, a silent invitation to keep going.
A small, restrained smile touched his lips. “It changed everything. I’ve been painting ever since.” The expression turned almost sheepish. “I suppose that’s the short version.”
Your steps slowed without your meaning to, and you tugged gently at his shirt sleeve so he would look at you again. The museum felt hushed around you.
“That’s a beautiful story.”
You wanted to hug him, but you weren’t sure if you were that comfortable with each other yet—or how those around you would react to such a public display of affection in the middle of the museum—so you held yourself back, squeezing his arm lightly instead.
Minghao looked at you as though you had reached inside his chest and hugged something he’d never knew it was possible to embrace. For a moment, he seemed unable to speak.
“Everything can be made beautiful from the right angle, I suppose.”
“Like art.”
“Exactly like art.”
A couple passed behind you, their footsteps echoing softly, and yet the space between you felt intimate, carved out of time. You became acutely aware of how close you stood, of the warmth radiating from him, of the way his arm was still offered, waiting.
For a fleeting moment, you entertained the most reckless hope that he might kiss you right there, without even fully understanding why the thought had come to you, or how deeply you desired it.
“Come,” he said after a moment, clearing his throat. “There’s one more room I want you to see.”
You laced your fingers together without thinking, and walked on together in silence for a moment.
“Have you ever tried art yourself?” he asked, and in doing so, suddenly opened a Pandora’s box you had long kept sealed in your memory, where even the good ones had been carefully kept out of reach.
You thought of ivory keys and rooms closed to you, of sneaking into that room of your house in the dead of night when everyone was already asleep, of the music pressed into silence.
“Music,” you replied proudly, then corrected yourself. “At least, until my grandfather decided it was impractical.”
“Impractical?” he echoed, frowning as if that word made absolutely no sense.
“Hmm.” You nodded, your expression turning distant as old memories stirred. “I played the piano for most of my life. I devoted hours to it, every single day.”
For a moment, you thought about how music had once been encouraged as a proper hobby, endorsed by the teacher hired to instruct you, by the grand piano purchased and placed in a sunlit room where light poured through tall windows without restraint. How perfect it had all seemed; until it became more than a pastime. Until it became your passion.
“I’ve wanted to play the piano properly. To study music.”
His eyes lit. “Why didn’t you?”
“When I mentioned the possibility to my grandfather, he was not pleased,” you continued. “He called it an indulgence. A hobby at best. He said no man wishes to marry a woman who dreams too loudly.”
Your grandmother had protested, calling it nonsense, but he had never been one to heed her objections.
Minghao looked outraged as he listened to you. After everything you had just told him, he seemed convinced there was no possibility your grandfather was anything but a cruel man, no matter how carefully you had tried to soften the description earlier.
You studied the sculptures around you, but he watched only you, concern etched across his features. He could not quite explain the sudden urge to take you away from that life, to play the knight in shining armor to a princess. And yet, the last thing he believed was that you were helpless. He did not mistake you for a damsel in need of saving, nor did he see fragility in you. Minghao saw someone who had simply accepted her fate.
“Before he sold the piano, he told me it was merely a pleasant accomplishment. Nothing more. Certainly not a future.”
Minghao smiled, something bright and defiant. “That sounds like a future to me.”
You lifted your shoulder in a careless shrug, as if it hardly mattered. “Yes, well…”
“What about now?” Minghao asked, unable to let go of that matter.
You fell silent for a moment, thinking of the months that had passed without your fingers touching a single key, how you hadn’t even heard a proper note in ages. You remembered the last time you played in secret, traveling so far into the music that you lost all sense of yourself, of where you were, until you were discovered, dragged back to earth.
“Now…” A faint, sad smile touched your lips, and Minghao found he hated the sight of it. “I suppose I’ve become exactly what I was meant to be.”
“I don’t believe that,” he said, almost before you had finished speaking.
You exhaled softly and rested your head on his shoulder, only for a second, permitting yourself the fragile comfort of believing he was right.
STATEN ISLAND FERRY, NEW YORK FEBRUARY 15 TH, 1926 | AFTERNOON
“And that’s Ellis Island.”
Minghao rested his forearms on the railing of the ferry, nodding toward the low and small buildings in the distance. His tone was casual, but you felt something beneath it and saw the way he pressed his lips together.
You were standing beside him, your gloved hands resting against the cold metal, coat pulled close against the February wind. The air smelled of salt and coal and something faintly metallic. Gulls wheeled overhead, crying sharply before vanishing toward the open water.
You followed his gaze. “Is that where—”
“Yes,” he confirmed. “Where they decide whether you may stay or not.”
You didn’t know what to say to that, so you stayed silent. Since he didn’t want to talk about it earlier, you didn’t know if he would want to do that now.
The ferry cut across the harbor unhurried, gliding through the gray-blue water. Smoke curled lazily from the funnel, dissolving into the winter sky, and the sound of the city stayed behind you, buildings shrinking, noise thinning as it rocked gently beneath your feet.
You had never been on a ferry before, and even though you had said earlier that you didn’t want many touristy things, you were happy that this was on Minghao’s itinerary.
After a while in silence, just enjoying the view, you watched as he pulled his sketchbook from the pocket of his big coat, flipping it open against the wind right on the page with his sketch of you. He wasn’t drawing yet, just holding it open and staring at it, as though the act itself were comforting.
“Can I ask you something?” You tilted your head, studying his profile as the wind tousled his hair.
He glanced at you, a smile playing at his lips. “I was under the impression you already knew you had free rein to do that, doll.”
A blush bloomed across your cheeks, and Minghao let out a soft giggle, clearly delighted by the effect the nickname had on you. You rolled your eyes at his flirtatious tone, shaking your head as if to brush it off, even though that was impossible. There’s no denying it: you very much liked that tone.
“Where were you coming from this morning when you got on the train?”
He ran a hand over his face, grinding his teeth slightly. “I had a meeting yesterday with a potential buyer.”
You raised your eyebrows excitedly. “As in a potential client?”
“If one can call him that.” He pursed his lips and shrugged, clearly not looking pleased.
“Why? Is he bad?”
“No,” he said quickly, letting out a tired sigh. “I mean, yes. It’s just that... I’m lucky, I suppose. It’s usually only this one. Meetings with him make me want to lose my mind. Or rather, kill myself entirely.”
You gasped softly, a hand flying to your chest. “Minghao—”
“I’m joking,doll,” he clarifies with a light laugh. “Mostly.”
“What’s wrong with him, then?” you asked. “He doesn’t like your work?”
“Oh, he likes it all right,” Minghao said, rolling his eyes. “He’s obsessed with it. And that’s the problem.”
Your eyebrows knitted together in confusion, and Minghao noticed.
He leaned his elbows on the railing again, his eyes drifting to the water below. “Not to be full of myself or anything, but… in my own way, I’m well known for not being an average artist. I don’t say that arrogantly, just factually.”
You wouldn’t say you were surprised to hear that, yet you still nodded to reassure him. “I believe you.”
“And because of that, naturally, I know exactly who my buyers are. They tend to be very wealthy, and very confident in their own importance in the world. Wall Street men, mostly.” Minghao chuckled under his breath, tilting his head back to look at the sky while he shook it slowly. “They like owning things no one else can. My paintings are one of those things.”
“And this man… is he a big shot or something?”
Minghao looked at you and smiled, reaching out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “You’re very clever, doll.”
You might have wanted to say you didn’t lean into his touch when his fingers brushed your cheek briefly but you both knew that would be a lie. Your face must have been flushed again; and now you could feel the tips of your ears burning too.
“Don’t change the subject.” You quickly looked away, your gaze drawn to the Statue of Liberty, the sun setting just behind it in marvelous shades of purple and pink across the sky. You heard him exhale through his mouth again before he continued.
“I thought he wanted to put on an exhibition of my work, but instead he wanted to commission a painting.” Minghao grimaced, his gaze dropping to the sketch he had started of you earlier, still unfinished. “A large one. A portrait of himself with very specific instructions about how he wanted to be seen, and where the painting would hang, who would see it.”
“You weren’t lying about them being confident in their importance in the world,” you scoffed.
And you had no doubts about it. If there was one thing that didn’t surprise you, it was that. You had known far more people like that than truly modest ones, all of them friends of your grandfather, stock market investors and the list goes on. You had grown up surrounded by people overflowing with confidence in their supposed, often false, importance in the world, to the point of sheer exhaustion.
“Did you refuse?”
“Bingo!” Minghao exclaimed, winking as he pointed a finger at you, as though you had struck the mark dead center. “I don’t paint on commission, never have.” He shook his head lightly, conviction in his voice. “I paint only for exhibitions of my own making. Works I plan spontaneously.”
“May I ask you why?”
He smiled softly. “Always.” Then, arched an eyebrow, turning fully to face you while he leaned against the railing with one arm. “But you tell me,” he said, “why do you think I refuse commissions, doll?”
Perhaps it was premature to believe you understood him, based solely on the few hours you had spent in his company. Yet even so—amid all the other impressions forming in your mind—one thing about Minghao’s character stood out with unmistakable clarity.
“You didn’t want anyone holding the reins.”
Minghao nodded, smiling as though a flicker of pride crossed his face. “Smart girl.” His head tilted slightly, before continuing. “It would feel like selling my soul.” He winced, just a touch, before adding, “Dramatic, I know.”
“No,” you said. “I understand.”
“Every painting carries a piece of me,” he went on. “I’ve never known how to do things differently. I either give myself to it completely, or I don’t so much as touch a drop of paint.”
“It sounds very admirable, Hao.” His face lit up the moment the nickname left his lips. “Not many people take their work so seriously.”
You felt something warm bloom in your chest, equal parts admiration and something a little more dangerous. His gaze softened at that, something equally warm and a little vulnerable passing through his expression.
“Are you truly interested in all this?” he asked, a hint of uncertainty slipping through. “At times I fear I may be boring you.”
“No—no,” you said quickly. “I truly am. I enjoy hearing your views on art.”
It was enchanting to hear him speak of it as though it were his first love, the very reason he woke up each morning. You found yourself wishing for more time: to learn more, to hear him more, to see his work up close.
For several minutes, you listened to Minghao speaking of his creative process, how he painted, the techniques he favored, the way his studio descended into utter chaos while he worked, and the subjects that most compelled him, mostly expressionism.
Minghao shook his head, biting his lip as his gaze drifted toward the sea, then back to you—as though, by looking at you, he was looking at something he could scarcely believe was real.
“You know… this is the first time I’ve ever wanted to speak about my art with anyone,” he admitted quietly. “I’m usually rather reserved. But with you…” His voice softened. “I don’t wish to stop.”
You could not help but smile, face lighting up entirely. “Then I see no reason for you to stop.”
“I won’t.” His eyes did not leave yours for so much as a second. “It would likely be easier to explain everything by simply showing you my work. A thousand words could never do justice to art.”
“And when will you show me everything?”
“Everything I have?”
You were anything but dumb. You caught the undertone in his voice, the suggestion hidden neatly beneath his words. Though the tips of your ears burned ever so slightly, you didn’t retreat. Instead, you offered him a small smile, briefly catching your lower lip between your teeth, your gaze never once leaving his too.
“Of course.”
He considered it for a second. “Later today.”
“Later today?” you repeated, though you had heard him perfectly well.
“If you’ll allow it, of course,” he explained. “My studio isn’t far from Washington Square. It’s not… particularly glamorous.” A faint smirk curved his mouth. “You may find yourself terribly disappointed.”
“I doubt that,” you replied softly.
The ferry horn sounded, long and low, vibrating through the deck beneath your shoes. The city loomed closer little by little, Manhattan rising from the water in proud lines of brick and steel, windows catching the fading light. The sky had deepened into bruised violet, streaked with molten gold near the horizon.
Minghao closed his sketchbook at last, sliding it back into his coat pocket with unusual care. “Come.” He extended his hand, and you took it without hesitation, allowing him to guide you toward a nearby seat.
You settled beside him in a spot that still afforded a splendid view of the vast, open sea and the fading sunset. Your hands came to rest neatly in your lap, though, if you were honest, you had not wished to let go of his at all.
“You sell your paintings at your exhibitions, then?” you asked, after turning the thought over in your mind for a while.
Minghao nodded. “Only there,” he replied. “I display them, and whoever wishes to purchase one may do so. That is how I make my living.”
You tipped your head to one side, thoughtful. “Does it not make you a little sad to part with them?”
“Very.” A faint shrug followed. “But I must eat, after all.”
You merely hummed in reply, gently biting the inside of your cheek. You had no true notion of what that might feel like. Even in your early twenties, you had never worked a day to place food upon your own table. And however stifling your life could be—hemmed in by your grandfather’s suffocating authority—you knew you were privileged for it all the same.
“When was your last exhibition?”
You could not quite tell whether your questions were beginning to try his patience, though Minghao gave no real sign of it. Still, that last one drew a faint grimace from him, and he absently scratched the underside of his jawline, before answering.
“About a year.”
You hadn’t meant to let the small sound escape you, barely more than a breath of surprise. Your lips parted all the same, your eyes widening before you could compose yourself. It wasn’t like you were any authority on the world of art exhibitions, but even you knew that going an entire year without selling a single piece could not be good.
“How come?”
He sighed again, stretching one arm along the back of the bench behind you. You felt him settle there in the shared shadow, the warmth of his body seeping gently into yours.
“There are a few reasons.”
“I am all ears.”
“Oh, I’ve noticed.” Minghao gave the side of your cheek a playful tap with his index finger, though his expression soon became serious. “The buyer I mentioned earlier… it isn’t a recent notion of his, wanting me to paint on commission.”
“Oh?”
He exhaled, looking tired and frustrated just from thinking about it. “Yeah. And I’ve refused him for quite some time now. But he is very persistent, and worse still, exceedingly influential.”
You felt your brows knit together. “Influential how?”
“He sponsors galleries. Owns shares in more than a few, funds certain exhibitions. And when he decides he does not favor someone…” Minghao’s jaw tightened as he lifted one shoulder in a careless shrug that fooled no one. “Doors begin to close.”
A chill that had nothing to do with the February wind crept along your spine.
“You mean to say he’s blacklisting you.”
Minghao didn’t answer immediately. The ferry rocked gently beneath your feet once more, the low hum of the engine threading through the silence between you. Somewhere behind you, a child’s laughter rang out; somewhere ahead, a man coughed discreetly into his handkerchief.
“What I mean,” he said finally, measuring each word, conscious that in this city conversations rarely went unheard, “is that securing a venue has been… more complicated this past year.”
You studied him. His posture was relaxed, but there was a tension coiled tight in his shoulders. Pride, perhaps. Or stubbornness. Still, you suspected that in Minghao’s case, it was not nearly so simple.
“And yet you still refused him.”
Minghao didn’t answer immediately. He watched a gull dip low over the gray waves, his jaw working as if chewing on the memory of the encounter.
A faint, almost self-deprecating smile touched his mouth. “Of course.”
“Even knowing it might cost you?” you pressed, turning your body to shield your face from the biting wind, creating a small, private alcove for the two of you.
“Especially knowing.” He finally looked at you, the collar of his coat turned up against his ears. “Defiance loses its flavor if it’s free, don’t you think?”
“That is terribly brave,” you said quietly.
“It is terribly foolish,” he corrected instantly, his laugh sharp and short. He looked down at his hands, watching his fingers drum a restless rhythm on the fabric of his pants. “My landlord certainly thinks so. As does my empty stomach on most Tuesdays.”
“No.”
Your voice came out firmer than you expected, cutting through the low hum of the ferry’s engine. You reached out, your gloved hand hovering for a second before resting lightly on his forearm. The contact made him freeze.
“It is principled.”
Something softened in his eyes as though Minghao hadn’t expected anyone to see it that way. He stared at you, searching your face for any sign of the pity he clearly despised, but finding only respect. And he felt a quiet relief in knowing that you, of all people, were the one who understood him.
He let out a long, shaky exhale, the condensation ghosting between you. “You are a dangerous woman to talk to,” he murmured. “You make a man feel like a hero when he’s really just a mess.”
He pulled his arm away gently, not out of rejection, but as if the touch burned him. Rising from where he had been sitting beside you, he walked back to the railing and stared toward the horizon, where the Atlantic met the sky, the direction of a home he had no desire to return to.
You trailed after him, keeping a careful distance, yet close enough that his voice would carry above the wind and the hum of the ferry.
“Principles make for a poor shield, unfortunately,” he said, his voice dropping so low you had to lean in to hear him. “He didn’t take the rejection well. Men like that… they don't get mad, they get even.”
Minghao’s grip on the railing tightened until his knuckles turned white.
“He’s the one who reported me.”
The world seemed to tilt slightly beneath your feet, and it wasn’t the motion of the boat. The cold air suddenly felt sharper, stinging your cheeks.
“Reported you?” You felt the blood drain from your face. “To immigration?”
Minghao confirmed it with a nod. “My work visa has expired,” he said evenly. “And since I can find no other sponsor because of it, he saw fit to report me, just to ensure he has something hanging over my head.”
The ferry horn sounded, long and mournful. You didn’t know where the anger came from. It began at the tips of your toes and slowly climbed through your body as you listened to him explain his situation, his voice measured, almost careful, as though trying to keep the defeat from sounding too obvious.
“I’ve received letters,” he continued. “Warnings, notices, and eventually, a deadline. A date after which my presence would be considered… inconvenient.”
“Tomorrow,” you whispered, your gaze falling vaguely to the tips of your shoes.
“Yeah.”
“That’s cruel,” you said, your brows furrowing, a faint pout touching your lips. “I truly despise him.”
“It’s practical for him,” he replied. “Which is often worse.”
You lapsed into silence for a time. The ferry neared its turn, the Statue of Liberty still visible in the distance, arm raised eternally in welcome.
Minghao went on to explain that he had graduated the spring before last, and with it, lost his student visa. Later, because of his exhibitions, he managed to secure a work visa. But he wasn’t established enough, his name not yet large enough to make himself untouchable. When he finally won recognition, he sought sponsors in hopes of reversing his situation. It proved far from simple.
And now, he admitted, he wasn’t entirely sure what to do next, or even where to go thanks to the guy who reported him.
“You sound as though you’ve known men like him,” he observed.
You let out a soft, humorless laugh. “I have.”
Your grandfather’s drawing room flashed in your mind—thick cigars, louder voices, polished shoes on imported rugs. Men who spoke of railroads and stocks and legacy as though they were divine rights.
“They believe money entitles them to authorship over everything,” you continued. “Even over things they didn’t create.”
Minghao watched you carefully. “And does your grandfather believe the same?”
The question was gentle, but it landed squarely. You hesitated for only a moment. “Yes.”
The ferry horn sounded again in the distance as you moved toward the dock. Manhattan was no longer a distant silhouette, but a living thing again, windows aglow, smoke curling from chimneys, streetlamps flickering to life like scattered stars.
“I suppose,” you added softly, “that is why I admire you.”
He blinked. “Admire me?”
“You refuse to be owned.”
The wind caught the brim of your hat, and Minghao reached out instinctively to steady it, his fingers brushing your temple in the process. Neither of you moved away.
“I would rather starve,” he said quietly, his voice barely rising above the rhythmic slap of the water against the hull, “than paint a soulless work.”
You searched his face, looking for a crack in the armor, but found only the hard, beautiful resolve of a man who had already made his choice. The wind whipped a lock of dark hair across his forehead; he didn't bother to brush it away.
“What is the second reason?” you asked, your voice fighting the gale.
He blinked, drawn back from the dark water to you. “Pardon?”
“You said there were a few reasons you haven’t exhibited in a year. The blacklisting is one. What are the others?”
A slow, crooked smile curved his lips, changing his face from tragic to boyish in a heartbeat. “You’re remarkably observant, doll. Has anyone ever told you that?”
You gave a small shrug, burying your chin deeper into your collar. “I’ve been told I’m stubborn. I prefer ‘thorough.’”
Minghao laughed, a low sound that vibrated in the small space between you. He turned his back to the railing, leaning against it so he could face you fully.
“Have you ever heard of a drought?” he asked. “Not of rain, but of… spirit?”
“Writer’s block,” you ventured.
“Painter’s block,” he corrected, his eyes drifting to your gloved hands resting on the railing. “Though it feels less like a block and more like a hollowness. I pick up the brush, and the canvas stares back at me. It mocks me. For months now, everything I touch feels… gray. Static.”
“That sounds lonely,” you said softly.
“It was,” he admitted, his gaze snapping back to yours, intense and uncomfortably direct. “Until this morning.”
The air between you suddenly felt very thin, charged with something heavier than the salt spray.
“Oh?” You tried for casualness, but your breath hitched. “And what changed this morning?”
“I found a subject,” he said, his voice dropping an octave. “Or perhaps, she found me.”
A flush that had nothing to do with the winter chill rose to your cheeks. You looked away, feigning interest in a passing tugboat. “You mean a muse. Like in the Greek myths.”
“Better,” Minghao murmured. He took a step closer, invading your personal space in a way that made your heart hammer against your ribs. “The Greeks dealt in statues and marble. Cold things. I prefer life.”
“And what does a muse do, exactly?” you asked, your voice trembling slightly. “Does she just sit there and look pretty?”
He considered this with mock seriousness, tapping a finger against his chin. “Ideally? She inspires the artist to madness. She breathes life into the dead paint.” A mischievous glint entered his eyes. “And, if the artistic process demands it, she may be required to offer encouragement. A touch here, a kiss there. Strictly for the sake of the composition, of course.”
You couldn't help the laugh that escaped you. “You are shameless, Minghao.”
“I am desperate,” he countered, though his smile remained. “I don’t have time to waste on propriety, doll. Not anymore.”
The playfulness vanished as quickly as it had come. He nodded toward the darkening sky above you. The violet bruising of twilight was turning into the deep indigo of night. The skyline of Manhattan was rising up to meet you, a jagged jaw of electricity and stone.
“You speak as though the clock is chasing us.”
“Isn't it?” His tone held no dramatics this time. Only a brutal, quiet fact.
The nearness of tomorrow pressed in on you both for the first time today. The deportation order. Your marriage. The separation. It was strange how the world could look so vast—the endless Atlantic stretching out behind you—while time itself narrowed to the point of a needle.
“How long do we have?” you whispered.
“Not long enough,” he answered.
He looked as if he wanted to say more, to bridge the final inch between you and closed your lips together.
Butterflies took flight in your stomach, your chest swelling with anticipation as his head tilted slightly toward you. You couldn’t help glancing at his lips, they looked soft, inviting, and you found it impossible to imagine a more beautiful setting, or a better person, for your first kiss.
You wanted him to kiss you. But a sudden jangle of bracelets shattered the moment.
“A reading for the lovers?”
You both startled, pulling apart. A woman stood there, wrapped in layers of mismatched shawls, her face weathered like old leather. She didn't wait for permission. Her hands, quick as birds, snatched yours and Minghao’s, turning your palms up to the dying light.
“I—” you started to protest.
“Hush,” she commanded, her eyes darting between your hand and his. She hummed, a low, discordant sound. “Strange lines. Tangled.”
Minghao tried to gently withdraw his hand. “We don’t have any money for—”
“I see a collision,” the woman interrupted, her voice raspy. She looked up at Minghao, her eyes sharp and unsettlingly pale. “Two stars crashing. A brief union.” She turned to you, her grip tightening on your fingers. “You will carry him with you. Across the water. Across the years.”
She dropped your hand and looked back at him, her expression softening into something like pity. “And her memory will hunt you forever, child. Long after the ship has sailed. She is the paint in your veins.”
The silence that followed was absolute. The woman didn’t ask for a coin. She simply wrapped her shawls tighter and vanished into the crowd of commuters near the bow, leaving the scent of sage and old violets in her wake.
Minghao let out a breath he seemed to have been holding. He looked at you, a nervous chuckle caught in his throat. “Well. That was… ominous.”
“Dramatic,” you agreed, though your voice sounded hollow. “She must tell everyone that. It’s good for business.”
“Right,” Minghao said. “Just a ferry tale.”
But neither of you moved. The words hung there: Brief union. Carry him with you. Memory will hunt you forever.
The ferry’s horn blasted—a long, mournful bass note that vibrated through the soles of your shoes. The boat shuddered as the engines reversed, the water churning white as you approached the Battery slip.
Minghao seemed to shake himself awake. He closed the distance between you again, but this time, he didn't stop. He reached out and took your hand, lacing his fingers through yours. His grip was firm, possessive, an anchor in the shifting world.
“I’m not letting a fortune teller dictate my life,” he said firmly.
The gangway rattled down with a metallic clang. The crowd began to surge forward, a sea of gray coats and fedoras pushing toward the exit.
“So,” you said, trying to find your footing as the boat bumped against the pilings. “What now?”
Minghao stopped dead in the middle of the moving crowd, forcing people to stream around you like water around a rock. He looked down at you, his eyes blazing with a sudden, frantic energy.
“I have somewhere to be,” he said, checking the large clock visible on the terminal wall. “Somewhere important. A place I wasn't going to go, but now… now I think I must.”
“Oh.” You felt a sharp pang of disappointment, trying to pull your hand away. “Well, then I shouldn't keep y—”
He tightened his grip, pulling you a step closer until the brim of your hat brushed his forehead.
“You’re not listening, doll,” he whispered, a grin spreading across his face, reckless, inviting, and utterly irresistible. “I have somewhere to be. And you’re coming with me.”
“I am?” You blinked, breathless. “Where?”
He winked, turning and pulling you into the flow of the crowd, moving not toward the subway, but toward the fancy, louder streets of the Upper East Side.
# NAVIGATION | MASTERLIST | TAGLIST
Every ask & comment gives me life 💗 If you’re enjoying it, don’t forget to reblog, helps so much and gets the fic out there!!
🥂 𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: You moved to NYC from the South to seek out Soonyoung, the barber with connections that can help you hide in plain sight. But as you start to finally start to settle in and you and Soonyoung become close, your past catches up to you— putting everything you fought for at risk.
🥂 𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: barber!Soonyoung x f. reader
🥂 𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: fluff, angst, eventual smut (suggestive for sure), 1920s au, strangers to lovers au, slow burn
🥂 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: PLEASE READ ALL THE WARNINGS—it's the 1920s, so think about how women's rights were at that time. cursing, talks of violence/murder (the Valentines Day massacre is mentioned), a lot of illegal activity (running a speakeasy on the side, gambling, alcohol during the Prohibition era), smoking, talks of parental death, murders, talks of trauma and abuse, corruption, toxic family dynamics, mentions of childbirth, grief, power imbalances in society, some real jealousy/hater shit lol, heavy flirting, kissing, and a very suggestive moment.
🥂 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 17.2K
🥂 𝐀𝐍: This story is for a story apart of the wonderful ✨Puttin' on the Ritz✨hosted by @studiosvt. I cannot thank Thea @yoongihan and Ema @hannieoftheyear enough for reading over this and catching all the mistakes I miss and giving some solid feedback. Also thank you to @haologram and @straylightdream for letting me vent about how stressed I was about writing this and making the deadline lol. This is one of the hardest fics I have ever had the pleasure to write, as the 1920s is so specific and there was a lot happening during that time around the world. We didn't have cellphones, emails, or long distance calls then (without it being very expensive). Women's rights were heavily diminished despite being given the right to vote, and so many other imbalances. So this took a lot of research, planning and quite frankly, thinking out of the box. The reader goes by the nickname, Kitty :)
You’ve heard all kinds of stories about New York. You’ve heard the stories about how vibrant and fast-paced it is, with tall buildings that seem to reach beyond the clouds and perhaps into heaven. You’ve heard about the fashion, the art, the social life, and everything that sounds like a dream that would never come true. But as you step out of the train car and onto the platform, the stories are nothing compared to the privilege of seeing New York City in real life—pollution and all.
You come from the South, just outside of Atlanta, to be exact. It’s beautiful there, with peach trees on every corner and southern hospitality everywhere you meet. Inside the city itself, the infrastructure development looks a lot like New York, but it could never come close to matching it. You had a lovely house, clothes for days, and “friends” you can call on for any gossip or an outing. You could have stayed there if you wanted to, lived out your days in luxury.
But not all things that shine are gold, and you had to leave, because if you had stayed there any longer, it would have killed you.
Your cousin Carmen helped you escape that wretched place you called home for four years. You two are close, almost best friends, and she knew of your situation and didn’t hesitate when you asked. She told you to seek out a barber named Soonyoung in the big city, saying he would help you start over and get acclimated to your new life.
So here you are, standing outside a green building that reads “Kwon’s Barbershop” with red brick on top, your stomach full of nerves as your hand is on the knob, turning it to walk inside…
”Kwon, did you catch wind of that Valentine’s Day massacre in Chicago?”
Soonyoung is intensely focused on his client, finishing the second pass of a wet shave. He then grabs a warm towel, wipes off the remaining soap, and applies aftershave to disinfect the skin. Grabbing the talcum powder, he nods to his worker, Chan, who stands toward the back entrance reading a paper.
"Yeah, I heard about it," Soonyoung finally replies. "Bad for Capone’s reputation, if such a thing still matters."
“Yeah,” Chan mutters, carefully folding the paper. "What do you reckon’s gonna happen to him?"
Soonyoung powders his client to keep him fresh, nudging him to rise from his seat. “Nothing’s gonna happen to Capone, kid— at least not just yet. He’s got everyone in his pocket. Patsies."
Chan watches him, placing the paper under his arm. “You talk like you’ve met the guy."
Soonyoung’s lips curl into a smirk as he removes the smock from the patron. “I might’ve run into the fellow once or twice."
“What? How—”
The bell rings from the front, the door askew as you walk in, looking soft as a kitten as you shuffle in with a mocha brown Collegiate style coat and a matching colored hat. Soonyoung is taken aback by your beauty, your smooth skin, and warm eyes that could set him ablaze with a single look. A low whistle is heard from behind, and he glances at Chan, who is also enthralled by your presence.
Your eyes set on him, nervousness creases your face as you walk towards him, gripping your bags. “H-Hi,” you sputter, your southern accent going up an octave. “I am looking for a Kwon Soonyoung?”
His eyes sparkle as you speak his name, slowly setting down the towel he is holding in his hand. “Depends on who’s asking, kitten.”
You nod softly, clacking your heels together unexpectedly. “Carmen sent me, and said he could help me out.”
A light bulb goes off in his head as he recalls a telegram he received a few weeks earlier from his acquaintance, Carmen, a woman who transports the things he needs from time to time, sometimes under the table. She mentioned you would need his help, and he was willing to do it, no questions asked. Soonyoung isn’t just your regular barber—he has connections everywhere. That’s one of the perks of cutting hair for many people of all walks of life.
“Ah, yes,” Soonyoung says, wiping his hands. “Well, Kwon Soonyoung, at your service.”
You smile softly, and it makes his heart skip a beat. His patron has already left the shop, and Chan makes himself busy with a broom, though Soonyoung is sure he is trying to eavesdrop. “Chan, go in the back and make yourself useful.”
The smallest of sighs is heard from his lips as he sets the broom down and disappears into the back. Soonyoung returns his focus to you, motioning for you to sit in one of the chairs. You shake your head no, clinging to your bags even tighter.
“I don’t know what Carmen told you,” you begin. “But I need to hide in plain sight for a while, essentially.”
Carmen didn’t say too much when she reached out to him weeks ago, but usually, when someone comes to him looking to hide, it means they are running away from something or someone. Soonyoung marvels at you, wondering how an innocent-looking thing like you could be tied to anything bad.
“This is what we can do for now,” Soonyoung says, making up his mind. “I want you to go to the hotel across the street and ask for a room. Tell them I sent you, and give them the codeword, say ‘tiger.’”
Your brows furrow. “Tiger?”
“Yeah,” he confirms, grabbing the abandoned broom off the wall. “They will put you in a decent room while we figure something out. Come back here at eight tonight, and we can discuss.”
“O-Oh, okay,” you nod, uncertainty etched on your face.
‘Listen, kitten, I don’t bite. If you’re good with Carmen, you’re always good with me.”
Your expression softens, a small dimple appearing on your cheek as you give him a small smile. You turn toward the hotel, nodding again as you understand what you need to do. “Thank you, Soonyoung. I’ll be at eight on the dot.”
“I look forward to it.”
You mouth a thank you and rush out of the door, looking both ways before crossing the street in the direction of the hotel. The front desk attendant, Mark, is working, and he will know how to get you settled. Soonyoung watches until you disappear into the building, returning his focus to the cut hair over the floor. Chan comes out and leans against the back entrance frame, shaking his head with a smirk on his face.
“If I didn’t know any better, I would say you’re sweet on the berry that was just in here.”
Soonyoung glances at him, scoffs, and shakes his head playfully. “You’re right—you don’t know any better.”
He hands Chan the broom to finish the job as he steps out front to take a smoke. Soonyoung isn’t a stranger to the women's department, and he falls in love easily. But he’s never seen someone like you before, and you walked into his shop, needing saving.
Like a kitty stuck in a tree.
You stand outside the barbershop at eight as you promised, the sun dipping over the horizon with the remaining gentle glow swallowed by the dark, inky blue. You changed into something more comfortable, a long-sleeved white blouse with a tomboy wool skirt, with the same jacket you came with. You wore stockings with your Oxford shoes, not wanting to bother putting on your boots. The temperature has dropped significantly since this afternoon, and condensation forms with every breath. Your hands are keeping you warm, though you forgot to put on a scarf when you left your hotel.
The hotel staff set you up in a lovely room with a comfortable bed, a decent-sized bathroom, and a view overlooking the massive park that they call Central Park. Carmen once told you the park had once been a large community where African Americans, Germans, and Irish immigrants lived and thrived. Still, the city used eminent domain to acquire the land and turn it into whatever they wanted. The city says people were compensated, but you’ve been on this Earth long enough to know the government never tells the whole truth. Nevertheless, you can’t help but appreciate the lovely view— they don’t have parks like this where you’re from.
A sharp tap on your shoulder makes you scream and jolt, instinctively swinging your fist behind you. Your fist is caught by a man with a slickback haircut and a strand of hair falling over his forehead, pursing his lips around a cigarette. His eyes are piercing, coffee-brown, with a jaw cut like a diamond.
“Betta’ watch where you’re swingin that thing,” he grunts. “You almost took my eye out.”
“Well, you shouldn’t sneak up on a lady then,” you bite back, snatching your hand out of his reach. “Can I help you?”
“You’re here for Soonyoung, right?”
You eye this handsome stranger carefully, stepping back and adjusting your coat. Soonyoung didn’t mention sending anyone for you, and that leaves you uneasy. “And if I am?”
“Then you need to follow me,” he says with authority. “He sent me to get you while he is handling business.”
He opens the front door of the shop, which is dimly lit aside from a small light in the order. You're reluctant to follow him, feeling uneasy as you might be walking into your own doom. The stranger senses your hesitancy, sighing softly as he leans on the door.
“Listen, Soonyoung is solid, and he would be here himself had he not had to deal with something important.”
You bite your bottom lip, twisting it as you mull over your dilemma. This guy, whoever he is, could be telling you the truth, and maybe you are overreacting. But if he knew what you had to go through to get here, leaving in the quiet of the morning before the roosters came up, he would understand your plight.
“Fine,” you decide, walking through the door. “Show me the way, sir.”
“Vernon,” he announces, shutting the door behind him with a smirk. “That’s what they call me.”
You follow him behind the shop, walking through a hidden back door that leads down a set of stairs, illuminated by light. Walking down the steps, you step into a basement turned into a speakeasy, with live music, full tables, and drinks flowing all around. Cigarette smoke hits first, sharp and heavy, followed by laughter and the dry click of chips against card tables, the sound rolling through the room as it belongs there. You have only been to one in Atlanta, and you were there to accompany someone who needed a pretty face. You weren’t allowed to go in without men, and certainly weren’t allowed to play. But you still watched and learned— no one was going to take that away from you.
Vernon leads you to a back table, where Soonyoung is sitting with a group of men playing a card game. You notice a change of clothes: he ditched the white coat and blue suit he was wearing in favor of a brown one tailored to fit. Just based on the fabric, you know it isn’t cheap. His eyes dance in your direction, and for a split second, you feel a flurry in your stomach.
“Kitty!” He exclaims as he stands up to greet you. “You made it.”
Hearing him call you that pet name almost makes you pause, but you ignore it. “Well, you told me to be here at eight,” you express, a nervous smile on your lips. “I take it this place is yours, too?” You ask, motioning your hands in the air.
“It is,” he confirms, pulling out a chair. “Come sit down, and I’ll introduce you to the guys.”
You take the seat next to him, letting Soonyoung introduce you to everyone around the table. You already met Chan earlier, and Vernon, and you're introduced to Mingyu, the bartender, Jun, Jeonghan, and Wonwoo. The latter three work in other fields, but apparently frequent the barbershop every week for a haircut and to unwind.
“So what do you think of this place?” the one named Jeonghan asks, swirling his beer in his cup with a mischievous glint in his eye. “Does it fill you with rage?”
Your eyebrows lift for a brief moment, caught off guard by his question. “N-No?” You reply with a shaky laugh. “Why would it fill me with rage?”
“Most women these days would tell us this place is a sin,” Jeonghan says lightly, lifting his glass. “Men drinking, money changing hands, all that.”
“Hmm,” you nod, sitting up straighter in your chair. “Well, I’m not most women, sir.”
“Are you now? Not like most women?” Jeonghan rebuttals, taking a swig of his beer. “Well, that remains to be seen.”
“Sure,” you respond, puzzled by this interaction. “Whatever you say.”
The silence falls in the group, you keeping eye contact with Jeonghan until he breaks away, emptying his cup of ale. The other men continue to shift cards and play as if nothing is happening. Jeonghan slowly gets out of his seat, adjusting his suit and grabbing his hat with a satisfactory look on his face. “I like this one, Kwon. Keep her around this time?”
He winks at you as he saunters off to a door on the left, presumably the exit to this place. You glance at Soonyoung, who’s just laid down his cards, muttering a curse word as his face shows defeat. Chan laughs as the clear winner, moving the winnings from the middle of the table to his side. The rest of the men, sans Soonyoung, leave their cards on the table and bid you both farewell as they head elsewhere in the speakeasy. You recognize the game they were playing, looking down to hide your smile. Poker isn’t an easy game, but you’re confident you could’ve beaten them with ease.
“So you are probably wondering why I asked you down here?” Soonyoung begins, shuffling the cards on the table. “Do you want a drink?”
You shake your head, despite your throat feeling tight and dry. “No, thank you.”
“Alright,” he replies. “I need someone to handle my books for me. Carmen said you’re good with numbers, and I could use that set of talents around here.”
You blink at him, processing what he is saying. “I might be good with numbers if I know what I’m doing. You want me to run numbers, how?”
“Nothing illegal, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he says, locking his gaze with yours. “I need to run the books weekly as I get inventory. It’s becoming a bit much to do by myself.”
Carmen is right; you are good with numbers. Math came to you easily as a child, and as you got older, you would privately challenge yourself with complex equations for jobs that you knew you would never get. You even helped Carmen when she was starting her trade business. It was the thrill of it all, figuring out the numbers and what was needed to make sure she succeeded. Unfortunately, your father didn’t see you the same way and had different plans for you.
“That doesn’t sound too difficult,” you say cautiously. “When do you want me to start?”
Soonyoung strokes his chin thoughtfully, and in this moment, you can’t help but notice his handsomeness. His chestnut-brown hair is shiny, alive, and flawlessly styled, which you shouldn’t expect anything less from a barber. You eye the endearing dimple that matches your own, a strange, warm feeling stirring in your chest that you haven’t felt in a long time—an attraction.
“Come by in a few days, on Monday,” he finally responds, leaning back in the chair. “I’ll show you what my books are so far for the shop and in here. Does $25 a week work for you?”
You nod as confirmation, gripping your purse tightly as you stand. “I appreciate this, Soonyoung. You will not regret hiring me.”
“I know,” he smirks, leaning forward and splitting the cards into two decks. “But don’t leave just yet.”
Your eyebrows raise. “Oh?”
“Carmen said you were also good at cards,” Soonyoung discloses with a wide grin. “And I am curious to see if you really are.”
You feel a rush through your body as you eye the setup he’s laid out for you. It’s been a while since you’ve played, but you recognize a game of Blackjack better than anyone. You move to take a seat at the opposite end, slowly sitting down and facing Soonyoung. “I see you and Carmen have talked about me quite a bit,” you say.
“She is a good gal pal of mine,” Soonyoung says matter-of-factly. “And this thing between you and me has been in the running for weeks now.”
“For weeks?” You question.
He pulls out a card from the deck, an ace of spades, and lays it flat on the table. “Yes,” he confirms. “When you started working on your plan to leave Georgia, she reached out to me and made some arrangements.”
You feel grateful as you draw a queen of hearts. Carmen has always looked out for you, and quite frankly, you couldn’t have done any of this without her.
“She’s an angel, whether she wants you to know it or not.” You crack a smile.
You study Soonyoung as he pulls another card, an eight of clubs that puts him closer to Blackjack. He tries his best to stay neutral, but you’ve watched people too long, and the way his eyes smile as he undoubtedly counts the numbers, he thinks he is going to win.
“Do you want to call it now?” He suggests, pointing at his cards. “I don’t think you are going to get higher than that, Kitty.”
A slow smile spreads on your face at that nickname, your hand flirting with the tip of the next card. “Kitty. Why do you call me that?”
Soonyoung lets out a chortle, like the answer is obvious. “Because you’re soft and adorable like one. We don’t see your kind often in the big city.”
“Hmmm,” your mouth turns upward, impressed. "That’s an interesting theory.” You pull your next card, an eight in diamonds, tying you with Soonyoung. You are enjoying this game of cat and mouse, even if he doesn’t realize that he is being chased. “Do you want to forfeit, or do you want to continue?”
Soonyoung glances at the deck of cards, and you sit poised, waiting for his next move. Unfortunately for him, you’ve had years of experience with having what they call a poker face, living in a home without a mother’s love and a father who saw you as nothing but a political ploy.
“No, Kitty,” Soonyoung gloats, puffing his chest with confidence. “I play to win.”
He draws the card that sealed his fate, a four in clubs, making you the winner. You can’t help but revel in your win, even in a small gesture, such as clapping and throwing in your cards. The patrons around give curious glances, with Soonyoung gazing at you with stars in his eyes.
“You planned that, somehow,” Soonyoung affirms, squinting at you playfully. “You walked me right into that.”
“Maybe,” your lips twitch in amusement. “You call me ‘Kitty’ because you think I am adorable and soft, and I think that’s cute… But I prefer to think of myself as a lioness, whose strength is their gentleness and is often underestimated.”
You get up from the table with a smirk, grabbing your purse and your heart swelling with satisfaction. The key to winning Blackjack isn’t always with numbers— it’s all about strategy. What words to say, the right look. You knew saying “forfeit” would make him want to pull another card. No man ever wants to lose so close to the end, and it works like a charm every time.
“See you Monday, Soonyoung,” you call out, waving as you sashay out of the speakeasy.
For your first night in the Big Apple, things are looking up already.
Soonyoung usually doesn’t work on Sundays. It’s a tradition that he has upheld since the shop opened. It’s not that he’s religious or that it’s a day of rest; even in the big city, people are usually at church, brunch, or hungover from the night before. Business will be slow, and he would rather not waste a day keeping the lights on when he doesn’t have to. But here he is, cutting the hair of his best friend Jun on what is supposed to be his day off. Jun is the only exception to his rule, not just because of the privilege of being best buds, but because it’s the safest way to discuss business.
Jun is a politician who represents the district where he and Soonyoung live. They’ve known each other most of their lives, attending the same schools and church, and have naturally grown close, like a few of the transplants in the city. Jun's occupation gives him access to the ins and outs of every law being discussed and to rumors of raids plaguing local hashhouses and speakeasies across the city, much to Soonyoung’s advantage. Soonyoung helps set up the shipments for the speakeasy, and Jun gets a cut for putting his career on the line. They both grew up poor, and they vowed never be in that position again.
“I see you had a berry at the joint,” Jun probes slyly, looking at Soonyoung in the mirror. “Who is she?”
“A cousin of Carmen’s,” Soonyoung divulges as he lines up a few strands of hair for a snip. “I am just helping her out.”
Jun scoffs lightly at his response. “You sure have a habit of helping pretty women,” he teases.
Soonyoung doesn’t return his gaze, his ears turning red from embarrassment while focusing intently on the cut. “I can’t help that she’s a pretty Jane.”
“Sure,” Jun throws a knowing look. “It’ll be a matter of time until you’re stuck on this one, too.”
Soonyoung wouldn’t call himself a ladies’ man, but he does wear his heart on his sleeve. Maybe a hopeless romantic, though he would never say that out loud. A lot of the women in this city love him, whether he’s had the pleasure of necking them or not. He can’t help but appreciate the beauty or the gams on a woman that comes his way, and he certainly won’t turn down a nightcap if he’s asked.
“You forget I have a pair of scissors in my hands and you are at my mercy, pal,” Soonyoung chaffs, snipping the scissors in the air.
“Yeah, yeah,” Jun kids, sitting back in the chair. “You mess up my cut, and jail will be the least of your concerns.”
Soonyoung chuckles as he continues, pushing the image of you out of his head. “Sweet berry aside, I am seriously just helping her out. And in return, she is going to help us with the books.”
Jun nods, tapping his fingers on his knee. “We could use someone to look at the books regularly.”
“My thought exactly,” Soonyoung assents, setting down the scissors behind him on the station. He slaps a serum of holding oil on his hands, smoothing the hair back and parting it into Jun's usual style. “And Carmen said she’s good with numbers, so.”
“Ah, I see,” Jun surmises, his expression blank. “You know it’s… been a while since I’ve seen her.”
Soonyoung catches the softness in his eyes and the sudden gentleness in his tone. He doesn’t pry because it’s not his business, but he has noticed a weird energy between Jun and Carmen when she comes into town. One would call it longing, yearning, or maybe downright attraction, but those two knuckleheads will never address it. They share similar upbringings and are more alike than they know, yet stubborn as bulls.
“Anyway,” Jun clears his throat. “The shipment is coming tonight, around ten o’clock at the usual spot.”
Soonyoung nods, removing the cloak and setting it aside. “Vernon and I will be there tonight to collect, and Kitty will be here tomorrow morning to start with the books.”
Jun raises a brow, looking amused. “Kitty? Jesus, you already got a nickname for her, Kwon—”
“I mean, what else can I call her?” He counters. “You’ve seen her.”
“You can start by calling her by her name,” Jun scoffs, shaking his head. “It’s not wise to be sweet on the employees, ya know.”
“Yeah, thanks, Father,” Soonyoung mocks, giving a lazy salute. “Do you want to hold my hand when I cross the street, too?”
Jun lets out a chuckle, getting up from the chair and dusting off his clothes. “You were always a smart aleck, you know that?”
“Tell me, something I don’t know,” Soonyoung grins. “See you on Friday?”
Jun waves, already walking towards the front door, coat in hand. “You know where I’ll be.”
He watches Jun exit the shop as the icy wind blows against his frame. The weatherman said today would be the coldest of the month, but it doesn’t bother him. He likes a challenge, whether it’s the elements, the system, or pretty women who beat him at card games. He doesn’t know much about you, but that makes it all the more fun. Jun might be right—Soonyoung is a sucker for a pretty face and an enigma.
You stood outside the shop at eight o’clock sharp, the clouds nowhere in sight. Nervousness and anxiety have kept you up all night, anticipating your first day of work. Will you be the kind of worker Soonyoung needs? It’s more than just the barbershop's books you will be keeping, but also an illegal operation that could very well land you in jail. Imagine that, running away from the South just to get hemmed up in the North.
You see a dark figure approaching the front door, keys clacking against each other as the door opens wide. “Good morning,” Chan greets you, opening the door to let you in. “Soonyoung will be back in a moment, but he asked me to take you where you’ll be working.”
“Okay,” you smile, stepping into the shop.
“Sorry for keeping it dark in here,” Chan bellows from behind as he locks the door. “Mondays are the only days we can do inventory, and we don’t need people thinking the place is open, ya know.”
“I understand,” you comment, studying the shop. Chan whisks in front of you in a blur, opening the back door that separates the barbershop from the back. “This way,” he beckons towards the door.
You follow him down the corridor, leading you to a room on the right with the door ajar. There is a desk and piles of papers, scribbled with various products and prices for the shop, the last update dated February 4, 1929.
“He hasn’t updated his books in almost two weeks?”
“I guess not,” Chan shrugs, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I don’t look at the numbers. That’s his department.”
You nod, tracing your fingers along the books and doing a rough estimate of the numbers in your head. Getting comfortable, you shrug off your coat. revealing a white cardigan with a matching colored top skirt that flowed to your knees. You can’t officially start working until you know what you’re adding, but you are excited nevertheless. This is your new start on your time, and the thrill of being free is worth the journey it took to get here.
Shuffling is heard just outside the hall, the sound of heavy feet inching closer to your ears, raising small hairs on the back of your neck. Chan peeks out the door and nods, moving out of the way to let the person inside. Enters Soonyoung, holding two cups of coffee, wearing gloves and a napkin, a little splashing on his covered hands as he sets them down. His cheeks are red from the cold, his lips slightly chapped, and yet, you find him adorable.
"Hello there,” he beams, raising the cups. "Pardon my tardiness. I trust you weren’t kept waiting long."
"No,” you shake your head with a gentle grin. “Chan let me right in."
"Very well, then,” he says, setting down one cup before you. “I wasn’t sure how you take it, Kitty."
You eye the cup and him, slowly moving it to you and blowing on the steam. “Thank you.” You close your eyes and take a small sip, the liquid hot on your lips and tongue, but nothing you can’t handle. It’s bitter and bold, just enough to keep you sharp while you count numbers all day.
You feel his gaze on you—the silence and keen attention making you blush with embarrassment. "I’m sorry,” you murmur, dabbing your lips dry with a napkin. “We can begin if you'd like."
"No, no, Kitty,” Soonyoung insists, grabbing his own cup. “Drink more of your coffee. There’s no rush.”
You glance at him before looking away, a small smile on your face as you take another sip. “You keep calling me that—Kitty. I have a name, you know."
"I know,” Soonyoung smirks. “But Kitty suits you better."
You smirk into your cup, warmth spreading through you like a strong current, butterflies in your stomach. You both drink your coffee in silence, purposely avoiding his gaze. Your face starts to heat up, and you aren’t entirely sure it’s just because of the coffee.
“Do you want to show me around?” You ask, setting down the cup on your napkin. “I’m ready to get started if you are.”
He bobs, finishing the rest of his coffee in one gulp. “Come on,” he says, already moving. “Since you’re going to be around, you should see how the place breathes.”
You stand up slowly, the chair scraping against the floor as you follow him down the hall, leading you down the exact steps that led you to the basement. There is a draft that wasn’t there before, a chill that makes you shake, wishing you had brought your jacket.
“We left the door open a little too long last night,” Soonyoung explains. “And it takes a moment for the heat to turn on."
Soonyoung leads you to a back, hidden room. Unlocking the door and ushering you inside, the bare bulbs hum softly overhead, casting a yellowed glow against brick walls darkened by years of smoke. Crates are stacked neatly along the walls, stamped with shipping marks and chalked numbers. The air smells faintly of wood and metal. Soonyoung rests a hand on one of the boxes.
“Last night’s shipment,” he says. “Grooming supplies, and a few things that prefer discretion.”
He steps back as you walk closer, eyes scanning the labels, the clipped ledger hanging from a nail. Various liquors are hidden among shipments of supplies—beers, wines, and hard liquors with fancy names. You survey everything, your mouth twisting as you think of what you have to do.
“Have you done the inventory yet?” You probe, peering into a crate. “If not, I can make a list of what you have, the cost, and how much more you’ll need for the next shipment.” You look around, stepping around Soonyoung as you grab a spare piece of paper and a pen, scribbling today’s date. “How often do you get a shipment?”
Soonyoung looks amazed, words failing him for a moment. “Every two weeks.”
You nod, writing down dates every two weeks for the next month for you to memorize. The caffeine is finally kicking in, and you are on a roll. “I need all of your books so I can see what you currently have and figure out how we are going to do this.”
“They are upstairs, in the office,” Soonyoung discloses, stepping out of the room briefly. “Chan, grab the books and Kitty’s coat, please.”
You glance at him, caught off guard by his mentioning your coat. He catches your gaze, smiling quickly. “You’ve been shivering since we’ve been down here.”
You look away, biting your lip as you tap the pen on the paper. You aren’t used to this: someone noticing the small things. Back home, you were treated like a prized possession in public, but locked away when you were not needed. You want to like it, this attention, but you aren’t sure if you can trust it. You are here to work; maybe Soonyoung wants you to be comfortable.
Chan returns shortly with a stack of dusty notebooks and your coat over his shoulder. You thank him while slipping it on, eyeing one of the long tables that will give you time to go over everything. “I need you to get started so I can balance the books and figure out a system that is a lot better than…” You point at the stack of disorganized books. “This.”
“You don’t hesitate. I like that,” Soonyoung remarks. “I think I am going to like this arrangement between you and me.”
A genuine smile spreads across your face, making you feel lighter. “Well, I hope so. You’re kind of all I got,” you laugh.
Soonyoung chuckles, his ears turning suspiciously red. “I see why Carmen reached out. You are good.”
You look down, a shy grin displayed on your face. “Who do you think was helping with her books?” You let out a silvery laugh. “Do you want to get started?”
He shows you the rest of the shipment, and you scribble down everything that’s arrived to compare to the latest entry in the books. Soonyoung counts aloud, while Chan lifts crates and calls figures. You sit at the table, scribbling everything thrown your way. The scratch of the ball point keeps time with the tick of a wall clock. Occasionally, you slide a page toward him, and he glances, nods, and adjusts his tally without question. You fall into a natural rhythm and hours pass by, but it doesn’t feel like you’ve been here long.
You glance at the clock; the time reads just after noon. Just as you are about to move to the next page, a few items catch your attention. “Soonyoung,” you call out, tapping a column. “Your numbers are off here. Not enough to sting, but enough to matter.”
He leans over your shoulder, close enough that you catch the scent of soap and tobacco. “You’re right,” he admits after a moment. “I missed it.”
“It’s alright,” you reply, circling the total in red pen. “Things happen.”
His eyes smile before his lips, gazing into yours. “That’s why I needed you.”
You ignore the way his validation makes you feel, returning your focus to work. By the time the last ledger is closed, your hand aches and your stomach reminds you it’s been patient long enough. You stretch your fingers as he checks his watch.
“Well,” he says, satisfied. “That went quicker than I expected.”
You nod. “Time behaves better when it’s kept honest.”
He considers you, then laughs. “How did you get good at this? Figuring out the books and all?”
You shuffle papers around, giving you time to think of your answer. “Boredom, honestly,” you chuckle. “My life was set out a certain way, and I was home alone a lot unless I was needed to show my face somewhere. Books and numbers are what kept me going.”
“How was your life supposed to be? Before you came here, of course.”
You glance at him before perusing the files, pretending you’re looking for something important. “That’s another story for another time, Kwon.”
“Please, just call me Soonyoung,” he says gently.
“Why?” You push back. “Everyone else does.”
Soonyoung leans in, not too close but enough to make your heart patter in your chest. “You’re not everyone else.”
You glance into his eyes for a brief moment, feeling a mixture of curiosity and amusement before shaking your head slowly. “You’re flirting with me.”
He leans back against the table, sitting on the corner. “Perhaps… or maybe I can take you to lunch as a thanks.”
You look up, meeting his eyes. You are hungry, but you would rather eat alone at the hotel after staring at the numbers for several hours. “I’ll accept your invitation another time,” you say evenly, “but it doesn’t mean I’m trading work for meals, Soonyoung..”
He chortles, his deep dimple on display. “I wouldn’t have it any other way, Kitty.”
As you gather your things, you tell yourself you’re only staying because it’s beneficial. Because it’s smart. Because you need this. You refuse to let yourself consider how natural it’s beginning to feel to stand beside him.
Soonyoung only opens the speakeasy on Fridays, closing the shop upstairs early and setting up downstairs with help from Chan, Vernon, and Mingyu. Mingyu bartends and performs grandiose tricks to entertain the ladies, while Vernon and Chan man the doors and keep the operation flowing as Soonyoung overlooks it all. What he is doing is illegal, and he could get caught at any time, but in his experience, people want things more when it’s forbidden, and they will do anything to have them. In this case, the forbidden fruit is alcohol and a break from their everyday lives.
If he wanted to, he could keep the doors open throughout the week and draw more traffic, but he doesn’t like that. He has a theory that more traffic means more word of mouth and a higher risk of being raided; Jun has said as much. He opened this place for extra money, but he has grown attached to it, and it allows him to make connections with people from all walks of life. He is the friendly neighborhood barber by day, and depending on the night, your savior.
Soonyoung shuffles around near the back tables, wiping them down until his reflection appears on each. He takes pride in this club, observing the merry vibes with drinks flowing, dancing, and lively conversation over cigarettes. He smiles to himself, twisting the toothpick in his mouth as he folds his arms, leaning against the back wall. Soonyoung is swelling with pride, and he has a feeling it will only get better from here.
The side door swings open, and you walk in, wearing a trench coat with the softest cream colored fur on top. You slip out of your jacket, revealing a stunning long-sleeved silk-and-velvet dress with a gathered skirt that dazzles with every move you make. You look gorgeous, and Soonyoung is mesmerized, dropping the rag he was holding on his foot. People whisper when you walk by, also taken away by your beauty. Chan approaches you, takes your coat, and points you towards Soonyoung’s direction. You scan the room until you see him, your face relaxing into a warm smile that makes his heart jump. He makes his way towards you, the towel now forgotten on the floor.
“Hey, there, Kitty,” Soonyoung greets you, opening his arm for you to take. “Do you want a drink?”
“I would love one,” you shout over the loud music.
Your arm slips into his, and the light scent of your vanilla perfume fills his nose as you walk beside him. Your skin radiates as if you’re glowing from within, and it's hard for him to look away. Your makeup brings out your eyes, and he finds himself wanting to get lost in them. It’s too early, he knows, but he can’t help but want to get to know this southern belle holding his arm.
“Mingyu,” Soonyoung calls out to the handsome man serving drinks. “Can you get a drink for the lady?” He glances at you, his eyes twinkling in curiosity. “What would you like to drink?”
You set down your purse on the bar, mulling over your options. “A Bee’s Knees is fine.”
Mingyu pulls out a cocktail glass, twirling it in his eyes. “You got it, beautiful.”
He winks at you before he starts making your drink, and you watch in amazement. Soonyoung’s finger taps lightly on the counter, ignoring the tightness in chest. He can’t help but notice how you admire Mingyu when he mixes the liquor and juicer, but he will not acknowledge that creeping green-eyed monster tonight.
“I’m surprised you showed up,” Soonyoung says. “It seems like you didn’t show much interest here besides the books.”
You smile sheepishly, twiddling your fingers in your lap. “I got tired of staying in the hotel, and I wanted to see what all the inventory was going towards.”
Soonyoung raises a brow, a curious look on his face. “So you didn’t come here to relax, but to work?”
Your eyes widen, panic on your face. “I mean, I did come to relax,” you say defensively, waving your hands. “But I also wanted to see how it’s run here. It’s not every day that you come into a speakeasy… unless you’re you.”
Your eyes sparkle like the gems on your dress, whispering a thank you to Mingyu, who sets your drink in front of you. Closing your eyes, you take a sip, a small moan coming from you in approval. “This is exemplary,” you remark as you take another appreciative drink. “Back home, it’s sidecars and Hank Pankys that are the talk of the town.”
“Atlanta, right?”
You answer with a nod, your lips still gracing the glass. Your facial expression shifts momentarily, a look of fear. Curiosity spins its wheels like a clock, wanting to know more of your story. In due time, he supposes.
“This place is so lively,” you compliment, eyeing the scene. “No wonder it’s the bee’s bnees.”
The evening's band plays hot jazz, keeping the patrons on their feet. Drunk men and women, giggling and dancing with their drinks in their hands and cigarettes in their mouths without a care in the world. However, Soonyoung isn’t much in the mood for entertaining tonight, not while you’re by his side.
“Has anyone told you you’re pretty?” Soonyoung says suddenly. He feels the heat surge through his neck and burn his ears, realizing he let his impulsive thoughts win. You blink at him, taken aback, and he is sure that you are going to give him a piece of your mind and quit on the spot. But instead, your red ruby lips curved into a smile that matched your eyes.
“Are you calling me pretty, Soonyoung?”
Soonyoung’s heart is practically beating on his rib cage like a trapped bird. He’s already let it out; there's no need to hide it now. “Yes. You’re beautiful,” he replied.
“Thank you,” you say softly. Your fingers grace your glass, drowning the remnants of the strong drink. You glance at the card table behind you and then back at him. “Would you indulge me in a game of Blackjack again?”
His smile sharpens, amused and intrigued in equal measure. He’s already steering you from the bar and leading you to the same table in the back. “Careful, Kitty,” he says. “I’ve been known to leave folks light in the pockets. Last time was a fluke.”
“Oh yeah, I’m sure,” you say, settling into your chair, smoothing your skirt. “And when I win tonight, will that be considered a fluke too?”
He chuckles as he takes the dealer’s seat. He shuffles the cards as the band performs on, the night coming out to be promising.
“I hope you’re ready to lose,” Soonyoung gloats.
You beat him in the first round, a smug look on your face as you collect the chips you won from that hand.
“You were saying?” You tease him, flashing the cards like money.
“That was just a practice round,” Soonyoung asserts, tapping his finger steadily on the smooth surface of the table. You place the cards gently near him, watching as he expertly shuffles the deck, his fingers interweaving the cards with practiced precision.
“So, Soonyoung,” you coquet, sitting a little straighter. “What made you decide to run a speakeasy and a barbershop?”
He falters, just for a second, and as a result, a couple of cards slipped from his hands. It’s been a long time since he’s talked about the real reason why he does what he does. He shuffles them back like it never happened.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” your voice trembles. “I didn’t mean to impose—”
“No, it’s fine,” Soonyoung insists. “No one really asks me about it, so it just caught me off guard.”
You stare at him, your mouth opening and shutting, as if you didn’t know what to say. Noticing your discomfort, he sets the cards down and takes a seat next to you. His hand is over yours, noting the smoothness of it. “It’s fine, Kitty. Really.”
You study him for a moment before letting out a sigh. “Okay.”
He doesn’t leave your side, but instead reshuffles the deck. “The shop was my father’s. He started it from the ground up and built a solid clientele. He loved serving people from all walks of life and making them feel welcome. I was raised in the shop, and he taught me how to cut hair, in hopes I would take over the business. He worked every day except for Sunday, as he was a religious man. The speakeasy came about a couple of years ago as a special event and a way to make some extra cash, but I liked doing it and decided to keep it going.”
“You… keep saying was, when you talk about your father,” you say slowly. “Is he no longer…”
“He died a few years ago. Heart attack,” he confirms, not leaving much to imagination.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” you say gently. “And your mother?”
“She died when I was six. Cancer.”
Your hand clutches your heart, your eyes shifting as if you’re trying to hold back tears. “That’s a lot to deal with at a young age,” you murmur. “But you’re strong. I see that.”
Soonyoung believes every word you said; he can feel the sincerity laced in each syllable. It takes a lot of strength to run two businesses and deal with the loss of your parents. Soonyoung wouldn’t wish this on anyone, to live with this pain every day and be expected to go through life like it’s a normal occurrence.
“Thank you, Kitten,” Soonyoung smiles, nudging your shoulder.
“Oh, I’m Kitten now,” you tease him with a wicked grin. “So formal.”
“So you’re saying you like Kitty?” Soonyoung goads, inching closer to you.
You gaze at him, raising a brow. “I am not admitting to anything,” you purse your lips while trying not to smile. “Are you finally ready to play?”
You’re partway through your second hand, riding a modest streak, when a perfume cuts clean through the haze. It’s heavy, floral, and commands Soonyoung’s attention. Soonyoung turns to his left, meeting the gaze of a small woman with short raven-dark hair, rare brown eyes with golden flakes that pull you in without trying, and porcelain skin that most women would be jealous of. Her flapper swishes in sync, distracting in black. He knows this woman by the name of Hazel, and he considers her a lady friend that he necks with from time to time.
"Well, if it isn’t my favorite barber,” she drawls, sliding in close to Soonyoung’s side like she’s got tenure there. Her dark red lips set in a smile that’s broken hearts before. “You look bored, sweetheart. Thought you might fancy a little barney mugging tonight.”
Soonyoung pulls the second card, a King of spades, and lays it flatly on the table. “Not tonight, doll. I’m busy.”
He hopes his indifferent tone will give her a hint and she’ll leave. He hopes it’s enough.
But then Hazel’s attention shifts, and his stomach sinks. He sees it the second she notices you, the way her smile tightens, the way her gaze sharpens. He feels suddenly exposed, as the room has tilted in a direction he can’t control.
“Oh,” she says lightly, giving you a once-over. “Didn’t realize you’d found yourself a replacement.”
Soonyoung’s chest tightens, waiting for a reaction from you. Even though he isn’t exclusive with Hazel, he’s known her since they were kids, and she is the jealous type.
You meet her gaze, calm and steady, like you’re checking figures that don’t quite balance. “I’m not any replacement. I am his—”
Hazel waves you off, clicking her tongue and making a show of it. She grabs Soonyoung by the collar and kisses him, quick and possessive, meant for you to see more than him. Soonyoung pushes her away, wiping his lips quickly, staining his hand with her lipstick. “What’d ya do that for, Hazel?”
She shrugs, unrepentant, with a wicked smile on her face. “I don’t care for sharing. You know that.”
You rise, setting your cards down as neat as a closed book, and grabbing your purse. “I believe I’ve had enough excitement for one evening.” Rushing through the small crowd, you find Chan, who leaves and comes back with your coat.
“Now as I was saying—”
He didn’t let Hazel finish her sentence. His focus is already elsewhere, threading through bodies and smoke, past Mingyu’s raised brow, past Chan’s amused eyes. The club feels too loud now, too crowded, like it’s pressing in on him.
He spots you by the side exit, coat back over your shoulders, hand on the kno—relief flares, followed by guilt.
“Hey,” he says, breathless. “I don’t know what got into her.”
You pause but don’t turn. “It’s none of my concern, Kwon.”
“I know, but—” He falters. He wants to say too much. He wants to say he didn’t invite it, that he wouldn’t have let it happen if he’d been faster, that he hates the way you’re leaving. “I wanted you to know it didn’t mean a thing.”
You finally face him, polite and composed, something carefully shuttered behind your eyes. He feels the door closing, slow and inevitable.
“Don’t trouble yourself,” you smile, but it doesn’t meet your eyes. “I’ll see you Monday.”
And then you’re gone, the door shutting softly behind you.
Soonyoung stands there for a beat too long, the music pounding at his back, wondering when a Friday night that once felt like salvation started feeling like a loss he can’t quite name.
It’s been almost two weeks since that encounter downstairs with that woman named Hazel. The way she looked at you like you didn’t matter got under your skin—though you aren’t entirely sure if it’s because of her solely or because of what her relationship is with Soonyoung. She kissed him like it was familiar and claiming him, and it stirred something in you that you didn’t like, and you had to leave before it festered.
You returned to work the following Monday, went through the week's books, and left just before noon. He tried to make small conversation, and you obliged, but you wouldn’t give him more than that. You can’t give him more than that. All you can see is that woman’s lips pressed against his, and it irritates you to your core. You know it shouldn’t bother you, and you have no right, but you can’t help but feel stupid for being attracted to someone who clearly has attachments. This is the last complication you need.
The week after, on Tuesday, you sit in your bed, reading an old copy of The Great Gatsby that you acquired from a bookstore years ago—the afternoon light streams through the window, casting enough natural light to read comfortably. You haven’t been out much, besides work, a few shops, and the dining area downstairs. You want to explore the city, finally sit on a bench in Central Park, and watch the birds fly by. It’s a weird feeling, having all this freedom and not knowing what to do with it.
Knock! Knock! Knock!
The rapping on the door makes you pause, not expecting any visitors? Is it Soonyoung? You shuffle out of bed, straightening your daydress as the curiosity lingers. “Who is it?”
“Your favorite cousin. Now open this door!”
You hurriedly unlock the doors, swinging the door open to greet the person who is indeed your favorite cousin. You lung at her, holding her tight and basking in her honey-smelling perfume. “Carmen, what are you doing here?”
“I had to come up here and check on my baby cousin,” Carmen returns your affection. “Gotta’ make sure you are staying out of trouble.”
Getting in one last squeeze, you release her and pull her into your room. “I am managing just fine.”
“Mmhmm,” Carmen mumbles, observing your room. She is all but 5’2” with gorgeous hair that seems black in a regular setting, but in light, it shines a whiskey brown. She loves to wear knickers and a blouse, and today was no different, wearing brown knickers and a white colored blouse and her usual oxfords. She is the closest person you have as a confidante, having grown up together yet kept apart by your family's money and her upbringing on the poorer side of town. Your father didn’t care to make sure she lived appropriately, saying countless times, “Family or not, they must make their own way.” You never thought that way.
Carmen is determined to make her way and not conform to the society of being a woman married to a Southern man. Running her own business and having her own is what makes her thrive, not having to answer to anyone unless she chooses to. You’ve always admired her for it.
“Soonyoung set you up in a nice room. Good,” she approves. “I would have had his hide if he set you up in anything less.”
Hearing his name twisted something in your gut that you choose to ignore. “Yeah, he did,” you say in a neutral tone.
She nods. “Thought I’d pop in and see how my little runaway is doing.” She pulls out a chair from the desk to sit in. “And I need to tell you something face to face, not over a telegram.”
Her tone went from casual to serious, stopping you dead in your tracks. “What is it?”
“Your ‘problem’ back in Atlanta has apparently put out a rather hefty reward for your return.”
A cold dread fills your chest like a leaking boat, pulling you into the waters of despair. Your “problem” was your ex-husband, Claudius, whom you were desperate to escape. It wasn’t a marriage of love, but of convenience, courtesy of your father, who wanted to sell his company and made you a perk. Claudius whined and dined and said all the right things until you said “I do”; then he became cruel, treating you as something to own rather than cherish. It started verbally, then, toward the end, it became physical, and you knew in that moment you had to leave before things got worse.
Claudius is a powerful man you couldn’t easily run from, and now, when money is involved, this problem has more incentive to be solved.
“A reward?” You speak slowly. “How much?”
“$200.”
Your breath hitches, panic curling inside your chest as you lean onto the vanity dresser, your fingers grasping the edges. $200 is not a small amount, which means you are wanted back by all means. This unsettles your spirit as tears well in your eyes. “I can’t go back there, Carmen. I would rather die.”
Carmen notes the distress on your face, leaps out of the chair, and pulls you into a comforting hug. “Don’t you fret, cousin. It’s nothing we can’t handle. I’ll have a word with Soonyoung, but you’re safe here, trust me. You will never go back there. This is your home now.”
You hesitate, thinking of all of the worst-case scenarios. “Are you sure?
“Of course, I’m sure,” she reassures you. “Just a little extra incentive for you to mind the business that pays you, eh?” She winks.
Stepping back, she does a once-over on you and claps her hands together. “Now, enough of that dreary business. Get dressed! I’m starving, and I hear there’s a delightful little bistro a few blocks from here.”
You nod softly, letting her words sink in. She’s right; You’re up north now, in the Big Apple, and there is no way you can be found here. Letting out a sigh, you push your worry aside.
“Give me a few minutes.”
An hour later, you and Carmen were strolling down a bustling street, the city alive with the energy of a Tuesday afternoon. Carmen stands out in a deep-red peacoat and matching cap, drawing admiring glances. You, in your more subdued but elegant day dress and Collegiate coat, felt a sense of belonging you hadn’t anticipated. Despite the cold, the sunlight makes you feel warm, easing the worries you'd had earlier.
Suddenly, Carmen stops, squinting and then breaking into a big smile. You follow her gaze, looking at two men standing outside a small diner, chatting animatedly. Inching closer, you recognize Soonyoung, dressed impeccably in a charcoal suit, looking every inch the successful businessman, not just a barber. As he laughs, his head tilts back, and you see that infuriatingly charming dimple. Next to him is Jun, the man you met at the speakeasy, wearing a chocolate brown suit and a chain hanging from his pocket, looking straight out of a catalogue.
“Soonyoung!” Carmen calls out, waving her hands.
The men meet you halfway, Soonyoung’s eyes lighting up when he sees her. Jun nods in your direction with a hello, but his eyes are on Carmen, gazing at her softly.
“Carmen! What a surprise! I thought you were still in Chicago.” He embraces her warmly.
“I was,” Carmen confirms. “But I had a change in plans.”
Soonyoung’s gaze then shifted to you, and for a split second, a flicker of something unreadable crossed his features before settling into his usual charming grin. “Hi Kitty! How are you?”
“Kitty?” Carmen shouts in surprise. “Are you sweet on my baby cousin?”
“Hello, Soonyoung,” you reply, your tone cooler than you mean to be. “I’m okay. We are headed to lunch.” You offered a small, stiff nod.
Soonyoung looks taken aback by you being closed off, and you feel bad, but you know this is what’s best. You have a lot on your plate as it is.
Carmen's gaze lingers on Jun, a flicker of affection crossing her features before vanishing as if it were never there. “Hi there, Jun bug.”
Jun breaks into a gentle smile. “Hi there, Carmen. You been okay?”
She nods, letting out a chuckle. “You know me, I’m always on the move.”
“Don’t I know it,” he replies shortly.
Your forehead furrows as you observe the clear chemistry between them. Carmen hasn’t mentioned Jun at all during your time together. She has some explaining to do.
‘Well, we were about to go inside,” you announce, words clipped, pointing at the cafe. “It’s cold.”
“Oh, yes,” Carmen nods quickly, sidestepping Soonyoung. Her hand briefly graces Jun’s, and you wear it for a moment; there's a spark in his eyes that tells a story. “Comin’ cuz?”
“Oh, yes,” you bob, shuffling quickly to the door. “Stay warm, gentleman.”
Carmen links her arm through yours, a knowing look on her face. “Alright, spill it, cuz. What was that all about?”
You sigh, the irritation bubbling up. “What do you mean?”
“That frosty reception you gave Soonyoung,” she clarifies, her eyebrow arched. “I’ve never seen you so… reserved with anyone, let alone someone who’s practically saving your hide.”
“I wasn’t being frosty,” you defend. “I was being polite.”
“Oh, please,” Carmen waves you off. “I’ve seen you be polite, and this ain’t that.”
The waitress leads you to a booth and takes both your orders for black coffee. Carmen gets comfortable, taking off her jacket and setting it to her left. “Spill.”
With a heavy sigh, you recount the night at the speakeasy, the woman, Hazel, and your annoyance at your own reaction. “I don’t know, Carmen. He calls me ‘Kitty,’ and it’s cute. He’s cute, but then there’s… her. And it just makes me feel… foolish, I suppose. I don’t know why I am even entertaining this.”
“So you like him?” Carmen probes, mouthing thank you to the waitress for setting down their cups of coffee. “He’s better than the last one, I’ll tell you that.”
You throw her a look. “You’re making fun of me.”
“Maybe,” she says with a smirk, stirring her coffee with sugar. “Honey, let me tell you something about Soonyoung. He’s a man of business, of connections, of secrets. He’s got women who adore him, women he’s charming to, women he does favors for. And yes, he tends to be a sweet on the berries. But he doesn’t go out of his way to explain himself to them. If he’s trying to make you understand something, or if he’s even aware that you’re upset about another woman, that means something.”
You frown, considering her words. “I guess you’re right… But what about her? This Hazel woman?”
“I know Hazel, not well but enough to know she doesn’t matter,” Carmen says dismissively. “And as for why it bothers you… Well, you’re human, aren’t you? You’re in a new city, vulnerable, and he’s been kind. It’s natural to be interested in him. And after the things you have gone through, I welcome this reprieve.” She sips her coffee, nodding in satisfaction. “She’s probably just jealous of you, anyway. You’re the new, intriguing thing in Soonyoung’s orbit.”
You chew on your lip. “I don’t know, Carmen. I just… I don’t want to be distracted. I have to stay focused. There’s a whole reward out for me, remember?”
“I understand that,” she says gently. “But sometimes, a little distraction can be a good thing. Just keep your eyes open, and don’t let your heart get ahead of your head. But,” she adds, reassuring you by squeezing your hand, “I think you should give him a chance to explain himself, if he tries.”
You mull over her words, considering what she says. “Fine, I suppose you’re right.”
Carmen bellows her seat, earning glances from others in the diner. “Of course I’m right.”
You shake your head, a small smile on your lips. “So,” you start, with a mischievous glint in your eye. “Are you ready to tell me what that was with you and that fellow Jun?
Carmen smoothly pulls out a pack of Lucky Strikes, placing a cigarette in her mouth and lighting it. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, cousin.”
You sit back in your seat, folding your arms with a knowing look. “Don’t act cute with me.”
“I‘m not acting,” she insists, inhaling deeply into the tobacco-stuffed stick. “I just don’t know what you are talking about.”
“Sure,” you remark, sipping your coffee.
Carmen exhales a perfect ‘O’ with the smoke, looking satisfied as she dumps the ashes onto a track. It’s nice, being around her again. You missed her witty banter and her protective nature. In life, she was the only one in your corner, your advocate in a society where men dictated your future. She is two years older than you, and you look up to her immensely. You wish you were as strong as she is and could have left home when she did, starting a life on her own terms and deciding her own future. But you were the pawn in someone else’s game, supposed to live by someone else’s rules.
Well, not anymore.
“This place is a darb!”
Carmen stayed in the city for a few more days to handle business with Soonyoung and others, saying she was leaving on Sunday and going back home to Georgia. But she was determined to see what the speakeasy was like, dragging you with her, stating, “I’ve only come here to drop off and collect, not to see the party.”
She stuns in a gold sequin dress, her hair styled in tight curls and a matching gold turban. looking every much like the belle of the ball. Carmen prefers to wear pants and a shirt, but when it is time to dress up, she follows the dress code to a T. You wore an uneven-hem dress, looking pretty in pink with a pin-up bob. You both turn heads everywhere you go, and it feels great. There is a new band tonight, featuring a woman who sings like a pretty canary.
“Look what the cat dragged in!”
Whirling around, you face Soonyoung, looking dapper as ever in a black bow tie and white vest with a tuxedo jacket. His hair was slicked back, handsome, and you can’t take your eyes off him. You step back to let Carmen hug him, breaking out of your trance. Why does he have to be so cute?
“Soonyoung? Dressed Up?” Carmen’s voice bellows over the music. “What’s the occasion?”
Glancing at the band and then looking at you, the corner of his mouth lifts into an infectious grin. “I wanted to switch things around.”
“Is that so?” Carmen counters. “Has nothing to do with my baby cousin here, does it?”
Soonyoung, ever the gentleman, places his finger on his lips. “Maybe.” Holding out his hand, he turns to you. “You would like to dance with me?”
You blink, your body thinking before your head as you place your hand in his, beaming at him. “I would love to.”
You thought about Carmen’s advice a lot, and you decided to put that incident with Hazel behind you. You had no right to be jealous, but you can’t help what you feel, being stirred up by a man with dimples and a cute smile. Soonyoung is quite literally keeping you going, giving you a job and a place to stay as you get on your feet. He’s respectful and kind, and he managed to make you laugh. The point is, who wouldn’t start crushing on a gentleman like him?
Soonyoung leads you to the dance floor, his hands placed on your hips as the woman sings about finding love in an unusual place. You feel Soonyoung’s eyes on you, acutely aware of the placement of his fingers, almost too aware, as if you are being branded with it.
“I’m glad you’re here,” Soonyoung shouts, leaning into your ear. “I wanted to really explain the other night—”
“Soonyoung, really, it’s fine—”
“But I insist.”
Sighing softly, you nod for him to continue. “Hazel, the woman that you saw, it’s nothing serious. At least not anymore,” Soonyoung explains, his rhythm matching the tempo of the song. “I knew her when we were kids, we… got friendly and it became something until it wasn’t.”
“Why did it end?” You interrogate him. “You have known each other since you were kids. That couldn’t have been easy.”
“Well, she is the jealous type—”
“Oh, ya don’t say?” You remark sarcastically.
“And it was messing with my business,” Soonyoung lands his point. “We agreed to be friends, and everything has been fine… until recently.”
“Uh huh.”
Soonyoung spins you around as the singer hits a higher, final note, then pulls you back into his arms. Your body is close to his, gazing into his deep brown eyes, hoping to detect a sliver of deception somewhere, to make it easier not to want to get to know him, even to want him. But he looks sincere, and something tells you to trust him.
“I know we just met and you don’t have to believe me,” he breathes, his voice smooth in your ear. “But I would never put you in that position.”
The tension is too hot to ignore, his face too close to yours, his lips too perfect to kiss—
The song ends with the saxophone blaring a tune, and the patrons around clapping and whistling away. You step away, shaking your head with a soft smile. “I’m going to get a drink.”
Making your way towards the bar, you wave to Mingyu, who comes over shortly after with a Bee’s Knee’s in his hand. The citrusy-sweet drink calms your nerves, recounting that moment with Soonyoung on the dance floor. It was electric, magnetic, being in his arms. It feels silly having these feelings for someone you barely know, and maybe it is because of the hell of your past, and the loneliness, but perhaps this isn’t a bad thing, pursuing this with Soonyoung.
You observe the scene: patrons chatting away, glasses in hand, smiles on their faces. Carmen is talking animatedly with Vernon, while Chan is making the rounds, presumably to make sure everything is in order. But you find yourself looking for Soonyoung, who suddenly disappeared in the midst of the crowd. Your curiosity is piqued, setting down your glass and looking for the man who has kept your attention for far too long.
“I’ll be back for another one soon,” you say, already halfway towards the dance floor.
“You got it, doll!” Mingyu calls out, though you barely hear him.
You scan the people, the hidden corners, and open rooms, hoping he will pop out somewhere. But after a few mere moments, disappointment creeps in, and you subconsciously blow a raspberry. You make eye contact with Carmen, who mouths, “Are you okay?” You hold a thumbs up, beckoning towards the back entrance, signaling with your hands that you are going to get some fresh air.
Grabbing your coat, you step out into the cold air, pulling out a cigarette you borrowed from Carmen, lighting it, and taking a puff. Inhaling and exhaling deeply, you feel more at ease and relaxed.
“Really, Kwon? You are going to dance with her in front of me?”
“Hazel, you’re being foolish—”
“I DON’T CARE! I told you that you will always belong to me.”
You hear shuffling and the clack of heels coming in your direction. Panicking, you put out your cigarette and hide in the shadows, eavesdropping on the conversation.
“Hazel, we are no longer acquainted in that way. We agreed to be friends, and YOU were the one who suggested that.”
That voice is undoubtedly Soonyoung’s, and your heart drops. Makes sense why you couldn’t find him; he is arguing with his ex.
“Soonyoung, you and I will never be just ‘friends,’ and you know this. Hell, you still neck me every chance you get.”
“Hazel, we haven’t been together in months.”
She comes into view, wearing a sleeveless dress and heels that show off her legs, looking at Soonyoung as if he were delectable. She slowly pulls up her dress, revealing a high-waisted garter belt that matches her stockings. You look away instinctively, feeling uncomfortable with a woman showing herself so freely in the night, where anyone can see.
“Are you saying you don’t miss me?”
As you look back, she reaches out to him, taking his hand and moving it towards her center. You stand there in anticipation, waiting on bated breath to see if he would react or give in to his desires. He snatches his hand away, to your delight, and he steps around her, taking off his coat and covering it over her.
“You know I care about you, and I will always make sure you are okay, ” Soonyoung cups her face with his hand. “But hear me when I say this, Hazel: you and I are just friends. No necking, no kissing. Nothing. Now you can either stay and enjoy the rest of the night or go home. Your choice.”
You slip out of the shadows before you are caught, going back into the warmth of the speakeasy and finding your cousin. You will not lie to yourself that you didn’t enjoy hearing him reject her. She is rude, pompous, and deserves to be put down a few pegs. You don’t know what will happen with you and Soonyoung, but at least you know she is no longer the object of his desires.
You find Carmen at the bar, taking a small sip of her drink. “Are you alright?”
You lift your finger to Mingyu, signaling that you want another drink. Despite the heavy atmosphere, you feel lighter and more at ease. You spot Soonyoung coming back in alone, scanning the room until he finds you and smiles.
Carmen nudges your shoulder, bringing you back to focus. “Well, are you?”
Mingyu returns with your drink, and you smile to yourself. “I’m good, cousin. Never better.”
A few weeks have passed since then, and things have improved between Soonyoung and you. You’ve come in and even managed to create a new system to count the books in the future, to untangle the chicken scratch Soonyoung had been scribbling for years. You show up at the barbershop sometimes to “observe,” but he has a feeling it’s because you enjoy being there. His life has gotten better since you’ve come along, and he won’t lie to himself and say he doesn’t have feelings for you. Your smile is infectious; you share his sense of humor; your Southern accent is music to his ears; and your intellect is rare. If someone were to ask what his favorite pastime is, it would be watching you work numbers; you thrive in it. Jun comes in from time to time to “be in the know”, but Soonyoung suspects it’s to make sure you aren’t a distraction. Well, plot twist: you’ve been a distraction since you walked in his door.
It’s Thursday afternoon, and he closes the shop early after his last appointment of the day. Spring has barely awakened, and it’s already warmer than normal, enough that he could forgo his jacket. He could go home for the day or go to the hashhouse he frequents for a corned beef hash and eggs, but he finds himself standing outside of his building, looking at the hotel—the very hotel you’re in.
Crossing the street, he strides towards the front door, being greeted by the tobacco smoke and perfumes that make his nose tickle. He is greeted by the doorman and the front desk attendants, whom Soonyoung knows on a first-name basis. He’s come to this hotel often when he was helping someone temporarily or if he needed a room for himself. Comes with the perks of being good buds with the owner.
“You’re not here to cause more trouble in my hotel, are you?”
Soonyoung turns around, meeting the very owner of this establishment, Yoon Jeonghan. His dad used to get his hair cut by Soonyoung’s dad, and eventually Jeonghan started coming around when he was old enough. They didn’t go to the same schools, as Jeonghan came from money, but he never treated him any differently. Soonyoung was invited to the Yoon family's birthday parties and events, and sometimes he was allowed to come over and play on their estate. The hotel is a family business, and when Jeonghan’s father retired, he took over and even franchised it, opening another in Chicago.
What made Jeonghan and Soonyoung best friends was saving Jeonghan’s life from petty thieves. As pretty as Jeonghan is, he is a fighter without the grit of being hungry and doing whatever it takes to satisfy it. Had Soonyoung not walked around the corner and seen what was happening, Jeonghan would have been one for the worse. Ever since that day, Jeonghan has felt indebted to him.
“Ah, just the same ol’, same ol’,” Soonyoung greets him with an enthusiastic handshake.
“Oh?” Jeonghan responds, looking around. “There’s no woman with you—”
“No, you smart aleck,” Soonyoung laughs. “I’m here to see her.”
Jeonghan’s eyebrows raise, looking amused. “She’s still willing to see your mug after letting Hazel kiss you for the world to see?”
Soonyoung’s eyes widen, jumping back a little. “Who told you about that?”
“You mean who didn’t tell me about that?” Jeonghan quips with a smirk.
“It was Chan, wasn’t it?”
“Yep.”
Soonyoung scratches the back of his head. “I didn’t let her kiss me—she just did it. Plus, I no longer see her. She knows this.”
“You try telling Hazel she can’t get what she wants,” Jeonghan lets out a silvery laugh.
Soonyoung shakes his head. “Is she upstairs?” He asks, pointing toward the stairs.
“Go find out yourself, Romeo. Room 2G.”
He bids his friend farewell, then walks up the spiral wooden staircase to the second floor. He could have taken the elevator, but he wanted to take his time and get his thoughts in order. Soonyoung had no other plan besides wanting to see you, but he figured the least he could do was ask for a little of your time. He wonders if you would mind.
He walks down the hallway until he finds your room, the very last door on the left. His heart pounds like a beating drum, wondering if this was appropriate or if you would find him weird. His breath hitching, he knocks three times in a row, the sound echoing in the hall. It’s very quiet, and he isn't sure you are even home. But as he is about to knock again, he hears shuffling on the other side, inching closer to the door.
“Who is it?”
Soonyoung lets out a sigh of relief. “It’s me, Kitty.”
There is a brief pause before the door opens, you standing there in a soft blue-and-white midi dress. You’re shocked to see you, but then her face softens, breaking into a smile. “W-what are you doing here?”
He leans against the door, returning your smile. “I’m here to take you out.”
You blink at him, staring dumbfoundedly. “Did we make plans? My apologies if I forgot—”
“No, no, Kitty,” he chortles, shaking his head. “I finished work early, and the weather is nice. I want to know if you want to take a walk with me.”
“Oh,” your face softens as you bite your bottom lip. “Are you asking me to go on a date with you?”
Soonyoung could turn into a puddle right then and there. You look delicate, touched, as if you could not possibly be considered for a date. As far as he is concerned, you’re the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen.
“I-It doesn’t have to be a date if you don’t want it to be,” Soonyoung sputters, his face turning red. “It can be a simple walk to the park or sit at the diner, catching up on lunch—”
“Soonyoung,” you cut in, your accent thick towards the end. “I would love to go on a date with you.”
His insides are doing backflips, elated that you said yes. “G-great Kitty. I’m glad.”
“Give me a moment to grab my purse and a coat,” you request, softly shutting the door.
You were only gone for a minute, but it felt like hours as Soonyoung waited for you to come back. Do I take you to the hash house, or should we go to Central Park? he thinks to himself. He paces a little in the hallway, not noticing that you were standing at the doorway, watching him with an amused look on your face.
“I’m ready,” you announce, reaching behind you and shutting the door. You draped a dark blue cape over your dress, holding a white purse. Locking the door with an iron key, you slip it into your bag. “Coming? Or am I going on this outing by myself?”
This is unlike him, being this nervous about taking a woman out. It’s not like this is his first rodeo, but not everyone is like you, either. “Come on, doll, let’s go.”
Soonyoung leads you to the elevators, waiting patiently until the doors go ding. The operator greets you with a nod, stepping aside to let you both in. You hum a soft tune that he doesn’t recognize, but sounds like a canary coming from you.
“Do you sing?” Soonyoung asks, letting you walk into the elevator first.
“Meh, not really,” you respond, taking a spot in the left corner. “Carmen is the singer of the family. I can hum a song or two.”
The elevator goes down, a smooth transition to the lobby in under thirty seconds. "Well, if it means anything,” Soonyong gazes at you, “I think you have a lovely voice.”
You light up at his comment, small stars in your eyes. “Thank you, Soonyoung.”
The elevator doors open, and Soonyoung holds out his shoulder, allowing you to slip your arm into his as you walk into the lobby. Your perfume smells of your usual honey and vanilla, and it’s starting to become his favorite scent. It’s warm and familiar, just like you are starting to become ever since you walked into his life. Jeonghan is at the front desk, glancing at your intertwined arms and waving at the two of you with a smirk.
“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, kids,” he calls out as you both walk out of the lobby.
Stepping outside into the warm spring air, the city is bustling with people of all walks of life. Men with their briefcases as they leave their jobs, women with their children and hands full with shopping bags, couples embracing as they walk down the street. Cars zoom back and forth, smoke trailing from their exhaust pipes. It’s a beautiful time to be in the big city, full of life.
“Is there any place you would like to go?” Soonyoung asks.
Mulling over your options, you point towards your left. “Believe it or not, I have not been to Central Park yet.”
Soonyoung is taken aback. Almost everyone who visits New York City goes to Central Park. The lake is grand, and around this time of year, the ducks return from winter, swimming happily in the lake. Of course, he will take you there—he’ll go wherever you want to go.
“Central Park it is.”
It’s a several-block walk to the massive park, but you both get there quickly with small talk. Stepping towards the entrance, your steps falter, looking in awe at the beauty of the park. The oak trees are in bloom in various shades, and the birds fly over your heads while singing a pretty tune, almost like you would hear on a radio program. The sun shines on you in the right way, and Soonyoung stands back, taking you all in. If there were a heaven on Earth, you would certainly be an angel.
“This is more beautiful than they described,” you say aloud, twirling in a circle.
“Yeah, beautiful,’ Soonyoung murmurs, his gaze fixated on you.
You glance at him before looking away, trying to hide the smile on your face. Soonyoung clears his throat, a light blush dusting his cheeks. “So, Kitty. What do you want to do first? We could rent a rowboat, or we could walk around the park a bit more.”
You turn back to him, a thoughtful expression on your face. “I would love to walk more,” you suggest. “I-I want to see it all, if you don’t mind.”
“I wouldn’t mind it at all,” Soonyoung replies, offering you his arm once more. “Let me show you around.”
Soonyoung brought you to every part of the park imaginable, past laughing children chasing pigeons and couples strolling hand in hand. The path winds through a grove of blossoming cherry trees, their delicate petals fluttering down like pink snow. You slip out of his arms momentarily to stand under one of the trees, the petals falling on you and kissing your cape. Soonyoung feels as if he were watching you in slow motion, in a daze, as if he is in a daydream.
“You’re staring,” you call out, beaming at him and holding out your arm. “Come join me.”
Your smile fills him with a warmth he can’t describe. “I like watching you from right here.”
“Why?” You ask with a curious look.
“Because I’ve never believed in angels before, until now.”
You’re left speechless; your mouth opening and shutting before you collect yourself and amble over to him. “You’re a real Casanova, you know that?”
Soonyoung lets out a joyous peal of laughter, impressed by your smoothness and ability to flirt back. Looking around, he finds a secluded bench beneath a sprawling oak with new leaves a vibrant green. “You want to sit over there?” He asks, pointing at it.
“Yeah, sure,” you respond. “My feet can use a little break, anyway.”
As you sit, a comfortable silence settles between you, broken only by the distant city hum and the chirping of birds. He can’t help but behold you, watching you find contentment in just being outside and in the small things in life.
“This is truly magnificent,” you breathe, gazing at the vibrant tapestry of spring around you. “It feels like a different world, far removed from the bustle of the city.”
Soonyoung smiles, leaning back against the bench and smoothly placing his arm around your shoulder. “It is, isn’t it? A little slice of peace. I often come here when I need to clear my head.” He turns to you, his expression gentle. “So, Kitty, I’ve been meaning to ask you something. You mentioned you hadn’t been to Central Park before, despite being in New York for a while now. What brought you to the city, anyway? Such a big change from… Georgia.”
You gaze at him, a smile on your lips but not matching your eyes, then you sigh deeply. “My story is much different from yours,” you begin. “My mother is dead as well, but hers was from childbirth, having who would have been my little brother, and my father was never the same. I come from money; my father owned a steeling company that was very successful in our town and in Atlanta. He focused on that and made sure I had the essentials, but I never existed to him unless he needed a prop to show that he had a perfect daughter and he was living just fine.”
“Kitty, I’m sorry—”
“Nothing to be sorry for, Soonyoung,” you assure him. “You didn’t know.”
“Alright,” Soonyoung says slowly, the wheels turning in his head. “So you left because of your father..?”
“Oh, gosh, no,” you shake your head. “Well, partly. I was his only child, his little princess. And he made sure I was sheltered from everything. He believed a woman’s place was in the home, you see. That we couldn’t possibly understand the intricacies of business, let alone run one.”
Soonyoung’s brow furrows. “That’s a shame. From what I’ve seen, you’re sharper than most men I know.”
A small, sad smile touches your lips. “Thank you, Soonyoung. But my father didn’t see it that way. He wanted to ‘ensure my future’, he said. So, when I came of age, he… he sold his business. To a man he deemed worthy. And I… I was part of the deal.” You paused, Soonyoung noticing your grip on your leg tightening almost imperceptibly. “As in, he sold the company to my ex-husband, Claudius, and I was, as he put it, ‘a perk of the acquisition.’”
Soonyoung’s jaw clenches in anger. He turns to face you full, his eyes search yours. “So he sold you?”
You finally gaze back, the sadness and pain etched on your face, clear as day. “Not in so many words, but that’s how it felt. Claudius was kind at first, said all the right things, and made me believe he respected me. But we said “I do”, it was like a candle blew out. He became cruel, didn’t trust me, and flew into jealous fits of rage if another man talked to me. I was only allowed to talk to the wives of his business partners, and my God, he hated Carmen. I had to sneak out of my own home to see her. Ironically, he didn’t trust many people either. He even made me start cutting his hair.”
You take a deep breath, closing your eyes as you recount the memories of your past. “Claudius didn’t just control my finances, he controlled my life, my thoughts, my very being. He… hurt me.”
Soonyoung is burning up inside, appalled at how you were being treated. “And your father just did nothing?”
You look down, twiddling with your hands nervously, your bottom lip trembling. “He died shortly after we got married. He had an accident on his boat and was found a week later.”
The news hits him like a moving train. You have suffered so much and understand the loss of losing both of your parents, though in different ways. He has a sudden urge to protect you and fight your battles. Hell, he even has half a mind to go down to Georgia and give this “Claudius” a piece of his mind.
“Kitty,” he says gently, taking your hand. “I’m so sorry. No one deserves that.”
Tears welling in your eyes, you wipe them away quickly. “I knew I had to leave. I couldn’t stay there, not anymore. So I took what little I could and ran. I came to New York, hoping to disappear, to start fresh, and be my own person.”
Soonyoung understands you more than you know. When his father died, many businessmen approached him to buy the shop, doubting he could uphold his father's standards and keep it successful. They saw the property as a bag of money to be turned into a boutique or something regal in the big city. But he stood his ground and proved to everyone that not only could he uphold the same standards, but he could make it better.
His thumb strokes your hand gently. “Y/N, I will not let anything ever happen to you. You are safe here, to be your own person and to live the life that you deserve.”
He feels more connected to you in this moment than he ever has. His heart aches for this woman who has suffered so much, and also swells with admiration for you, who didn't cower before the disappointments in your life, left on your own terms.
“Thank you, Soonyoung,” your voice trembles. “I appreciate it.”
You lay your head on his shoulder, and a comfortable silence falls as you watch the ducks swim in the lake a few yards away, and hear the birds sing an afternoon tune. The sun shifts westward as it begins to set in the golden hour. In this moment, the world around you fades, leaving only the two of you, suspended in a bubble.
“I just realized something,” you say aloud, lifting your head. “You called me by my real name.”
Soonyoung gazes at you and then laughs, impressed by your intellect once again. “I wanted to be serious for a moment.”
“I see,” you nod thoughtfully. “Well, I don’t mind it when you call me Kitty.”
“Oh?” Soonyoung shifts on the bench, looking at you more clearly. “So you do like being called Kitty.”
You let out a laugh, cheery and bright. “No, I like it when you call me Kitty.”
You laugh until there is nothing left, gazing into each other's eyes with unspoken words but understanding at the same time. Feeling brave, Soonyoung inches closer to you, and you repeat the motion until your noses are barely touching. It feels like gravity pulling you two together, and Soonyoung wonders what it would be like to have the honor of kissing you.
“Soonyoung,” you whisper, touching his cheek. “Please kiss me—”
“Ahem.”
Whipping his head around, Soonyoung looks at the man who ruined his moment, ready to blow a gasket, only for it to be Jun.
“Jun?” Soonyoung queries, reluctantly untangling himself from you. “What are you doing here, of all places?”
“Looking for you, actually,” Jun remarks, a worried look on his face. “I got some news you aren’t gonna want to hear.”
Jun nods, gives a subtle dip in your direction, then beckons Soonyoung to the side. He follows Jun a few paces away, out of earshot. Then Jun drops a bombshell:
“I spoke with my boss today,” he begins, his voice barely above a whisper as he looks around. “Bob’s Shack, down on 42nd, got raided. Full-on bust. Not just a hash house, they found the speakeasy in the back.”
Soonyoung’s eyes narrow, his mind buzzing at the news. “How did they get found out? Their operation was solid.”
“That’s the thing,” Jun shakes his head grimly. “We think somebody is talking to the feds. Too much of a coincidence, ya know?”
A cold knot forms in Soonyoung’s stomach. A snitch is in the midst. This isn’t good. He thinks of his own operations, his own people. He needs to make some calls and shore things up. But first… he glances back at you, sitting patiently, a wistful look on your face as you watched the ducks. He can't just leave you here.
“We gotta shut down for a while,” Jun states. “Last week’s shipment has to be it until all of this passes, you know?”
Soonyoung reluctantly assents, letting out an exasperated sigh. “I gotta go back to the shop and make some things shake then. But first, let me take her back to the hotel.”
Jun nods in agreement, looking up at the sky. The purple hues of the blue hour are starting to set in, the sun just barely over the horizon. “I’ll meet you back at the barbershop,” he announces, walking back in the direction he came. “Y/N, I bid you a good night.”
You smile in his direction, standing up slowly and dusting the back of your dress. Taking a deep breath, Soonyoung returns to your side to deliver the bad news. “I have to take care of some things at the shop,” he begins. “A local hash house was raided, and I have to move some things around before I’m next. So that means no speakeasy for a while.”
“Oh!” You exclaim, clutching the pearls on your neck. “Do you need me to help move anything around or—”
“No, no, Kitty,” Soonyoung shakes his head. “The boys and I will handle this. I’m going to walk you back to the hotel, though, okay?”
You study him carefully, and Soonyoung knows you have so many questions about what’s happening. In due time, he will answer them, but for now, he has to go.
“Okay,” you finally respond. “Let’s go back.”
The walk back is quieter than your journey in. The air is filled with a subtle tension, Soonyoung’s mind already racing through possibilities, trying to identify the leak, to protect his interests. But he tries to push it aside, focusing on you and making sure you are safe and sound. He holds out his arm for you to take, leaning your head on his shoulder and not letting go until you reach the familiar elegance of the hotel lobby. Soonyoung feels a pang of regret, leaving so abruptly, but duty calls.
Greeted by the doorman, you ascend to your floor, walking to the door as he promised. You dig in your purse, grabbing the ornate iron key, its glint in your hand. You turned to face him, a slow smile creeping on your face. “Thank you, Soonyoung,” you say softly. “This was nice.”
“No, thank you for agreeing to come,” Soonyoung replies earnestly. “You could have declined.”
“Yeah, I could have,” you say with a thoughtful look on your face. A mischievous glint appears in your eyes as you break into a wicked grin. “But I’m glad I didn’t.”
Soonyoung doesn’t want to leave. He wants to continue on this date, take you out to a proper meal, and get to know you better. He wants to know what makes your brain tick and learn more of your quirks. He wants to hear anything you have to say with that delectable Southern accent of yours. Soonyoung wants all of you: your heart, mind, and soul. But it’s all about time and circumstances, and today is not the day for that, he’s afraid.
“Well, I’ll see you on Monday?” you ask, uncertainty in the air.
”Y-Yeah,” he responds, snapping back into reality. “Monday, you still report to work, business as usual.”
He watches you unlock your door, staying until he is sure you are safe in your room. Turning on his heel, he tips his hat to wish you good night. “Be safe, Kitty.”
Soonyoung’s heart beats heavily as he forces himself to turn away, trudging down the hall towards the elevator with great effort. Maybe, another day, he’ll be able to tell you how he feels and make something out of it.
“Soonyoung! Wait!”
He turns quickly, watching you run down the hall to meet him, your chest heaving fast with a wild determination in your eyes that he doesn’t recognize.
“Soonyoung, please don’t look at me differently,” you say breathlessly.
‘What to do mean, Ki—”
You shut him up with a kiss, your lips capturing his, catching him off guard, and knocking his hat off. Your lips are softer than he imagined, your honey and vanilla perfume taking over him, and Soonyoung can’t help but wrap his arms around your body and pull you closer. He deepens the kiss, the world fading as you get lost in one another. He feels a spark ignite, warming his body and taking away the chill he felt from Jun’s news. When you finally pull away, breathless, your eyes are closed with a small content smile on your lips.
“I’ll let you go now,” you whisper, walking back to your hotel. “Good night, Soonyoung.”
Soonyoung is rooted where he stands, watching you retreat to your room until you disappear. He touches his lips, not entirely believing that this just happened, but nevertheless, glad.
“Good night, Kitty,” finally responds.
Walking away, he leaps and kicks his feet—Soonyoung may just have fallen in love.
This isn’t the life Hazel envisioned for herself. When she was a little girl, she told herself she would marry someone successful, start a family, and never have to work again. She would maintain her looks, have her diamonds and pearls, and always be the apple of everyone’s eyes. She is not meant to be working at this hash house, sweating in the kitchen, serving coffee and meals all day. The shifts seem never to end with each clatter of a plate, each gruff order, chipping away at her patience.
Hazel glances at the clock, just a few minutes before three, when she can be replaced and leave this god-forsaken place. She yearns for the thrill of the speakeasy, for the easy charm of Soonyoung, for the life she knows she deserves but hasn't quite grasped. Soonyoung was supposed to be her way out, and she would have almost had him, had it not been for you. You have ruined everything, walking into the place as if you own it, with a superiority and Southern belle act that makes her sick. Who do you think you are, coming into her town with her people and taking away her man? Hazel will not settle for that, and by all means, she will get you out of here.
“Another coffee, doll,” a gruff voice startles her from her thoughts. She pours the dark liquid, the steam momentarily clouding her vision. The two men at the corner booth, dressed in business suits, had been lingering for hours, nursing their drinks and talking in low tones. Usually, Hazel ignores the chatter, but something in their hushed conversation snagged her attention.
“Heard ole Claudius Foster, from Foster Steele down in Atlanta, is still stewing,” one of them, a burly man with messy blonde hair, rumbles. “Put out a hefty reward, I heard. Two hundred dollars, just to find his runaway wife.”
Hazel pauses, the coffee pot hovering over the cup. Two hundred dollars. That's enough to get her out of this dump, enough to buy a ticket to a new life. Her ears perk up, straining to catch every word.
“Aye, that’s right,” the other man chimes in, lighting a cigarette. “Said she was a real looker, too. Southern charm, sweet as peach pie, but with a sharp mind. He even gave out a hand-drawn portrait of what she looks like. I got one from a buddy when I was passing through Tennessee.” He chuckles, exhaling a plume of smoke while pulling a piece of paper out of his pocket. “Oh, she’s a looker, alright—makes me want to take her home to be my wife instead.”
The men’s guffaws are heard throughout the restaurant, earning stares. Hazel pours coffee in the other man’s cup, sneaking a glance at the paper he was holding, and her blood runs cold, then hot. It is, in fact, you, drawn almost perfectly to a T. This ‘Claudius’ person really wants to find you. A cold, hard knot forms in Hazel’s stomach, but it isn't fear or regret. It's a surge of vindictive triumph. An opportunity to rid you out of her life once and for all, and for her to reclaim what is hers.
“Heard she left him in the dead of night,” the first man continues, oblivious to Hazel’s sudden intensity. “Packed a small bag, took something valuable from him, and disappeared like smoke. He’s furious. Wants her back something fierce and is willing to pay to make sure she comes back to him alive.”
Leaning slightly over his shoulder without being caught, Hazel memorizes the address for the point of contact if you are found, before turning around, scribbling it on a notepad. A rush fills her veins like no other, the taste of victory in her mouth and freedom within her grasp. Her replacement, Mary, appears to her left, tying her apron around her waist.
“It’s three, Hazel,” she announces. “You can skedaddle.”
Hazel moves like a bat out of hell, tearing her apron off and shoving it in a corner of the office. Hastily putting on her coat, she rushes out of the hash house, speed-walking to the nearest Western Union four blocks away. A wicked smile spread across her lips as she recounts her plan: turn you in, get the reward, level up, and show Soonyoung exactly what he’s been missing. He misses her; she knows it, whether he is willing to admit it or not. They were each other’s firsts, and he will come back to her; he always does. She needs to show him a reason, that’s all.
Hazel reaches the tall brown building with gold-plated letters that read “Western Union”. Shuffling inside, approaches the clerk, taking a pen and paper that were laid on the desk, and begins to write.
To Claudius Foster, of Foster Steel, Atlanta
Your Southern belle is in New York City
I will confirm the location in person once the reward is given.
Find me at 143 Wisteria Lane, New York City, 12344
She slides the paper across the counter, paying for the service and watching the clerk take it to the back to be sent. Hazel swells with pride, stepping out of the building with a smugness that can be seen from miles away. She isn’t stupid; she knows not to give away the location right away for someone else to take credit. Hazel is going to control this narrative, and while this Southern belle, ‘Kitty’, thinks she has Soonyoung and is above her, Hazel is going to pull the rug from under her and send her back where she belongs.
AN: Part 2 will be coming soon. I have a lot of projects coming up that have impending deadlines that I have to work on + plus other series that need to be wrapped up :) Fortunately, part 2 is already outlined and all I have to do is write it. What did ya'll think of Act I? Let me know in the comments and/or likes/reblogs 🤎
You didn’t expect to run into your late brother’s best friend tending bar at an illegal speakeasy — or to start falling for him. But when you realize Vernon is involved in the same kind of work that got your brother killed, liking him suddenly feels dangerous in ways you know too well.
⇢ pairing: chwe vernon x f!reader
⇢ genre: angst, fluff, brother's best friend
⇢ wc: 9.2k
⇢ warnings: guns/gun violence (nothing graphic), illegal activities, alcohol consumption, grief + death, there are 100% historical inaccuracies and i am so sorry.
⇢ a/n: thank you to everyone who sprinted w me!! and thank you to jess and em for talking me into actually doing this. this is not the best thing i've ever written by a long shot, but it feels like forever since i've posted so here it is.
⇢ as part of the puttin' on the ritz collab hosted by @studiosvt !
By the time your shift ends, there's a dull ache behind your ears, and your legs are aching from sitting too still for too long. You button your coat, and step back into the night with the sense that you've been standing still for hours while New York rushed past you.
Outside the telephone exchange, the cold cuts clean and sharp. Steam rises from the grates along the sidewalk, blurring the streetlights. You pull your gloves tighter and spot Catherine immediately, pacing near the corner with theatrical impatience, her hat already tilting off-center.
"There you are," she says, relief and accusation wrapped together. "I was starting to think they'd chained you to the board."
"Almost," you say. "What time is it?"
"Early enough that I refuse to go home yet." She links her arm through yours before you can protest. "Come on. Grace is waiting."
Grace is a block away, leaning against a lamppost with the ease of someone who never quite looks like she's waiting for anything. She straightens when she sees you, grinning.
"I told her you'd get out before seven," Grace says to you, and tosses Catherine a triumphant look. "You owe me fifty cents."
Cathy groans. "You're unbearable."
You smile despite yourself. "What's the plan?"
Grace glances down the street, then lowers her voice. "We're having a drink."
"A drink," you repeat, eyebrows lifting. You already know where this is going.
"A real one," Catherine says, daring you to argue.
You hesitate, brief but noticeable. "You know I don't usually."
"That's exactly why we're taking you," Grace beams, threading her arm through your free one. "You work too much. It's unseemly."
You make a face, but don't protest, and that leaves you reluctantly frogmarched by your two friends down the icy streets. Of course, they don't tell you where you're going at first, just guide you down a side street you rarely use, past shopfronts already dark for the night. Ignoring all your questions, of course, dismissing them with casual waves of the hand.
You let them, though, because it's been a while since you've had a proper drink, and anything is more appealing than going back to your lonely room. You already know your aunt will have fallen asleep in her chair by the window, and won't even stir when you let yourself in later on.
The door of the speakeasy doesn't look like anything at all.
That's the first thing you notice — how easy it would be to miss. Just another unmarked stretch of brick and a narrow doorway wedged between a tailor and a shuttered grocer, the kind of place you've passed a hundred times without wondering what's behind it.
Your friends are already laughing, breath fogging in the cold. Grace knocks twice, pauses, then knocks once more. You watch her hand, oddly attentive. A slit opens, a pair of eyes looks you over. Gracie smiles and says a name you don't recognise. The door swings inward.
Warmth hits you first, then sound. Laughter layered over music, conversation pressed close together. The air smells sharp and sweet all at once. Citrus. Alcohol. Wool coats damp from the cold.
"Oh," Catherine says, delighted. "This is good."
"Told you," Grace grins, though she looks just as pleasantly surprised as you do. "My cousin knows all the good spots."
You step inside, letting your eyes adjust to the low lighting, lamps shaded in amber, smoke clinging to the ceiling, bodies pressed together in easy familiarity. Jazz hums from somewhere unseen.
"This is so illegal," you say, automatically.
Catherine nudges you. "Isn't it wonderful?"
Someone laughs loudly near your shoulder. Someone else swears affectionately. It's loud, humming with a kind of life that the unremarkable front door conceals impressively. You friends squeeze in at the bar, and you end up slotting yourself in between them, just about close enough to hear each other under the buzz.
The bartender has his back to you, leaning in to hear someone farther down the bar. Dark hair, white shirt, sleeves rolled, and you're watching without any real thought until he turns.
The recognition arrives in pieces. The line of his jaw. The familiar curve of his mouth when he smiles at something the customer says, the way his eyes crease faintly at the corners. He looks older than the last time you saw him, leaner, sharper around the eyes, but unmistakably the same.
Your stomach drops.
Vernon.
For a heartbeat, you're sure he hasn't seen you, and relief flares, sharp and almost dizzying. Immediately, your instinct is to run — let the crowd swallow you, pretend this never happened, but then his gaze lifts, scanning the bar and it lands on your face.
He stills.
It's subtle, but you absolutely see it. His hand pauses, his expression goes blank, then carefully softens. Surprise, clear as day.
You hold his gaze, pulse louder than the jazz, thrumming in your ears. A year and a half collapses into a single moment.
Catherine leans back suddenly, elbowing your arm and lowering her mouth to your ear. "Am I crazy, or is that bartender making eyes straight at you?"
"What?" You barely manage a reply, disoriented. Your mouth seems to move slower, words not fully forming in your mouth.
"Hey," Grace says to the bartender (Vernon, your mind supplies insistently), unaware of the muttered conversation on her right. "Three Mary Pickfords."
He blinks once, glances at you for a beat too long, then nods. "Coming up."
His voice is exactly the fucking same.
He turns away to pour, giving you the barest moment to breathe. You watch him move, the familiarity of him made strange by context, but with all the thoughts rushing into your head, you don't have time to concentrate on his movements. Is he pretending not to know you? Does he actually not recognise you? Did you imagine the way his hands froze and his eyes widened?
He sets the glasses down in front of you, then finally looks at you again. There's a split second where he looks at you, befor he opens his mouth, and instantly you can tell, yes, he knows you. You may have met only a handful of times, but he knows you.
"Hi," he says.
"Hi." Your voice sounds strange even to your own ears.
Neither of you moves closer. The bar hums around you, and your friends look on with unusual silence.
"I didn't know you…" He stops, adjusts. "I didn't know you — What are you doing here?"
"We just — came out for drinks," you say, and it's awkward, the half-hearted gesture you make towards your friends either side of you.
He huffs a quiet laugh. "Yeah. That makes sense."
Catherine looks between you. "You know each other?"
Vernon glances at you, giving you the choice — it's not much of a choice, after the conversation you just had in front of them.
"This is Vernon," you say, swallowing thickly. "He is — was — friends with my brother."
Your words stumble into each other, and you drop your eyes from Vernon's for a second. You don't want to see the way his eyes flicker when you correct yourself to past tense, don't want to see that sinking feeling in your stomach reflected in his eyes.
Cathy clears her throat. "Well. I suppose that explains the staring."
Vernon offers a small, careful smile, distributing the drinks without moving his eyes from your face. "It's good to see you."
"You too," you say truthfully, swallowing and managing a smile. Your mouth feels dry.
He slides the last glass toward you. "Three Mary Pickfords," he says, almost gentle. "Shout if you need me."
You take it, your fingers brushing the cool glass. "Thanks."
You drink. It burns, then settles.
The night keeps moving. Conversation carries on around you. Grace tells a story about a woman at her office who cried through lunch over a broken typewriter. Catherine interrupts constantly with her usual bright quips. You listen, humming and nodding where appropriate, but you can't make yourself contribute properly; your mind is still stuck on your brother's best friend.
Vernon is everywhere and nowhere at once, called down the bar, ducking behind shelves, leaning in to hear orders. Every time you think he might circle back, someone else needs him. You catch glimpses of him between people, sleeves damp now, hair slightly mussed. Sometimes he smiles, a quick fleeting thing that lights up his face for a second, before disappearing.
You haven't seen him since the funeral. You haven't really thought about him since the funeral, when he looked at you across the room with serious brown eyes. He'd said something to you, just before he left, but you can't remember now. Everything about that day feels like a blur. You only remember fragments: your aunt wailing, the taste of bile sour in your throat. Your hands were cold, tight-knuckled with the fabric of your skirt between them.
You don't speak to Vernon again for the rest of the night, not really. Just a look here, a brief nod there. And when the night is over, and Catherine's announcing she really needs to get home, and Grace is handing you your coat, you try to catch his eye, to say a quick goodbye, at the very least. Except you can't see him anywhere, and Cathy's tugging on your hand, and so you leave it.
You're halfway toward the door when you feel something brush your coat sleeve. You turn. and he's there suddenly, like he's stepped out of the walls themselves. He opens his mouth, closes it. Opens it again. "Take care getting home," he says, and he looks like he wants to say more.
You don't give him a chance. "I will," you answer. "Thanks."
He nods, and then he's gone. The music swells behind him; you step out into the cold, the door closing softly at your back. The city rushes in, loud and ordinary again.
Behind you, the bar stays hidden, exactly as it was.
The first time you go back, you tell yourself it's because Grace insists.
It's a Thursday, which means you're bone-tired and irritable and not in the mood to argue. Grace corners you at lunch — her office isn't far from the exchange, and the two of you usually stop to scoff down a sandwich for your precious few minutes of lunch break. "Catherine's working late," she says, wheedling. "It'll just be us. We'll tip a few, have a good time!"
"I have work in the morning."
"So do I. That's what makes it thrilling." Her eyes twinkle a little. "Besides, don't you want to see your keen bartender again?"
Your jaw drops and you elbow her. "Stop!"
"What?" she laughs helplessly, dodging you when you aim another. "He's a looker! And he was absolutely making eyes at you, even Cathy said so!"
You give in because it's easier than explaining the tight, restless feeling that's been following you all week. Because you've caught yourself thinking about a pair of steady brown eyes across a bar. Because the memory of his voice, low and familiar, has threaded through your days at inconvenient moments. And you're not sure if it's him, or if it's just you desperately clinging to the last living pieces of your brother.
You don't say any of that to Grace. You just pull your coat on after work and let her lead the way.
Vernon isn't there, in the end, but you spend the evening laughing with Grace and trying to stop your eyes from wandering across the speakeasy like that'll make him appear.
The second time you go back, you don't need convincing.
The door opens the same way. Cathy had coached you through the knock and the password, which you rattle off easily enough. Everything looks the same: warm, laughter ringing out, a few people dancing to the music.
And him.
Vernon looks up almost immediately. There's no visible pause in his movements this time, no falter, but something in his face shifts when he spots you. A small, private acknowledgment.
You take a seat at the bar without waiting to be steered there.
"Evening," he says when he reaches you, his head dipping in an almost comically polite greeting.
"Evening," you mimic, suddenly amused.
He smiles back. "Just you tonight?"
"Grace is on her way," you say. "I'm sure she'll be late, though."
"Well, you want something to get you started?"
You open your mouth to answer, but he's already asking, "Another Mary Pickford?"
You blink. He considers you for a moment, then smiles that sudden, brief smile. "I have a very good memory."
"That's convenient for you."
"It usually is. So?"
"I feel predictable," you say, crossing your arms with a frown. "Now I want something else."
He raises his eyebrows, but something amused plays with the corner of his mouth. "Then what would you like?"
"What would you recommend?"
It seems to be the right question, because he gets to work straight away. You watch him pour and mix without really registering his quick movement, until he sets a glass in front of you. The liquid is pale and clear.
"What is it?"
"Try it."
You do. It's good. Really good, but you don't want to give him the satisfaction.
You look up at him. "Not bad. I'll give you that."
He inclines his head, satisfied. "I'll take it."
He just about finishes his words when Grace appears on your other side, slightly red-cheeked. "Hi, doll," she says, "What's that?" Without waiting for an answer she takes a gulp, swallows. "Swell," she says, smacking her lips. "Vernon, I'll have one of those too, please."
"Of course," Vernon replies, not at all daunted by her sudden familiarity. Grace laughs and drifts away, easily absorbed into a conversation by some lucky admirer. You stay where you are, partly to finish your drink in peace, and partly because, well — Vernon.
For a few minutes he's pulled away again, someone calling for another round, a man waving a crumpled bill, but then, as if the room exhales all at once, there's a sudden lull. A pocket of quiet settles over your stretch of the bar. Grace's lucky admirer has swept her towards where others are dancing and you catch her tilting her head coyly, and snort to yourself.
Vernon returns, setting Grace's drink down where she'll find it when she remembers she ordered it. You take a sip of your drink and smile. "She'll be back eventually," you assure him. "Pretty sure she's stringin' him on to pay for that drink."
He glances over your shoulder. "He doesn't seem to mind."
You grin, trace your fingertip through the condensation on your glass. "She's mostly dragged me here to watch her stuff." You're joking, of course, and Vernon seems to get it, letting a short laugh.
"You didn't want to come?"
"I have work tomorrow," you say, avoiding answering the question. "I work at the telephone exchange."
His eyes spark. "Oh, I remember — " He cuts himself off. I remember you brother telling me, you finish mentally.
You're both quiet for a beat too long, and it's heavy. Then he inhales, keeps going. "How is it?"
You let out a breath that's half a laugh. "Repetitive. But what about you?" you ask, nodding around you. "How did you end up here?"
He glances down the bar, as if to make sure no one's about to interrupt again. "A friend needed help. I was between things."
"Between things," you repeat, dubious.
"Temporary," he says lightly.
You glance around the room, at the crowded tables and the low lamps and the bottle-lined shelves behind him. You lean closer, lowering your voice just a fraction. "You do realise this is wildly illegal."
His mouth twitches. "Is it?"
"Oh, please."
"I thought we were running a perfectly respectable, swanky establishment."
"Of course. With the hidden door and the coded knock."
"Ambience," he replies smoothly.
You shake your head. "I ought to sneak on you."
He actually laughs out loud. "To who? You're going to tell the coppers you stumbled across a speakeasy and accidentally tipped a few drinks down while you were there?"
You open your mouth, then close it again. "That's not the point!"
He leans in slightly, mirroring you without seeming to think about it. "Don't go turning me in now, ___." There's something teasing in his tone, but underneath it, something warmer and slower. His lips linger on your name, you swear it.
You meet his eyes. "I wouldn't."
"Good."
You sit back, lifting your glass again. "You're very calm about all this."
"About you threatening to have me in bracelets?"
"You know I wouldn't!"
"I do." The certainty in his voice makes your stomach flip in a way that has nothing to do with the drink.
A man at the far end of the bar calls his name, and Vernon straightens automatically, but he doesn't move just yet.
"It's good to see you," he says instead. Something in his eyes shifts, and instinctively you know he's thinking about your brother. You almost expect him to say his name, to say something, but all he does is exhale through his nose, stepping back into himself. "Duty calls."
"Go," you say, waving him off lightly. "Your criminal empire awaits."
He huffs a quiet laugh as he turns away. "Careful," he tosses over his shoulder. "That kind of talk will get you banned."
"From a law-abiding establishment like this?" you call after him.
He doesn't answer, but you catch the quick flash of his smile before he's swallowed up by the rest of the room.
On the third visit, Grace doesn't come at all. You tell yourself you're only stopping in for one drink before heading home.
You end up staying until nearly eleven.
The bar is quieter than usual. The band's taken the night off, replaced by a gramophone that crackles faintly in the corner. You sit at the far end of the bar this time, where the light is dimmer and the crowd thinner. Vernon doesn't even seem surprised to find you there.
"You're becoming a regular," he says.
"Is that allowed?"
"Depends. Can you keep a secret?"
"I work at a telephone exchange," you remind him. "If I repeated everything I heard, the city would implode."
You're only kidding, because you don't have time to listen in on every call. But it makes him laugh softly, and something about the sound loosens a knot in your chest you didn't know was there. He leans against the counter, closer now, forearms resting on the wood.
"You look tired," he says, not accusing. Just observing.
"Gee, thanks." You scrunch your nose. He only smiles, and you shrug. "It's been a long week."
He pushes your drink towards you, and you take a sip as silence settles between you, but it isn't strained. The music swells. Someone at the other end of the bar tells a loud joke.
"You still live with your aunt?" he asks after a while.
"Yes."
"She doing all right?"
"She's okay." Your aunt is old, a little ditzy. She barely knows you, really, but still — she's the only family you have left, and she gives you a bed at night and food to eat. "She misses him."
For a moment, the background hum of the speakeasy is drowned out, and you just watch as the words register on his face. All these minutes of dancing around it, but you're the one who brings him up.
The look he gives you is steady, unreadable in the low light.
You look away first, but he studies you for a second longer. "You know," he says quietly, "sometimes when you tilt your head like that, you look exactly like him."
It takes a moment for the words to sink in, but when they do, they sting. You blink. "I do not."
"You do," he insists, softer now. "Right before you're about to argue."
"That's ridiculous."
"There," he says, almost smiling. "That. Same tone."
You open your mouth to protest again, then hesitate. "I don't sound like him."
"Not usually." He pauses. "But when you're teasing someone."
Your throat tightens unexpectedly. "I don't—"
"I'm not saying it to upset you," he adds quickly. "It's just, you know. Familiar."
Familiar. You stare at the rim of your glass. "I don't know if I like that."
"Why?"
"Because I'm not him."
"I know." His voice is steady. "You're not." He huffs out what could be a laugh. "He always said you were much better than him."
You laugh again, but it wobbles at the edges.
"He was ridiculous," you say. "Always acting like I was made of glass."
"You're not," Vernon says. You're not sure if he's humouring you or if he actually believes that, but you let it slide.
"He talked about you a lot," you say after a moment.
Vernon goes still. He's almost painfully stiff — like if he moves, it'll hurt him. "Did he?"
"All the time. Said you were the only one who could beat him at cards. Said you once tried to cook and nearly burned the building down."
"That was one time," he mutters, but there's a reluctant smile forming at the corner of his lip.
You smile faintly. "He thought you were reckless."
"Oh, that's rich."
"But loyal," you add. "He said that too."
The noise of the bar seems to recede slightly.
Vernon looks down at the counter, running the cloth over a spot that doesn't need cleaning. "He was," he says finally, voice low, "a better man than he thought he was."
You nod, because can't quite trust your voice.
After that night, something shifts.
You start noticing small things. The way he sets a glass in front of you without asking what you want, already knowing. The way his gaze tracks you until you're safely seated, until your coat is hung, until you're settled.
You've never gone out to drink so often in your life. Sometimes you don't even drink — sometimes there are evenings you don't talk much at all. You sit at the bar with a book open in front of you, more for appearance than reading. He moves around you, and every so often your eyes meet. Occasionally, he'll stand in front of you during quiet moments, and you'll talk. Rarest of all, you'll talk about your brother,
Just the steady accumulation of moments.
You don't name what's growing between you. You're not sure you want to. But when he leans in to hear you over the noise and you catch the faint scent of soap and something sharper beneath it, when his shoulder brushes yours and neither of you moves away, when he says your name like it's something carefully held, you feel it.
It sits low and warm in your chest.
On a Friday night, the air inside the speakeasy feels thick and bright with laughter. Cathy is with you again, flushed from the cold and already leaning conspiratorially across the bar before you've even taken your coat off.
"You know," she says loudly, as Vernon sets two glasses down in front of you, "if I didn't know better, I'd say you've got a standing reservation."
"I don't," you reply, though you don't miss the flicker of amusement in Vernon's eyes.
"Sure, sweetheart," Catherine says. "And I'm the mayor."
"You'd be terrible at it."
"I'd be magnificent."
Vernon smiles faintly and moves down the bar to answer someone else's call, leaving you and Catherine to bicker good-naturedly. She's halfway through describing the absolute bluenose at her office when a man steps up to the bar.
You only notice him because Vernon's expression changes, ever so slightly. The man is older, broad-shouldered, his hat tipped low though he doesn't bother to remove it indoors. He doesn't glance at you or Catherine or anyone else; he barely glances at Vernon, for that matter. He speaks quietly, leaning in so that his words don't carry.
You try not to stare.
Cathy keeps talking, oblivious. "—and she cried. Actually cried. Over a crossed line."
You nod, but your attention drifts.
The man slides something across the bar. An envelope. It's small and cream-coloured and you never would have noticed it if you hadn't already been watching Vernon so closely.
Vernon's hand covers it without hesitation, as if it's nothing more than a receipt. He doesn't look down. He doesn't look surprised.
He says something back, equally low. The entire ordeal doesn't take more than a minute, and then the stranger is gone, and you realise you've gone silent.
"Sorry," you murmur. "What were you saying?"
"That I'd have smacked her with my heel."
"Of course you would." Your gaze drifts back to Vernon. He's already serving someone else, expression perfectly composed, like nothing ever happened, so you try to shake it off, downing the last of your drink.
He's back in front of you seconds later, expression smooth. "You need another?"
You study him, before deciding to just be blunt. "Who was that?"
If he's surprised you noticed, he doesn't show it. "A customer."
"That didn't look like a drink order."
He meets your eyes evenly. "Not all business is alcohol."
"You have a lot of interesting customers."
He studies you for half a second too long. "It's New York."
"That's not an answer."
He wipes down the counter, unhurried. "It's not meant to be."
There's no bite in his tone, but equally, there's a steel undertone that tells you plainly he's not going to elaborate.
You force a smile. "Very mysterious."
"I try."
Something unsettled coils in your stomach.
You know what your brother did. Not all of it, of course, but enough. He ran messages, delivered things (he'd never tell you what), anything that'd keep the money coming in. "Just small jobs," he'd said, over and over. "Nothing serious."
Until it was serious. Until it ended in a warehouse by the docks and a gunshot.
You don't want to think about that now, so you look back at Vernon, at the steady calm of him, the familiarity. You tell yourself it's nothing. Bars have suppliers, surely. Accounts. You know this place isn't exactly legal, after all. A few shady characters shouldn't surprise you.
You take a drink and let the music swallow your unease.
You want to push. You want to ask about that man, about what Vernon said to him. For some reason, you want to ask him to talk about your brother, even if it's just to say his name to someone who knew him.
You don't. Instead, you ask about the piano player, about how long he's worked here, about anything that doesn't require him to explain that envelope.
The problem is, it doesn't stop there.
Now that you know to look, you notice a lot more. More men who talk to Vernon in hushed tones, mmore papers slid across the bar smoothly. More nights where Vernon disappears in the middle of his shift — sometimes he's back before you leave, with his hair a little windswept and his eyes a little brighter. Sometimes he's not.
You still don't ask. You can tell he knows you want to, that he can see the curiosity, maybe even the reproach in your eyes, but he doesn't let you, and you don't try. Instead, you talk about work and your friends and your aunt and he listens the same way he always has.
The day your brother died, you had been late coming home.
It wasn't unusual. You'd just started at the exchange then, it hadn't been more than a week or two. You'd been so excited when you landed the job, because it meant you could finally tell your brother to quit "delivering messages", with your new wage and all. He'd promised you he would, that he just had a few things to see through.
You had been carrying a loaf of bread under your arm, still warm through the paper, and rehearsing in your head the scolding you meant to give him for finishing the last of the butter.
You knew something was wrong before you reached the top step, only because the door was ajar. Just enough to show the thin seam of lamplight through the crack, but nobody in your family — not you, not your aunt, and definitely not your brother — would forget to shut the door properly. You pushed it fully open with your hip, already frowning, lips already forming his name.
Your aunt had been standing in the middle of the sitting room, still wearing her apron. She looked smaller somehow, as if the air had pressed her inward. There was a man beside her, hat in his hands, the brim bent slightly between his fingers.
You don't remember dropping the bread, but you must have. Later, you would find it crushed against the wall.
The officer spoke carefully, like he was arranging glass on a shelf. There had been an incident by the warehouses. There had been a gun. He used phrases like unfortunate and tragic and a real shame. You watched his mouth move and thought, distantly, that he should have shaved more closely.
Your aunt had begun to cry before the officer finished speaking. You, on the other hand, didn't cry. You stood very still and stared at the scuffed toes of the officer's boots and wished very hard that he would fucking leave.
Your brother was not the sort of person who disappeared between sentences. He left socks on the floor. He left half-read newspapers on the arm of the chair. He never tied his laces properly. He did not simply stop existing.
The officer asked if you wanted to see him. You shook your head.
The house felt cavernous after they left. Every object was suddenly too specific. His coat slung over the back of a chair — he never remembered to take it with him. The faint imprint of his body in the sofa cushion. A glass on the table with a fingerprint still visible in the smudge.
You touched the sleeve of his coat and it swung gently, as if he might walk back in and shrug into it any second. You told yourself he would.
For weeks afterward, you kept expecting to hear his steps on the stairs. The quick, uneven rhythm of them. The way he'd clear his throat before entering a room, as if announcing himself to an audience.
You thought about the last conversation you'd had, the night before he died. He'd been distracted, smiling at something you couldn't see. When you'd asked where he was going, he'd brushed past you, light and evasive.
"Don't wait up," he'd said, as always.
You hadn't.
In the months before, there had been little things. Late nights, a lot of restlessness. Sometimes you'd wake in the middle of the night and he'd be pacing in the sitting room.
At first, you'd thought it was just a girl he was seeing, but slowly, the later he came home, the more money he came home with, you realised you had got it entirely wrong, and when you asked questions, he'd answer as vaguely as possible.
You remember watching him lace his boots horribly one evening, his head bent, his hair falling into his eyes, and thinking that he looked older than he had any right to.
You remember almost saying, Stay.
You didn't. You knew he wouldn't listen. (Family trait, you aunt would sigh, whenever you and your brother argued. Too stubborn to listen.)
You can't ignore how much this — how much being around Vernon feels like the months before your brother died. When you're watching someone else you care about (because you do care about him, it turns out, more than you'd thought) giving you half-explanations and careful smiles, that same hollow space in your chest begins to open again, tight and painful and raw in your chest. You didn't want to draw the comparison, but every time Vernon disappears, it echoes a time you promised yourself you'd never live through again.
As usual, you ignore it.
One evening, Vernon walks you home.
You're not entirely sure how it happens, it just happens. The rain had started, just after nine. Catherine, who had arrived determined to be sensible, abandons that resolve the moment a man with neatly parted hair offers to share his umbrella. You watch her deliberate for less than a second before she beams and loops her arm through his.
"Don't wait for me," she calls to you, echoing something you've heard a dozen times before.
"I won't," you reply, smiling despite yourself.
Grace had already disappeared an hour earlier, pulled into some back corner with a cluster of strangers arguing about baseball. She'd kissed your cheek in passing and told you not to be dull, to "do something about the bartender you're stuck on".
So you're left alone at the bar, nursing the last inch of your drink, listening to the low hum of jazz as the night wears on. Occasionally, you flick your eyes to Vernon, and then tear them away when you realise you've been looking too long. Vernon moves through the space like he always does — steady and quick on his feet. He's got a dish towel slung over one shoulder now, sleeves pushed high, hair slightly curling at the ends from the damp air every time the door opens. You try not to think about how handsome it makes him look. You fail.
When the rain thickens enough to drum faintly against the windows, you decide it's your excuse. You slip from your stool and gather your coat, the fabric cool against your hands. You shake it out, slide your arms through, and begin fastening the buttons one by one.
"You heading out?"
His voice comes from your left. You hadn't seen him approach.
"Yes," you say, casting him a smile when you look up from your buttons. "Before it gets worse."
He glances toward the door, listening to the steady patter. "I'll walk you."
There's a moment — small, suspended — where neither of you quite moves. The bar behind him carries on as usual: someone laughs too loudly, glass clinks against glass. He's never asked to see you outside of here before; neither of you have ever taken the urge to move this, whatever it is, outside.
"You don't have to," you say, at last.
"I know." He's already fumbling into some sort of storage space for his coat. "I have somewhere to be, anyway. I'll walk you on the way."
You hesitate for the length of a breath, then nod. "All right." You don't ask where he's going — you don't want to know.
He grabs his coat from a peg near the back and says something brief to another bartender, who waves him off without question. There's something about that — how easily he steps away, how little explanation he needs to give — that presses at the back of your mind, but you push it aside.
Outside, rain has glossed the streets into mirrors. You pull your collar higher against the sudden sharp wind. Vernon falls into step beside you without touching, close enough to share your umbrella, close that you can feel the warmth of him between your sleeves.
For a while, you just walk.
The rhythm of your steps finds itself naturally, heel to toe in quiet synchronisation. Your shoulders brush once, accidentally, and neither of you comments on it.
"You're quiet," he says after a few blocks.
"So are you."
He considers that. "Fair."
A cab rattles past, wheels sending up a spray that narrowly misses your hem.
"You ever think about leaving?" he asks suddenly.
You glance at him. "Leaving what?"
"New York."
The question lingers between you, strange and unexpectedly intimate. "Sometimes," you admit, something you never thought you'd do out loud. "Usually after a long day. Or when the heat in the apartment stops working." You tuck your hands deeper into your coat pockets, and a smile appears on your face. "I think I'd like to try farm life, you know." You're only half-joking.
He snorts. "You? On a farm?"
"What?" You try to be offended, but end up laughing along with him. "You don't think I could do it?"
"If you're anything like your brother, you'll do anything you put your mind to," he says, shaking his head. "Even if it's stupid."
"What about you then? Don't you ever want to get out of here?"
"Sometimes," he says, his head tilting slightly to the side. "But I don't know what I'd do anywhere else."
"You could cook," you suggest lightly, biting down the grin that threatens to emerge. "Open a little restaurant somewhere respectable. Legal."
He huffs a laugh, shaking his head. "You're hilarious."
"No, I've seen you back there. You look very competent."
"That's because I don't have to eat what I make."
You laugh, and the sound drifts into the damp air and disappears. It's just a small conversation, a harmless one, but something about the quiet street makes them feel weightier.
You pass a bakery long closed for the night. The faint scent of bread lingers even through the rain. A cat darts across the alley ahead of you, vanishing into shadow.
"You're coming round less often lately," he says.
You glance at him, surprised. "Are you keeping track?"
He shrugs. "I notice things." You think the apples of his cheeks are pinking, but that could just be the cold.
"I have to be up before six," you say. "If I'm late twice in a week they start writing it down. Like we're schoolchildren."
He makes a quiet sound of disapproval.
"It's not so bad, though," you add quickly. "It's steady."
"You say that like you're convincing yourself."
You nudge his arm lightly with your elbow. "Don't analyse me."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
The rain picks up slightly, beading along his coat collar. A curl of dark hair falls forward onto his forehead and you have the absurd urge to reach up and push it back.
Halfway down your block, your foot slips on a slick patch of pavement, and his hand closes around your wrist instantly — his grip tightens reflexively, steadying you. Your breath catches, and for a second you're acutely aware of everything. The pressure of his fingers, your pulse fluttering beneath his thumb, the faint scent of rain and soap clinging to him.
You both go still.
His thumb presses lightly against your wrist before he seems to realise what he's doing.
"Sorry," he says, too quickly.
"It's fine," you reply, though your voice sounds breathier than you intend.
He doesn't let go right away. Neither of you moves for a long second, not until rain slides from the brim of his coat and lands against your sleeve. Somewhere down the street, a door slams, and he releases you.
You smooth your coat unnecessarily. He clears his throat.
"You all right?"
"Yes." You try to ignore how hot your face suddenly feels.
"Good."
When you reach your building, the front steps shine wet under the streetlamp. The windows above are dark. Your aunt will already be asleep.
You skip up a step or two, turn toward him, hands still tucked in your pockets to keep them from fidgeting.
"Thank you," you say.
"For what?"
"For walking me."
He shrugs one shoulder. "It's on my way."
You sum up the courage to be a little bolder. "It's not."
A faint smile curves his mouth, not even a little bit flustered. "Doesn't matter."
Rain traces a thin line down his cheekbone. Again, you resist the urge to brush it away. "Do you want my umbrella?" you say, suddenly realising you've left him in the rain. You don't wait for an answer. You hurry back down the steps, shoes slick against the damp stone, snapping the umbrella back open and lifting it over his head. It tilts slightly as you adjust your grip, and in doing so you step closer than you meant to.
The umbrella isn't large. The space beneath it narrows the world to just the two of you — the steady patter of rain above — again, that faint scent of wet wool and soap — the warmth of his body only inches from yours.
Vernon seems to realise the exact second you do.
His eyes flick briefly to your mouth. Your breath catches. The hand holding the umbrella trembles just slightly, and he notices — of course he notices.
For a moment, neither of you moves. The city continues around you, rain glossing the pavement, distant wheels cutting through puddles, but it all feels far away.
You're not sure who leans in first.
It's small, almost tentative — a shared decision made without words. His hand comes up, not to pull you closer, just to steady the umbrella where your grip falters. His fingers brush yours, warm and rough, and just as they do, your lips meet softly. A gentle press, testing, as if both of you are making sure the other won't pull away. You don't.
His mouth is warm despite the rain, gentler than you expected. The kiss lingers a heartbeat longer than caution would advise, long enough for something to shift in your chest — something bright and terrifying all at once.
When you part, it's slow. Reluctant.
The umbrella tilts again, rain slipping past the edge and catching in his hair. He exhales, barely a sound, and for a second he looks almost surprised. Then something steadier settles over his expression.
"Get inside," he says gently. "Before you catch something."
You step back toward the door, fingers curling around the handle. "Goodnight."
"Goodnight."
You hesitate just long enough to look at him once more — the lamplight catching in his eyes, the rain settling into the dark wool of his coat — and then you slip inside.
From the narrow hallway window, you watch him walk away.
He doesn't hurry, hands in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched against the rain. At the corner, he glances back once — not toward the window, but toward the building itself — as if making sure the door has closed. Then he turns and disappears into the sheen of the city, leaving the street quiet behind him.
You lean your forehead against the cool window. You kissed him — you kissed him, so why does you feel so full of dread?
You run into him three days later in the park.
You'd left the house to escape the stale quiet. Your aunt had fallen asleep in her armchair again, knitting pooled in her lap, so you'd taken your book and walked the few blocks to the park, settling onto a weathered bench beneath a tree that hasn't quite decided to let go of its leaves. It's a little damp, more than a little cold, but you'll take anything that gets you away from being cooped up with your thoughts.
You're halfway through a page when a shadow falls across the paper.
"What are the odds?" a familiar voice asks.
You look up too quickly.
Vernon's dressed differently. No rolled sleeves. No apron. Just a dark coat, collar turned up against the breeze, hands tucked into his pockets. Without the bar framing him, he looks younger.
"Is that disappointment I hear?" you ask.
"Devastation," he says solemnly.
You snort before you can stop yourself. "What are you doing here?"
"Walking."
"Just walking?"
"Is that so hard to believe?"
You tilt your head. "A little."
He smiles. "Can I?" He gestures to the empty space beside you.
You hesitate for half a second — not because you want to say no, but because your heart has started beating in that uneven way again — and then you nod. He sits, close but not touching, and all you can think about is how the last time you saw him, his lips were on yours.
For a moment, neither of you speak. It feels almost indecently normal, you sat next to him on a bench. Simple — it feels simple. You wish it was.
"You don't seem surprised," he says after a while.
"To see you?"
He nods. You close your book, wrinkle your nose as you think, thumb marking the page. "I was, for a second. But my aunt always says, you know, the city's smaller than we think."
"Or we're worse at staying away than we pretend."
You glance at him. "Were you trying to stay away?"
His gaze stays forward. "Were you?"
You don't answer. A breeze lifts, tugging a loose strand of hair across your mouth. You reach to brush it away at the same time he does — your fingers collide lightly.
He drops his hand first. "Sorry."
"It's fine."
You both look forward again, but something has shifted — a current humming just beneath the surface. "You read much?" he asks, nodding toward your book.
"When I can."
"Is it good?"
"I don't know yet," you admit. "I've read the same paragraph three times."
He huffs quietly. "Distracted?"
"Maybe."
He studies you then, openly. Silence settles again, softer this time, and after a few long moments, he looks away.
A boy runs past chasing a ball, nearly colliding with Vernon's knee. Vernon catches the ball instinctively before it hits the gravel path, handing it back with a faint nod. The boy grins and dashes off again.
You watch the ease of it. "You know, you seem different out here."
"How?"
"I don't know." You search for the right words. "Less guarded."
He goes still at that.
"Guarded," he repeats.
"At the bar, you're always watching and listening and moving."
"And here?"
"Here you just look like a man sitting in the sun. Honestly, I didn't know you could sit so still until now."
The corner of his mouth lifts. "Thrilling." There's a moment where he seems to debate saying something, and then he opens his mouth. "You're different too, you know. In the daylight."
"Really?"
"Even prettier," he says, soft. "I can actually see your face."
You swallow.
You can't do this again. The thought arrives sharp and unwelcome, and you stand abruptly. "I should go," you say.
He looks up at you, surprised. "Did I say something wrong?"
"No." You force a smile. "No, I just — I promised my aunt I wouldn't be long."
He rises too. "I'll walk you, then," he says. "If you'll let me."
"You don't have to."
"I know."
You hesitate, and then you nod. The path curves out of the park and back toward the city blocks. You walk side by side, arms brushing occasionally, but neither of you say anything the whole way home.
It's a few nights later, when you see Vernon outside the bar, and something inside you twists.
You hadn't meant to come, but your bed had felt too close, the air too thick with the sound of your aunt's breathing in the next room, the clock ticking too loudly on the mantel. You'd needed air. That was all.
But your feet had turned at the familiar corner without consulting you. Past the bakery, straight past the shuttered tailor, toward the narrow stretch of brick that concealed the door you now knew by heart.
You realise where you're headed only when you see the faint spill of amber light at the end of the block.
You stop.
You could turn around. You probably should turn around.
Instead, you keep walking.
The rain has left the pavement slick and dark. The alley beside the building gleams faintly under a single weak lamp, and you're just about to pass by it when movement catches your eye. Two figures stand half-shadowed against the brick. One taller, shoulders squared. The other angled slightly inward, posture familiar in a way your body recognises before your mind does.
You know it's him before he shifts enough for the light to touch his face.
There's no easy warmth to him here, no softness from lamplight and music, no quick smile sent your way from across the room.
You realise belatedly that the man standing opposite him is the first one you'd noticed weeks ago. Now they're stand close enough that their shoulders nearly brush.
You don't move. (You should go, you think, but you know you won't.) The alley smells faintly of damp brick and stale smoke. Your pulse roars in your ears so loudly you're sure it must be audible.
Reaching inside his coat, Vernon pulls out something wrapped in brown paper — long, narrow, bound tightly with twine. It's too rigid to be anything soft, too carefully held to be casual. He grips it with both hands, angled downward, shielded by his body.
The shape is unmistakable. Even through paper, you can see the outline.
It's a gun.
Your breath leaves you in a thin, soundless rush. You watch as the man steps closer. Vernon keeps his movements controlled, passing the parcel across the small space between them the same way you've seen him hand over a bottle of alcohol countless times.
The man takes it, slipping it quickly beneath his coat, tucking it along his side with familiarity. He adjusts his jacket once, twice, until the shape disappears against his body. They exchange a few quiet words. You strain to hear, but the rain-swollen air swallows the sound. The man gives a single nod, and then he turns and walks toward the mouth of the alley, steps measured, unhurried, merging easily with the dim spill of light from the main street.
Vernon stays where he is. He exhales slowly, the breath visible in the damp air. His hand comes up to his hair, pushing it back from his forehead in that same absent gesture you've seen a hundred times across the bar.
It's so normal.
So terribly normal.
Then he turns, straight towards you — there's one horrible moment where you think he's seen you, he's known you were there all along. Then your thoughts kick in, you realise it's not possible, and as he walks in your direction, instinct slams through you. You step back hard enough that your shoulder hits brick. The cold seeps instantly through your coat. You press yourself into shadow, willing your breathing to quiet, willing your heartbeat to stop battering against your ribs.
He walks past.
Close enough that you see the rain clinging to his lashes. Close enough that you could reach out and catch his sleeve, if you wanted.
His gaze is fixed straight ahead, and the glimpse you get of his eyes shows them hard, focused. Closed off in a way you've never seen when he's looking at you. There's no softness in it now, no warmth or laughter.
He passes within arm's length, and you let him.
And you stand there, rooted to damp brick, the image of brown paper and the unmistakable outline beneath it burning behind your eyes.
You realise you've stopped breathing. Because once again, it's the same. No matter how hard you try to ignore it, it's the same.
Small things. Harmless things. Just helping someone out. Just passing something along. Just a favor. Just temporary.
You've heard it all before, and standing here with the rain dampening the back of your neck and the wind picking up, you remember deciding not to push. You remember telling yourself it was none of your business.
And you remember the knock at the door, the officer's hat in his hands.
You can't do this again.
The thought lands with such force it nearly steals the air from your lungs, but it blocks everything else out, because it's true — you can't.
You can't stand on the edge of something and pretend not to see where it leads. Because that's what this is, whether he names it or not. No matter how much he insists that he's careful; you know how careful men end up. You know how easily small things become bigger ones.
Your eyes burn suddenly, fiercely, and you blink hard against it. The alley feels too narrow, the walls too close. For a wild moment, you consider calling after him.
Vernon.
You imagine the sound of his name leaving your mouth, sharp enough to make him turn. You imagine his surprise. The explanation that would follow. The way he would soften his voice, step closer, tell you it isn't what you think, maybe even cup your cheek, let you lean into the warmth of his hand.
But you don't want to hear it. You don't want to stand under the weak alley lights and listen to him carve this into something reasonable, because you know yourself well enough to know you might believe him.
You don't follow him.
You don't go back for nearly a week and a half. It's the longest you've gone without seeing him since he appeared back into your life.
On the eleventh day, Vernon finds you outside the exchange.
You're startled when he says your name, whipping round so quickly you seem to startle him just as much as he did you. "What are you doing here?"
"Looking for you," he says simply.
You fold your arms. "Why?"
"You haven't been by."
"I've been busy."
He studies you, eyes shrewd. "That's not it."
You hold his gaze. "I saw you."
His expression doesn't change. "Saw me."
"In the alley."
A beat of silence, and then he takes your arm, gently — so gently, he's always gentle — and pulls you into a small alcove.
"You shouldn't have been there," he says, his voice lowered.
"That's not an answer."
He exhales slowly. "It's not what you think."
"Then what is it, Vernon? Because to me, it looked like a fucking gun."
He runs a hand through his hair, something uncharacteristically frustrated flickering across his face. "It's nothing serious."
"That's what he said."
Vernon's jaw tightens. "I'm not him," he says quietly.
"I know that."
"Then don't look at me like that."
"I thought you were just bartending," you say. It's not true. You've known for a long time, really, you just haven't let yourself.
"I am."
"And the rest?"
He doesn't answer immediately. "I didn't tell you because I didn't want you involved," he says finally. "I didn't want you worrying."
"That's not your decision to make."
"No," he agrees. "It's not." The honesty of it disarms you.
"Why?" you ask, and maybe there's a hint of desperation seeping into your tone. "Vernon, why do you do it?"
"Money," he says plainly. "It's temporary."
You almost laugh. That fucking word again.
"That's what he said," you whisper.
Silence stretches between you. "I'm careful," Vernon says, but he already sounds resigned. "I don't take risks I can't manage."
"You can't manage a bullet," you snap.
The words hang heavy. "I'm not trying to replace him," Vernon says more softly. "And I'm not trying to follow him."
"If you keep going like this, you will," you say, and you have to fight to keep your voice down, and you have to fight even harder to force the tears back into your eyes. "You're going to follow hom straight to the grave." You swallow, hard, raw, painful. "I can't do it again," you say hoarsely.
His hand lifts, thumb brushing under your eye to catch the tear that falls. "Do what?"
"Bury someone else I l— care about," you say. You watch his eyes, softness and conflict swimming in the brown. Your hand reaches up to cover his on your cheek, and you squeeze, feeling the warmth again. "Vernon, please don't make me."
He doesn't say anything, but you follow the bob of his throat as he swallows. "I care about you," he says, finally. "And — I'm sorry."
You leave before he can stop you.
a/n: sad ending i know im sorry!!!!! i never know whether to put it in the warnings bc its technically a spoiler but. idk. i personally don't like seeing it in the tags before i read something but maybe thats just me. "hana will there be a part 2" hana doesn't know. hana is a little bit sick of this fic after rewriting it 4 times and right now hana would like to not think about it for a very long time.
also guys i need u to know its like 1am and i did one quick readthrough for proofreading and every time she says "thats what he said" i couldnt stop laughing. anyway thank u for reading love u all goodbye
part of the Puttin' On The Ritz collab hosted by @studiosvt!
pairing: Wen Junhui x f!reader
word count: 9k
synopsis: There are many things your father never told you when he left you his flower shop; the ever creaky door hinges, the delivery man who can never seem to tell the orchids from the gardenias, and the headquarters of the biggest mafia in New York operating in the employee break room.
Of course you're used to it now, the familiar faces passing in and out of the shop while you pretend nothing is amiss. Until a new face appears, disappearing into the backrooms without a word, bloodied knuckles and a poorly strapped revolver on his hips.
Suddenly, it's very hard to pretend.
contains: mafia!Jun, florist! reader, this is set exclusively in 1920s New York, gangs, violence, guns, explicit mention of blood and wounds, talk of difficult upbringings, prohibition period so talk of alcohol is altered, fluff, angst, suggestive (minors DNI)
[a/n]: only took me years but i finally wrote for jun!!! I loved this concept and I loved jun in this light, I'm so glad this is my debut jun fic and I hope the jun lovers in enjoy reading it!!!! plsplsplsplspls check out all the amazing fics posted by the other writers in this collab, the link to the masterlist is above and right here!! pls give them all da love 🫶
and thank you so much to my lovely lovely jessifer @starlightkyeom for beta reading for me.
masterlist
THE CLINK OF YOUR keys is loud against the lock, echoing throughout the empty hallway. Tensing shoulders and straining ears, you wait, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5…Mrs. Miller's Labrador seems to be deep asleep, sparing the building his incessant barks. Tiptoeing down the hall, you shuffle past the loud snores emanating from the Wilsons' apartment, down the steps and out the front door.
For five o'clock in the morning, the streets buzz with a quiet hum. Rickety sounds of wheels wheezing underneath the weight of a ton of firewood, pushed up on the sidewalk under a dripping veranda. Passerbys with erect posture and brisk footsteps step around the slower intrusion like parting water, and you're part of the fleet as you step airily onto the street from the sidewalk.
You can hear the racket of an engine, but with no headlights in sight, you only glance left and right before walking across. The police officers pays you little mind, but you call out, "Morning, Robert, Stan!"
"Morning!" they call back in unison.
Despite the minuscule bustle, the only lights you see on are from the bakers, Paul lugging crates into the establishment. The man had been up long before you, no doubt. It smells heavenly, but Paul is too busy arguing with the delivery man about a mis-order to take your compliment.
No matter, the crisp New York air, perfumed by baked goods and smoke, is overlayed by a cobbled scent you never quite learned to place. Your sister, far far away in Philadelphia, called it urban, said it like it was an insult. You were quick to remind her she grew up in the urban air all the same; it runs in her veins.
You miss the lamppost by a hair, gracefully staggering over your own two feet. It will never matter how many years you take the same turn, the lamppost coming up 28th street will always stand barricade. You deflect to the right side of the sidewalk, and are immediately flanked by a whirring engine in your ear, the obscene creaking and banging of a Ford harassing you as you veer a little too close to the street.
It's around this time during your commute that you have to start looking straight ahead instead of at your shoes or at the closed shops. Stepping over an abandoned string of pearls, you strut down the sidewalk with shoulders back and chin up, air of forced confidence engulfing you.
It was important that you did so, for 28th street at five o'clock in the morning was passageway to the last drunken staggers of haphazardly clothed people, fried and sodden from their whoopees and wingdings, desperate for a cracking excuse to stay out another hour. Two men with their wits hardly about them pass you by, both jelly legged yet deluded into believing they can hold one another up.
Broken glass crunched audibly under your feet, mixed with final drunken hurrahs in the distance, louder than necessary fits of laughter, the occasional brawl with slurred obscenities and muffled thumps and grunts.
It was easier to navigate than what appears, the point was to never look like a darty eyed squirrel in predator territory. They're like vultures, but instead of feasting, they look for meek individuals to inaugurate into the revelry. You ignore every slurred and intonated hellos and how you doings, stalking right up to the alley that would take you to your storefront.
The alley off your flower shop has been wet since your first memory of the place. Your father wasted years of his life in attempts to get it fixed, letters returned and long commutes to city hall in vain. The alley remained as it was to this day.
You step over a puddle and walk briskly out into the greying sky. Dawn was coming in, all while the streets evicted its night shift workers of pearls and dancing shoes into their cold beds, you take the turn towards the locked doors of your establishment.
Maeve's Flowers was named after the wife of the man who opened the place decades ago. Your father bought it when you were young enough to not remember it, a compensation to himself for not being drafted into war for the sake of his crippled left leg, but your memory was full of every conscious moment after that.
There's debris you're not keen to identify at the front door, but you merely step over it and pull the keys out of your bag. Unlocking, you hardly step inside the shop before closing the door and locking it once again. It wasn't unsafe, but it wasn't wise to leave the door open when the rowdiness was yet to dissipate.
You take a moment to look around the shop—just like how you left it last night. It's silent when you place your bag on the counter save for the noise of the mechanical fridges in the corner, still looking around as you take off your coat. The light switch remains turned off, but the minimal light is enough for you. Slowly, with your coat hung over your arm, you take a tentative step towards coming around the counter.
The door behind the counter, labelled with a conspicuous "BREAKROOM" is closed, but you're cautious anyway. You're next to the counter now, catching sight of the sliver of air the door leaves at the bottom.
The light is on.
Backtracking, you walk towards the front door again, making sure to make as little noise as possible. You grab your bag as you go, gripping the handle and pushing down. It's locked, doesn't open when you tug. But that isn't your goal.
You take the handle and give it a good shake, rattling the door against the frame with enough noise to make you cringe. Quickly, you grab your keys and jam them into the lock, unlocking it, only to lock it again.
As you're twisting the keys, you hear the sound of the door clicking open behind you. One last twist, you re-lock the door and turn around. Like you'd just walked in.
He stands there in a suit too put together for five o'clock in the morning, pocket watch dangling from his pocket. There's a bulge on his left hip that is usually concealed by coat. It's a nice thing, black and leather, hiding his gun.
"'Morning, Patrick," you say, feigning mild confusion. Before you can say anything else, he raises a hand.
"We'll be out of your hair in a few. Feel free to start setting up shop." And then door clicks shut once more.
Letting out a sigh, you let your shoulders sag, putting your bag right back on the counter and walking around it. You don't muffle your footsteps, in fact you make it a point to make noise, hanging your coat and bag, turning the lights on. It's bright, but you'll turn most of them off soon enough when the sun is awake and you've pulled the shutters up.
Slipping out the inventory book, you refresh on what needs to be expected from the delivery coming in today, trying your best to pay minimal attention to the sanded conversation happening beyond the door behind you.
Making your way around the counter, you move to the edges of the room to pull the potted plants out of hiding, bringing them to their usual spots where they're seen beyond the unfathomable hues of the flowers. The loud ruckus of the mechanical fridges are next, bringing out the last of the roses, lilies and orchids out of the tiny cold compartment. You set them in their usual spots, making room for the new ones to come in.
Turning the refrigerator off would be a challenge, considering the compressor and switchboard resides within the breakroom. You make a mental note the next time one of them comes out. Joe was clear when they'd bought you the fridges to remember to turn them off when they weren't in use, but you would rather strip Patrick's gun right off his belt and laugh in his face about it than step into the breakroom while it was occupied.
Opening one of the drawers, you pull out your father's old hardwood watch, checking the time. Your flower delivery would be here any minute, and you wonder if you should start feeling anxious about the men in the other room.
You note the crack in the clock face, yet to be mended. It was your own doing, the day you had to face the aftermath of being your father's daughter. At least, who you thought your father was.
It was a week after his death, you'd taken the same route to get to the shop, but this time without him leading you or waiting for you there. Joe was stood outside the door, a pack of Chesterfields being shoved in his pocket from where you could see him around the corner. You watched him light the cigarette, the dark fog of the April morning making quite a scenic view of the man in his dark coat and hat.
You walked right past him towards the door, not realising he was waiting for you. And he had been waiting for a full week.
Your natural reaction to an unfamiliar man telling you he owned a stake in your shop was nothing above baffling, but not more than the glinting metal strapped to his hip. You will never know if he flashed you his gun on purpose or not, but the effect was the same. This was not some ordinary man.
The name Carmine was not unheard of, in fact it was far from it. The puppet master of the largest mafia in the city was not one so easily concealed.
The man took a sledgehammer to the man you knew as your father, bludgeoning the familiar to a face you couldn't recognise. This wasn't the only front he owned, but it was the oldest, and he intended to keep it. Regardless of the line of inheritance.
He stood there, claiming to be a fair man, promising to pay you exactly what he paid your father, give you the protection when needed, in exchange for the small breakroom behind the flower shop counter, and your sworn secrecy.
Joe Carmine had turned your life inside out, because of course, it had already been turned upside down. And he'd done it all before snubbing out his first smoke of the day.
Of course, you've grown familiar to the men over the years. Joe is hardly in, Patrick seemingly taking the brunt of the work around this part of town. You've grown used to the constant in and out of men with withered looks and permanently strained jaws, ignoring them as they loiter around the shop pretending to be interested in the flowers, before stalking right into the breakroom as soon as the customer says their goodbyes.
You don't ask questions and they don't answer them. Perhaps for your own good.
There isn't much to complain about. Business is good, and the extra cash is more than just a tip, and Joe seems to take care of you in his own detached way. You don't know if he and your father were close, and you're not sure if you want to know. The world of Carmine is far from squeaky clean.
It's nearing six on the dot, and you're beginning to contemplate knocking on the door, when Patrick wrenches the door open. You whip around, watching him file out along with a couple more men you recognise but cannot name.
"Apologies, we'll be out now" he says, moving towards the door.
"Do I need to expect anyone during the day?" you call out before he can leave. He turns, his expression detached. He looks tired.
He motions for the men to file out before him, one already fishing his pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. Once they're gone, he iterates, "None that I know of. But plans might change. You can leave after you close."
Patrick leaves, but not before reaching up to tug the door chime that's tucked away at the end of the day, closing the door with the sound of twinkling metal, marking the day shift.
Marcus has brought you the pink peonies, daffodils, orchids, gardenias and every other flower on your list, but very conveniently forgets the roses.
"Crops not good!" he argues.
"Is the crop not good or is Damson's store offering more for less," you say, checking the gardenias off the list. The guilt look on his face is enough, and you continue, "We've been giving you business before Damson could tell the difference between a daisy and a coneflower, is it impossible to expect a little more loyalty?"
"You'll have them tomorrow morning," he promises. And you're left walking inside with the last box, calling out behind you, "You're lucky I had the foresight!"
You're flipping the sign to open before 7 AM hits, still opening the last couple boxes when the first customer rolls in. It's the usual at this time, business meetings needing a flowery push, housewives wanting colour in their space, a wreath for a headstone, a rose for a disgruntled partner. You move like clockwork, wrapping flowers in ribbon and outdated newspaper, trying to avoid placing the latest statement from Coolidge somewhere noticeable.
It isn't until the afternoon strikes when the other crowd pours in. Most have only just risen from bed, wanting lavish bouquets that rival the ones down every street in New York, enormous arrangements that hardly fit through the door. They come with shaded glasses to hide their eyes, rouge to cover their tired cheeks, a hidden flask under most coats that require the occasional spot of attention.
Men and women come in asking for fabulous, unprecedented, better than whatever Nancy showed out with at the parlour. They could walk out with flowers you picked blind and remain none the wiser.
It's nearing eight o'clock when the rush subsides. It's a weekday, and there's less for you to do than usual. A customer walks in just as you're contemplating closing, a woman in a dark coat and hat, gloved hands folded over her torso, handbag tight against her hip.
"Evening!" you say and she smiles when you smile, albeit a strained one. She looks uncomfortable, but it seems to stem from the loud yelling outside.
"You wouldn't have any daisies left?" she asks.
"Enough for one more bouquet. Would you like an arrangement?"
"Just the last of your daisies, please," she says, wincing in irritation at the ruckus outside. 28th Street was on for the night shift. "Jesus Christ, how do you do it every day?"
"Learn to zone it out," you laugh, gathering the last of the daisies with the petals still intact.
"Oh, you can give me the defected ones too, it's alright," she waves you dismissively, opening her purse to fish out the cash. You gather the flowers together, placing them on the table to wrap them up.
You're busy wrestling a big enough assortment of newspaper when the door chime rings, someone stepping through the threshold into the shop.
Instinctively, you call out, "Evening!" Looking up from your assortment, you feel your breath catch in your throat. You think your heart might have stopped.
The man is tall enough to tower over you and everything else in the room, dark coat hung over his shoulders, a mop of ebony hair brushing over his eyes, down to his nape.
He's handsome. At least you think he is.
There's intrusions on his face in the form of smeared blood, tracks across his face like he made a crude attempt at wiping it off but failed. You catch sight of his hands, knuckles in the same state of bloodied, torn and bruised. He might be limping.
He only nods in response to your greeting, and moves over to inspect the floor covered in potted plants. The woman is still rummaging through her bag to notice you falter so visibly, willing yourself to steel, picking up a corner of the newspaper to start wrapping.
You pray he keeps his head turned away, needing this woman to pay and leave before she catches sight of him.
You might not be on first name basis with most of the Carmine clan that utilises this space, but you could spot them by face a mile away. Despite the nature of their business, they all appear to be prim, well groomed men, guns holstered and covered, bruises and cuts bandaged and hidden away.
The racing of your heart stems from a few things, namely that this man is the very opposite of prim and proper, in fact, he's walked in like he got into a brawl with a cement wall. And not to mention, you've never seen this man in your life.
Nothing is indicating you to treat him like a Carmine.
Panic is flooding your veins at the speed of light, an increasing amount of willpower channelling through to keep your hands from shaking. Your knees feel like they're moments away from buckling. You may be used to dealing with bad men, but you've never dealt with bad men.
Your customer is tapping her fingers against her own hand, looking around the shop like she was taking it in. It was significantly more sparse than this morning, but she stares like you were hosting her a garden in spring. You wish she'd stop.
The man is still observing your house plants like he's genuinely interested, brushing his fingers over the green of your golden pothos with his bruised hand, knuckles caked with dried blood.
He's waiting for her to leave. You know he is.
One of the drawers housing your ribbons catch onto the mechanism, taking a few minutes for you to pull the damn thing open. When you do, the force of your tugging makes an audible bang as wood slams against wood. The two other people in the room snap their heads towards you, and you make it a point to not look up. At least, not until you had your ribbon in your hands.
His gaze was on you and the table.
You ignore it as you continue to tighten the strings around the bouquet and pulling the ribbon into a nicer bow. You don't realise how sweaty your palms are till you wipe them on your skirts.
"Right," the woman beings, "How much do I owe you?"
"That'll be a dollar fifty."
The woman scrutinises the bouquet, "But these are more than a dozen."
"The defected are on the house, ma'am," you explain, noting how breathless you sound.
"Oh, that's awful nice of you!" she cracks a smile, slipping the money out of her coin purse and placing them on the table. You count an extra dollar on the table, and you're already opening your mouth to call for her.
But all you hear the distinct ringing of the bell at the door, and when you look up, she's gone.
Slowly, but deliberately, you exhale out of your nose, sliding the coins and bill towards you off the table. You drop them into the drawer, closing it shut.
Then you look over at the man that's now taking steps towards the counter, plastering a smile on your face like all the blood and grime coating his entire being are invisible to you. He's not smiling.
"What can I get you this evening?"
"Patrick said I could use the breakroom for the night." The first thing you note is his voice. It's coarse, but something tells you it's not always like that.
You hesitate for a beat too long, and you know it. "I'm sorry?"
He turns his head, shifting his weight. He exhales forcibly. "Cut the shit. Patrick said I could use the breakroom at Maeve's on the 28th. Is this Maeve's on 28th?"
You're entirely unequipped to handle the situation, especially considering Patrick told you to expect no one just this morning. But he also said plans might change.
You've been quiet for too long, except you have not a clue what to do. "I…I don't know who Patrick is."
He brings a hand to his forehead, rubbing his eyes. "Listen lady, clearly I've had a long day. I wouldn't know Carmine has quarters here if I wasn't told by someone on the inside."
But is he on the inside?
He continues. "Patrick's gonna be here any minute, and you oughtta let me in before he starts asking you questions."
"Patrick never—"
"So you do know him?"
Shit.
"I can't let you in the back," you state. Clear and simple.
Perhaps it wasn't at all intelligent to argue with a man who's clearly capable of getting himself this roughed up, not to mention one with a gun very conveniently within arms reach. But you aren't choosing to use an ounce of intelligence in the current moment, acting purely on instinct.
"Fine," he says. Moving away from the counter slowly. "I have two options, both of them involve waiting for Patrick to get here."
You don't have a response.
"I can either stay in here, or I can wait right outside. Of course, I look like someone's worst nightmare brought to life and I can't imagine a scenario where you're not losing out on your last couple customers."
"We're closing."
"Scenario number three. You say that, and I say I'm not going anywhere."
Your fists ball up at your sides. "I need you to understand that I can't just let you in. At least not until Patrick gets here."
"You want me to understand? I'm bleeding out on your dainty little flowers , for fucks' sake!" he yells, arms coming up in frustration. Loud enough to rattle you. Taking an instinctive step back, you let your eyes move past his waist, and are quick to note the dark bloodstains on his trousers, and then shockingly, the distinctly crimson shoe prints surrounding him on the floor.
"Why don't you understand that?" he asks.
"I—"
You don't get to finish, because the bell sounds the alarm of a customer at the door, and you're making a split second decision, pulling yourself to sprint around the counter and whispering a harsh "Get inside" to the intruder before you can step over the blood, reaching the customer at the door to block their view.
"Evening!" you yelp as the elderly man comes into view, and then proceeds to flinch at your overenthusiastic greeting.
"I–oh!"
"What can I get you sir?" you ask as he's barely through the threshold. You hear the door of the breakroom click shut, and that becomes one less problem to worry about. Now for the bloody footprints all over the floors.
You position yourself to cover as much of his field of vision as possible, walking backwards as he walks inside.
"I—I was looking for a bouquet for my wife—"
"What kind of flowers does she like?"
"Uh, daisies—"
"I'm so sorry sir, we just ran out of our daises."
"Roses perhaps!"
"We're out of those too, I'm very sorry."
"Well, uh–" The man is stuttering, and you feel a pang of guilt at the way you're spinning him. But you need him out, for the same reasons you pushed the man into the breakroom regardless of what preluded it.
"What do you have?"
"I have…house plants. And a few hydrangeas left."
The man stops and ponders for a moment. His silence is stretching too long, and you add in, "We were just about to close up shop, you see. Not a lot of stock at the end of the day."
"I see..."
"How about you come back in tomorrow morning, and I'll make you a bouquet right out of the garden of Eden. On the house, for your inconvenience."
"I can…I can come in tomorrow, yes."
"Perfect!" you exclaim, leading the man out the door as you talk. "I'll see you bright and early tomorrow morning, Mr…?"
"Cohen."
You let him down the steps of the front door and into the streetlights of New York, flashing the brightest smile you can muster. "I'll see you bright and early tomorrow morning, Mr Cohen."
And then he's gone, and you're slamming the door shut and pulling the deadlock shut, but not before flipping the open sign to closed, waiting to move the outside displays indoors. You have bigger problems than a few missing plants.
The floors haven't magically reverted back to spotless, which means the man is still in your breakroom.
There's a loud knock on the door, and it startles you enough to have you jumping up. The muffled voice on the other side, loud enough.
"It's Patrick."
You move to undo the deadlock, opening the door for him.
He stands in a fresh set of clothes, pushing his hat back to get a look at you inquisitively. There's a half smoked cigarette in his hands, the scent of tobacco making its way into the shop. "Why's the door locked?"
"I—I couldn't let anyone in."
"Whaddya mean?" his mouth his curled up in mild annoyance, flicking his cigarette butt to the ground, stepping on the lit embers. He steps inside, and you step away.
The blood on the floor catches his sight immediately, yet he does nothing to show the slightest hint of alarm.
"Jun made it then," he remarks, still looking at the bloody footprints. he closes the door for you.
"So you did send him," you confirm, mostly to yourself.
"I did. Why does it matter?"
"I just—"
He's walking towards the breakroom, "I don't have all night."
"He came in looking like hell, and you never told me he was coming. I didn't know what to do with him."
"What made you put him in anyway?"
"Customer came in."
"Well," he says, taking his hat off, "lady luck's on your side. Because if it was anyone else…"
He doesn't finish the thought, because you know. And he knows you know.
The door of the breakroom closes, and you're left alone with the sparse of your shop, and the mess you need to clean off the floor.
But the universe deems you a far cry from done for the night, because it's only been seconds before Patrick is re-opening the door, grim look on his face.
"I need water. And towels."
"What?"
"Hurry!"
Gathering stray towels and a pitcher of water doesn't take long, but as you enter the breakroom, Patrick is putting his coat and hat back on.
The breakroom is small, a couple couches and chairs pushed up against the walls, the remaining holding cabinets you never dared touch. It was mostly empty, sometimes cluttered with guns and unlabelled bottles and a million other things you could never catch from the small glances.
It's cleaner today, if you didn't count for the coat, shoes and other bits of clothing strewn about.
And the fact that Jun, is barely in his undershirt that you assume may have been white at one point. Because right now it shimmers crimson, soaked in blood. There's a particularly dark patch at his right side, concaving inwards.
"Oh…" You knew he was bloodied up, but for some reason you assumed it was mostly the other guy's.
Patrick is putting his coat on, grabbing his things. "Cut his shirt open and clean the wound as much as you can with water, I'll be right back."
"Where are you going?" you ask, petrified at being left alone with the scene.
"The speakeasy around the corner, the drug store's gonna ask too many questions."
Alcohol.
He seems to note the look your face, slowing down for a moment to reassure you. "It's a shallow wound. The worst thing that can happen is an infection. Just—just be gentle and use water and towels till I get back."
He waits for you to nod, before slipping out.
Jun's eyes are screwed shut, breathing heavy. There's a moment of bewilderment, how he managed to conduct himself outside without collapsing, you may never understand.
You put down the towels and pitcher of water, moving back outside to gather the shears you use to trim flowers, pans, bowls and tweezers.
He seems to not have noticed you come in and out, but you move closer anyhow. He's slumped low on the couch in an odd sitting position.
"Can you lay down flat? You're putting pressure on the cut."
Sure enough, there's an even larger pool of blood on the couch, dripping like an open faucet onto the floors. He does not seem to hear you for a few seconds, before he opens his eyes.
"Just," he starts, voice barely there. "Just give me a second."
His condition's seemed to have worsened exponentially from your row outside. He gulps, and the begins to shift. You shuffle one of the cushions under his head, not knowing how else to support him as he groans at the movement. Gathering his legs, you aid him in pushing them up onto the couch.
"I'm gonna cut open your shirt," you say, reaching for the shears on the table, kneeling in front of the gash. He barely nods.
The shirt is so saturated it difficult to figure where his shirt ends and his skin begins. You decide to start at the hem, lifting it at his waist, hoping it would help you find the torn edge. It's easier after that, taking a deep breath before bringing your shears to start cutting.
You cut down from his side to the hem, revealing skin that stands out like light amidst the deep red of his blood. Cutting as much you can, you pull the fabric away from the wound as far as possible, blood smeared over every inch of his abdomen, stomach and chest.
His breathing is growing staggered by the second, and you'd be lying if you say it didn't panic you. Passing a wet towel, you drag it over the larger area of the wound first, as gentle as possible.
And then inwards, slowly making your way towards the cut. It looks ghastly, dried blood clumped in places, fresh blood oozing from gaps you cannot make out. You realise it's about to hurt no matter how gentle you go.
"This is gonna hurt," you warn, but don't wait for a response as you bring the towel towards the wound, pressing down.
Immediately, he lets out a loud yelp, breathing louder, groaning intermittently. You push yourself to keep going, no matter the discouraging sounds. He gets reprieve when you stop to drain your soaked towels or bring a fresh pitcher of water. You find a sponge, and use it to squeeze water over the area, anything to get rid of the excess blood and clear the area.
You're losing hope with all the oozing blood when finally, you hear the distinct sound of the door chimes outside, Patrick entering the breakroom that officially resembles a war zone.
"I saw less blood in Belleau Wood, Jun," Patrick grunts as he puts down an armful of supplies on the table, before digging into his weighed coat, pulling out a few corked, unlabelled bottles.
He urges you aside, and you comply as he uncorks one of the bottles, "Premium bathtub gin for the good man. Get him something to bite down on, this is gonna hurt like a motherfucker."
You've exhausted every last towel and rag on the premises, stalling for a moment before, bringing your fingers to undo your cardigan, slipping it off your shoulders and bunching it up. Patrick gives you an odd look, but you'd argue this was the least odd instance that's occurred tonight.
You have to force the fabric into Jun's mouth at this point, his resolve visibly crumbling. "Bite down on this. Hard as you can."
Patrick is less cautious, because he takes a swig of the liquid into his mouth, wincing, "Hint of Palmolive, you're in luck boy."
And then he dumps the entire bottled straight onto the wound.
Jun can barely keep still, muffled yells scratching out his throat into a siren. You're wincing at the sight yourself, the stream of reddish liquid mixed with alcohol pouring out onto the floor.
"Hold him steady," Patrick calls out for you, and you have to brace yourself before placing both palms on his shoulders, pushing him down against the couch with your entire weight. He's still squirming, and Patrick is doing nothing but opening the second bottle and pouring straight out once again.
The agony doesn't seem to end, until Patrick decides he's clean enough and relents. Sure enough, the cut is cleaner than you could ever get it with just water.
It takes another hour or so for Patrick to clean him off and patch him up, forcing a few pills down his throat that knock him out almost immediately.
"Wash up and go home, I'll clean up," he finally says, throwing Jun's shoes across the room to let the man sleep his injury off with ease. "We can't move him for a couple days, I'll stay here so you conduct business as usual."
"Do you need anything? Blankets, a mattress—"
"We'll manage, "he waves you off, grunting as he seats himself on the chair. "Need'a keep watch anyway."
You make the conscious choice to ask no more questions, taking one last look at the couch where he's been crudely wiped down, bloody towels and pools of liquid all around him. He sleeps as though nothing is amiss.
You walk out, and close the door of the breakroom behind you.
TWO DAYS. YOU DON'T enter the breakroom for two days.
You get in in the mornings, checking for the sliver of light under the doors, only to find them turned off. Suppliers drop your stock, customers come and go from your unassuming shop.
It's like that night never happend, nor Patrick or Jun to be seen for days, the bloody footprints cleaned off the main floor when you had walked in the next day.
It wasn't entirely odd. Patrick would disappear for weeks at times, so would other members of the clan. Except you'd argue the situation is entirely different considering the pandemonium that preceded the quiet.
It's a whole week after the day that you find the lights of the breakroom illuminating from under the door. A jolt goes through your spine, stepping back instictively. You gather yourself quickly, resuming business as usual as you open up shop.
You're in the middle of checking your order slip when the front door is unlocked from the outside. The chimes are tucked away on the ledge, so there's no sound besides Jun's footsteps as he passes into the threshold.
Instantly, you freeze.
He notices you at the counter, and freezes all the same. There's a moment where you're both opening your mouth and closing it like fish out of water. He closes the door behind him, even locking it like usual.
He's in a different ensemble from the last time you saw him, and you almost don't recognise him. His long black coat, the bloodstained clothes on the floor, the dried grime and blood on his skin. It's all replaced by a crisp suit in a deep gray, pocket watch chained to his waistcoat, a tie at his throat and two toned shoes at his feet. His hair is combed back in a neat manner, a clean homburg hat resting on top. His leather gloved hands grip the handle of the door.
"Morning," you break the ice first.
Clearning his throat, he responds, "Morning."
Silence again.
"Are you…feeling better?"
"Oh yes," he says, but does not move. "I—thank you. For what you did."
"Oh no, Patrick asked and I couldn't just…it's alright! You oughtta stay from those knives, huh?" you chuckle dryly, uncomfortable with yourself. You don't want to ponder on the fact that you attempted urge a clan member to ward off a weapon.
He might be trying to keep your pride, so he responds, "I suppose so."
The door to the breakroom clicks open and its akin to a gust of wind on a hot summer day, Patrick walking out like a buffer sent from Christ himself.
"Great!" he exclaims, and then turns to you. "Remember that face. Try not to let him bleed out on your peonies next time."
Heat surges to your cheeks, and you immediately start sputtering. He brushes you off, like he was only half joking. "This one's addicted to death, we've got a headstone in storage ready for him. Nothing new."
"Are you done?" Jun asks, sighing.
"Wait for me outside, I just need to grab something."
Jun nods, undoing the lock and stepping outside, closing the door behind him. You take the opportunity to turn towards Patrick, who's moving back into the breakroom.
"You said he'd be okay?" you say.
"Hm?" he calls out from inside.
"You said the wound wasn't fatal."
"It wasn't," he reemerges from the room, strapping something onto his belt. "Know that now."
"Now?"
He sighs, "I lied. I didn't know if it was fatal or not."
He sees the look on your face, and interrupts before you can say anything.
"I don't know what was on that blade, and nor does he. He's been out in Harlem for years in this line of work, that place makes New York City look like a playground."
You've never left the city, and you certainly have no desire to. New York has been your everything, and you don't intend to change that. No matter how rough around the edges.
"Don't turn yourself over, doll. Occupational hazard. He knows whats at stake."
You can only nod, letting him walk past you and out the door. "I'm gonna be out of town in the next week," he calls out before clicking it shut and leaving you there.
YOUR FATHER HAD MADE sure Maeve's Flowers would live beyond him, and beyond you. There was little left to learn by the time you inherited the shop, his lessons over the years ingrained into your memory. It was easy, it was natural.
Of course, one of his teachings included the very fickle nature of the stakeholder. Marcus had been indespensible to your father for many years, but there were also the occassional days when he just has to be an absolute pain in your father's behind, and now, in yours.
The telegram came in right as you closed up, sending the last customer away before you turned the sign from open to closed. Marcus has caught himself a cold. And he has no one else to send the supplies through.
You grip the piece of paper in your hands and feel a striking pain pulse in your temple. Looking around, there is no way you could do another day's business without stock, the only thing remaining a few crushed petals and your potted plants. It's nearly eight, and you have to stop and contemplate the possibility of remaining closed tomorrow.
Tomorrow is a Saturday, your busiest day of the week.
There's nothing you can do but stare at the piece of paper and at your sparse plants. It was the end of the day, the last thing you want to do is solve an impending problem. You're left sitting in your chair at the counter, head in hands and trying not to scream instead of packing up and going home.
You don't know how long you've been sitting there when the door of the shop rattles and clicks with someone attempting to unlock it from the outside. When you look up, Jun is standing in the threshold.
His attire is similar to the one you found him in the first time you met, dark clothing that blends in. Except for the unceremonious lack of blood coating his skin, he might as well have worn the same clothes. Even his hair is mussed up, slight curled under his hat.
"I thought you'd closed up already," he says, glancing at the door sign.
"I have," you say, your voice comes out raspy. "I was just leaving."
He only nods, watching as you shuck your coat off the rack, pulling it on as you grab your bag and attempt to head out the door. "There's no need to keep the fridges running, they're empty. And tell Patrick shop's closed tomorrow." He once again, only nods in understanding, and lets you leave.
By the time you get home, you come to terms with losing out on business, and perhaps even grow excited to have a day off tomorrow. You try not to think of what your father would say as you dispense you shoes, coat and bag, walking into your tiny, barren home. He'd closed up shop only twice in his life; one day when your sister was born, and another when he'd fallen so ill he could not sit himself up.
His crippled leg was never an excuse. You close your eyes as you lean back on your bed; you can still see his limp as he walked in front of you towards the shop. He never bought himself a cane.
The feeling surmounting in your chest is suddenly too much, pulling yourself upright in bed to avoid drowning in it whole. It puts your vision to your quarters, and the sight is suddenly equally unbearable.
Working yourself to the bone meant nothing but neglecting every other part of your life. Drained colour of everything you set your eyes upon. A bedspace to sleep and eat and wash yourself, a landing zone for the less productive things in life.
There's a loud knock on your front door, and your gaze darts to your windows. It was past nine o'clock, and fire escape forever mortified you. The curtains show no shadows, so you tiptoe towards the front door, making no sound as oyu prepare to pretend like no one's home.
Unconvering the peephole, you have to bite down a yelp.
Jun stands there in the same clothes as you saw merely an hour ago in, shuffling impatiently. He reaches his fist once more and raps at the door again. Between wondering how on earth he found you and the fear of awakening the wrath of Mrs. Miller's dog, you make the decision to unlock the deadbolt.
Jun does not look startled to see you, confirming he knew where he wanted to be.
"Why are you here?" you ask immediately.
"I—"
"How do you know where I live?"
He raises his brows at that, like the answer was obvious. "It's not entirely difficult to find out. And no, I need not tail you."
Of course. He's a Carmine.
"Why are you here?" you ask again, gripping the door handle tightly.
Jun presses his lips together, shifting his weight. "You don't have to worry about the shipment tomorrow. I handled it, you just need to be there at the usual time to recieve it."
"What?" Perhaps you were a tad too loud, overcome by the confusion, because you suddenly hear the very distinct sound of a growling beast down the hall. Mrs. Miller's dog begins barking through the muffle of doors and hallway.
"What's with all the commotion!" her voice pierces through the walls with reedy accuracy, and you have to think fast.
Lurching forward, Jun is staring down the hall to where the noise is coming from, blissfully unaware as you take a full grasp of the front of his shirt and coat, postively yanking him inside your apartment. You don't wait to think before slamming the door closed and locking it shut.
You also don't look back to assess Jun, because you're on your tiptoes staring out the peephole, sending out a quick prayer that she does not come knocking on your door. When you're sure she's picked a different innocent victim you drop to your heels and relax.
When you look back, Jun is staring at you in even fiercer confusion. "What in Christ's name was that?"
"Mrs. Miller," you reply glumly. "Or her idiotic labrador. Gets set off by anything."
"Right," he clears his throat. "Anyway, I just wanted to let you know in case you were going to try anything else for tomorrow. It's been dealt with."
You furrow your brows. "But I never told you about tomorrow's delivery."
"You left the telegram on the counter. Patrick told me to figure it out for you," he explains.
"I see." You did leave it on the counter in your haste. "Thank you for doing that, and I'll thank Patrick too when I see him—"
"There's no need. You know how he gets," he interrupts. You aren't quite sure, since Patrick's made it a habit to wave off any sliver of gratitude you try to give him for whatever reason. He's not very inclined to Thank Yous.
You only nod, half smiling.
"I'll get going now," he says. "If the coast is clear."
"Ah," you turn around to look into the peephole, staring at nothing but empty hallway for a few seconds. It gives you the opportunity to think, hands curling up against the door as you think about the space in your apartment, the ticking clock that is your life.
Swiftly, you turn around to look into his expecting face. "Would you like to stay for a coffee?"
"Sorry?"
"I'm not brave enough to keep alcohol around the house, I have tea as well if that's what you like."
"You'd like me to stay for a coffee?" he confirms slowly. He's pointing at himself like there are other people in the room you could be talking to.
"Yes. If you would like to, and if you have the time. I just thought since you're here—"
"I'd like that."
Oh.
"Oh." You stare at him, in a little but of disbelief. "Good. I'll put the kettle on. Will that be a tea or…?"
"Whatever you're having."
In a few minutes, you've set your practically unused living room table with two steaming mugs, both of which you had to double, triple check for crawlers and bugs before rinsing and drying. Jun sits on your couch, and you have a brief flashback to the last time you saw him in this position.
"How's your wound healing?" you ask.
"Better than I hoped," he responds. "Scabbed over without pain, I think that's a good sign."
"It is," you confirm. "I'd ask you how you got it but that would be fruitless," you laugh at yourself.
"It was a kid."
That has you looking up from your mug. "A…A kid?"
"I'd been assigned way down in Harlem for the past few years. It's a rough place. Hard to get out if you're in. I was on an assignment when this kid with a knife decided I was up to no good, came up to me in the middle of the street and got me right below the ribs. It was too easy for him, I knew it wasn't his first time."
"But you were covered in everything that night," you recall the grime, the blooming knuckles and smeared blood all over him.
He laughs, taking a sip of his drink before setting the warm cup in his other palm. "People thought I was jumping the kid, that was an episode and then…I still had to go do my job."
"And then you came all the way to 28th? From Harlem?"
"Took the subway, got a couple look but that wasn't the worst of it."
You don't need to ask what the worst of it was, because you know.
Closing your eyes, you cringe to yourself, "And I made you stand there for who know how long."
He chuckles, and you have the realisation that you…quite like his smile. It stretches across his face, lighting him up in a way you didn't realise his face could. It makes him look boyish, like the life he's chosen was meant for someone far, far removed from him.
"I wouldn't normally be as worked up, there's not much else you could've done in that situation. But you stood your ground. That's good."
Your chest flourishes at being told a job well done. "Are you…Are you back from Harlem for good?"
It was a careful question, laced with something you aren't sure you want to admit.
"I might be." Jun is dragging his fingernails across the bottom edge of his cup, contemplating. "I've been given a choice. I might end up taking it as a way out."
"Way out?"
"From Harlem, anyway. It's either Carmine or dead for us."
The weight of what he says settles on you like a blanket. Carmine or dead. You wonder where you stand in this equation, neither sworn in nor an outsider. Are you a Carmine? And are you allowed a way out, ever?
You think of tomorrow, when you'll wake up in the morning as you always do, dress and leave for the same route you could walk in your sleep. Set up shop and do a days worth of trade, all while hiding some of the most dangerous people in the city in your backrooms.
One of them sits on the same couch cushions as you right now, under your roof, drinking from your cup.
The thought should unsettle you. But it doesn't.
And then it hits you.
You sit up straighter, face changing as you turn to face him. "You said Patrick sent you?"
Jun nods.
"Patrick told he was going to be out of town for a week."
Jun's face is blank, blinking at you with a poker face gamblers would envy. And then he breaks.
"He is out of town."
"So you—"
"I saw the telegram on the counter and took matters into my own hands," he admits, but he's as nonchalant as ever, sipping the last dregs from his mug and setting it on the table. "It's getting late, I'll get going now. Thank you for inviting me in."
Inviting was a daring word considering you shanghaied him into your apartment by brute force, but you take it anyway. Other than that, you're not quite sure what to say with this new revelation. You watch him as he stands up, adjusting his coat and trousers as he begins to walk himself to the door.
Catching up to him, you stop when he stops a couple feet from the entryway. He turns to look at you, and you can predict his goodbye.
"Why did you do that?" you have to ask.
For the first time, Jun looks unsure as for what to say. "I know that shop is important to you."
Why do you care?
Your lips press into a line, both your damp hands clasped in front of you. "Was it so we're even?"
Jun is staring at you an intensity you've never experience, an unmatched energy. "We were even the second you got on your knees to help me after I yelled at you."
"Then what's this for?" you press.
Jun takes a step towards you, and you have the distinct feeling he might frustrated. Not with you, but perhaps with himself. "I…I don't know."
"That's not very Carmine of you," you whisper, suddenly realising just how close you've gotten. His gaze is unrelenting, and you feel the familiar rise in your chest that makes it a chore to breathe.
Jun's getting closer, leaning over you like a towering stallion. His breath hits your face, warm and cascading.
"I know."
And then his mouth is on yours, and you're melting like this was the answer all along. His palm and fingers cup the back of your head in a secure motion, pulling you towards him. Your arms fly to grip his body, finding reprieve in the opening of his coat, hands splayed on his fabric covered chest.
He's a demanding kisser, taking what you give in motions that have your knees going weak. You fingers scrunch against his shirt to grip him tighter, the warmth of his skin under his shirt seeping.
You forget where you stand as his other arm holds you up and against him, you hands snaking up to wrap around his neck. His mouth moves against your own like he's already mapped out every hill, dip and crevice, the distinct wet of his tongue on your bottom lip as he sucks.
The feeling is all consuming, one you cannot name. It's tingly, from the top of your head to the tips of fingers and toes. His scent encases you with remnants of coffee and sweet pea. It has you pushing into him closer, chest to chest, pelvis to pelvis.
Your lungs are about to give in when you finally pull away, gasping loudly for air as you do nothing to move from your position. Your chest heaves, and so does his, in tandem as you throw your head back to reign yourself in. Jun's eyes never leave you.
You cannot help but smile, one that stretches even more so when you see him crack one too.
"Patrick isn't here—" you start, but do not need to finish.
"I think I heard Mrs. Miller outside."
"Not very safe, Carmine or not," you jest.
"Perhaps another coffee will do," he adds as you laugh. "Or a tea this time?"
He does not let you answer, because he dips his head towards you once more.
All night, two cold mugs remain lone on the table.
summary: RT-64 used to be a radio-telescope monitoring little robots on Venus. Now, the world has ended, it's winter, and you're looking for a shelter. The owls remain indifferent. You are not alone, though. Kim Mingyu has been watching you.
genre: horror, supernatural, soulmates
word count: 5,8k
warnings: they're stressed af, that's pretty much it
a/n: sooo i rewatched most of gose over the past weeks, i am totally free of my time for the first time in years and roamed @chocoreads recommendations, reread a few of my old stories for svt, was stuck with my naruto ones, and this sort of happened. Here's a tribute to my love of apocalyptic aus, Mingyu's every-striking competence, winter, David Lynch and engineering. Those pictures were the direct inspiration of the setting.
And a most delightful year to all of you!
1. Observed
It was astonishing to think that such immense constructions could be utterly silent, you thought, craning your neck. The snow, pristine, had covered everything long ago. There were surely birds of prey going about their winter business, but the dense firs surrounding the area muffled the sound of their wingbeats. Besides, you were fairly sure you’d once read that owls had special wings, built for silence. More importantly, you had nothing to fear from owls.
Far, far overhead, the radio-telescope’s antenna dome vanished into the low sky. The snowflakes had stopped falling, but it was only a lull. The curve of the thing had caught a skirt of snow at its base, a clean slash against the filthy grey metal. Half-paying attention, you thought the view from up there must look like some great white animal, with a mane of green so dark it was black, and big glassy eyes fixed on the cosmos.
You shook yourself out of it and headed for the two-storey base. Skirting the round fence, you finally found the door. Didn’t look like anyone had forced it, judging by the still-intact windows. Not that it meant much. The RT-64 array was remote. The Venus robots were old news. And people? People were scarce now.
You weren’t precisely afraid of being spotted in such a remote place, but the betraying crunch of your snow boots got under your skin anyway. In the muffled silence, the noise was deafening. You reasoned that the trees muffled everything, you included, but the feeling of being watched just sat there, persistent.
Shoving your gloved hand down on the handle, the door gave with a grudging scrape, the kind a door makes when it’s been left alone, and started to open. Snow piled against it. You kicked at the fresh powder, widening the gap bit by bit, not looking in, just watching the ridge of snow grow as you cleared a path.
As you stood behind the door, trying to open it as wide as possible, it occurred to you that was exactly the sort of heedlessness that got people killed. A shiver ran through you, deep under your layers. You went still. Frozen, both hands on the handle and your gaze fixed on the snow in the door’s shadow. Inside was the unknown. Not just emptiness, but potential. Life with its own mind, or the cold end of things.
You meant to be silent, but your jaw went slack, pulling in a sharp breath. All of this might be a serious mistake. Your heart was going now, a pounding in your ears the snow couldn’t dull. You bit your lip. Stopped. Let your mouth hang open again.
You could not panic now. You had opened the door, cleared the way, wasted the short daylight on the journey. If someone was inside, they knew you were here. If something was inside, you could only hope it wouldn’t clock you before nightfall.
Your hands felt cold and damp inside their gloves. Your heart was throwing itself against your ribs and your legs wouldn’t move, so you told yourself you’d decided to stay put. To wait for a reaction from within. To see if anything in there stirred.
You noticed the light was going. The snow wasn’t so blindingly white. The sun was dipping. You could still sleep outside. Two nights prior proved you could. The tinned food in your pack would see you through another, wrapped in your suit, with that familiar ache of fermented cabbage and beans. But the firs were less suited for climbing than the bare beeches. And the thought of another exposed night made your courage falter. None of this seemed to disturb the owls.
Your body still refused to move.
Had you even checked for tracks? You couldn’t remember. But the door hadn’t been opened in days. If anyone was holed up in there, they’d come out on a clear day like this. Get some air. Keep from going stir-crazy.
No people, then.
And if no people had been here for a long while, then nothing that preyed on people had reason to be here either.
All at once, you let out a breath you’d been holding, lifted your chin, let go of the handle, and stepped inside, letting the door swing shut behind you. It closed with a soft thud, quieter than you’d braced for. Maybe your ears were still full of the sound of your own blood.
It took a moment for your eyes to adjust. Dark in the entrance, despite the windows. Nothing was as bright as direct snow-light. You hovered, unsure whether to stamp your boots clean. Better safe. The woods had just reminded you you weren’t being safe enough. You fumbled a hand-crank torch from your chest pocket and moved from the doorway into the first room.
The story here was the same as every other forgotten military site. The rushed evacuation of non-essential sites to the hot zones. Mugs with dregs of coffee gone furry with mould. You did a loop of the ground floor. Fine. In the middle, a lift shaft and stairs going up one floor, down two. Nothing monstrous would take the lift, but you shoved a table in front of the stairwell anyway. The proper supplies would be below. But you’d had enough feeling for one day. Cabbage and beans would do. Tomorrow was soon enough to go poking around in the dark.
2. Changed
Things had slipped right out of Mingyu’s grasp. It only took a moment for him to ditch almost all his usual caution. Hearing footsteps in the station, he’d just dropped behind the ticket counter and held his breath.
Train schedules meant nothing. But the detailed local maps – those were gold. Especially when every stretch of landscape looked exactly like the last one. Gloves dangling from his wrists, fingers turning numb as he scoured the cupboards for papers, anything, that he could bring back to the others. Anything that might tip the odds of survival in their favour.
All those hours spent in the gym had finally paid off. Him and his friends were some of the last ones standing around here. Sure, they’d had to bolt from the capital – how Jeonghan had figured how to hot-wire cars was still a mystery, but Mingyu had been too busy flooring it to complain. But now, away from the epicentres, with the storm over and the monsters gone, and things were looking up.
Winter here cut deep. A decent number in the town had survived, but most packed up at first thaw and headed south. Easier to feed yourself where things grow. Mingyu and Jihoon had argued to stay. Fewer people meant less trouble.
The old garrison towns were a saving grace, though – supplies cached everywhere, underground networks as tangled as the streets, and, in a real pinch, stockpiles of weapons whose purposes Mingyu could only half-guess.
Crouched behind the counter, watching his hands grow colder by the second, Mingyu wondered who had just walked into the station. What freak chance had brought another soul to this town he’d called home for over a year, a place where he and his friends had been the only residents for three seasons straight.
Was it even reasonable to think someone had just arrived, fleeing some other hell to wash up here? But fleeing what? Everyone who was going to die from the creatures was already dead. To flee from other men, you’d need a vehicle. But no one had heard an engine rip through the valley’s silence. Could they all have missed it? No. Someone was always awake. Someone would have heard.
That left only two options. Either the person had come on foot. Which, with the three measly hours of daylight they got now, bordered on miraculous. Or they had always been here. Keeping quiet. Staying hidden. That was the more sensible option. It still made Mingyu’s skin crawl.
Who the hell was here at dawn? Who could be here? Alone, trying to make contact was just asking for trouble.
He listened to the calm footsteps, the gritty crunch of snow caught between boot and tile. No pause in the stride. He heard them clearly, crossing the station hall, moving parallel to his counter. From the entrance to the exit for the tracks. Then, nothing. The steps stopped.
Mingyu’s heart beat three times, hard and too loud in his ears. He pressed his hands against his face, to hide the sound of his breathing, to hold it in. His fingers were ice. When his cold fingers dug into his skin, he felt they were slick with sweat.
When was the last time Mingyu had been truly scared?
“You have got to be kidding me.”
Mingyu froze solid. The voice wasn’t loud, but the little station was so bone-empty that the annoyed sigh carried straight to him. Another step.
“Give me a break, would you?”
It made zero sense. She wasn’t talking to him. A sharp rrrrrip of velcro. Then, faint but clear: knock, knock.
Had she just knocked on the door? Like someone was going to answer? Then Mingyu understood. The automatic doors wouldn’t open.
But then that made even less sense. The trains stopped running ages ago. Why would anyone need to get out there?
A long sigh. “Alright. Fine.”
Finally, Mingyu heard the distinct sound of a zip being opened, someone digging in a bag, the focussed rustle of a person on a task. Banking on a sliver of luck, he decided to chance a look. He pushed up on his thighs, raised his head just above the desk, enough to peer over the counter’s ledge, through the smeared glass that once kept passengers on the other side.
A few metres away, crouched down like he was, was a figure in a ski suit so vivid it’d stand out in a blackout. The stranger was on the floor, carefully slotting pieces of wood together. Mingyu allowed himself a few more heartbeats. Just to watch.
Suddenly, the scratchy fabric of his own glove rasped against the soft skin inside his wrist. Without looking away, Mingyu rubbed the spot with his thumb. The burning sensation didn’t fade. Wondering what kind of bug could have survived the freezing cold, he settled back into a more comfortable crouch, leaving the stranger to her work.
Mingyu was left-handed. It was a fact that had never bothered him, just another truth about himself. Mingyu was left-handed, Mingyu lisped when his thoughts outran his mouth, Mingyu was the tall one, Mingyu usually figured things out. On the inside of his right wrist, the little owl etched into his skin, motionless forever, had taken flight and vanished.
Mingyu was left-handed, he had a mark on the inside of his right wrist he hadn’t really noticed in a while, had mourned and moved on from even longer ago. A useless mark for a useless hand. But it was gone.
The smell of smoke dragged him back to the station.
“Sorry for letting you down,” said the voice from beyond the counter. “Let’s meet again someday.”
She left. Mingyu counted to twenty before standing up. Was this why he’d survive? The old stories rang into his ears. Fate. Love. Happy ever after. Was this it? When was the last time he’d met a woman? Was looking at her back enough to trigger the mark? He’d always thought it was supposed to be a proper encounter, that passing by people in the street wouldn’t be enough for the mark to disappear. And now, for the first time in months, he’d taken one quick look at some stranger’s back, and it was gone.
Whatever the stranger had built, she’d set it on fire. A pathetic little pyre near the automatic doors. The pale winter sun, hitting the flames, made them look even smaller. Mingyu had seen things like that before. The locals’ way of paying their respect. They were supposed to do it in meaningful places. Not in an impersonal place like that. Maybe she’d ran out of options.
Despite every instinct telling him not to, Mingyu stepped out of the station and began to follow the teal-and-purple figure, advancing with purpose through the snow.
3. Encountered
Your fingers were kneading your scalp when the knocks came.
Everything inside you froze.
Slowly, you took your hands out of your hair and clamped them over your mouth and nose. No one outside could hear you breathe, you knew that. You inhaled the scent of your own scalp, your breath, warm and stale, and let it ground you. Let you think.
It was so easy, wasn’t it? To know you were here. Every single footprint in the snow as bright as a neon sign.
A few seconds later, the knocking came again. Harder. The metal door deadened the sound. You didn’t have a key. You’d opened it fine earlier, it swung outward. The little desk you’d shoved in front of it had only given you the feeling of safety. You really should’ve just holed up in a town flat. Your hand went to your necklace. There was never any real way to know if these things worked. But you wore it like your parents before you, and, unlike a lot of others, you were still alive.
When the noise came for the third time, you stopped being an idiot. Did the horrors knock before they came in? You rolled your eyes. Was it even possible to be this stupid? A human, on the other hand… A human you could deal with.
You ignored the feeling your lungs were about to rip through your ribs. Slow, you got up from the chair, careful your thighs didn’t shove it back and scrape. You took each step like the floor was glass. Your hands were probably clammy again but you were past noticing. There was just the now, the need to be nothing, and the wild, pointless hope of not being seen.
For the first time, you wished you’d bothered with a rifle. Never needed one to hunt, weren’t sure they worked on the horrors anyway. Sure, the army had taught you the basics, but when your job was just fussing over radar, you didn’t need to be a crack shot.
When you got to the door you leaned on the wall, face close to the seam. It was airtight, supposed to be, but maybe you’d hear something anyway. As you leaned, the open zipper on your suit collar tapped the doorframe. A tiny tink. You heard it. So did someone else.
From the other side, a whisper. “Hey. You gonna open up? It’s gonna be fucking freezing soon.”
Could you? Could you let him in? Did he follow you? Was he just passing, coming back from hunting, saw your tracks by the scopes? How long had he been on your trail? Was he following, or was he hunting?
You ran your tongue over your lips. “How many?”
The answer shot back certain. “Just me.”
Could be true. Or maybe he knew that was the only answer you’d take, that there were more waiting outside, and truth wasn’t part of the plan. No way to know.
Or it really was just one guy, wanting in from the cold. When was the last time you’d even seen someone?
“Door’s open,” you admitted.
You saw the handle turn. The door started to swing out. From where you were you couldn’t see what was in the gap. You didn’t move the table. The door kept opening. Then a head appeared, slightly above yours.
Scarf pulled up to his cheekbones. Grey beanie down to his eyebrows. A snow suit that was army, no question, all greys and whites in the moonlight. When your eyes met, his hand came up, thumb jabbing at his own chest.
“Mingyu,” he whispered, quick. “Can I come in?” He asked again, and tipped his chin at the table blocking his way.
You shrugged. You moved, grabbing your side of the table as he took his. You dumped it out of the way. As Mingyu turned to shut the door, a sharp burn fired across your lower back. Seriously? Now?
You must have made a face, because before he’d even come closer, Mingyu was asking “Hey, you alright?”
The pain was gone as fast as it came. Just a warning cramp. At least you still had stuff to deal with it when it got bad. You ignored him.
You sat back down slowly. The conversation ahead was already exhausting. Mingyu fidgeted, hands in pockets, then out. He looked like he didn’t know what to do with his own body, like he wasn’t used to his own height. How was this guy alive? He didn’t seem to know what to focus on, looking around everywhere, shooting you regular glances in the gloom. In case you’d changed your mind and decided to lunge?
You kept staring at him. He wasn’t equipped for hunting. This might all be a mistake. But what choice did you really have? Finally, Mingyu seemed to accept things, pulled up a chair, and sat across from you. He tugged his scarf down and held his beanie in his lap.
“How come you’re out here?”
“Why did you follow me?” you shot back dryly.
He opened his mouth. Shut it. His hands tightened around his beanie. You could see his thoughts playing out on his face. Weighing the pros and cons. Truth or lie? With a face that open, he was probably crap at lying. Or maybe he was just rusty. When was the last time you’d told a lie?
“I saw you at the station,” he finally said, to his hands. You stiffened. He’d followed you all day? “Don’t see people often, so…” He shrugged. “Sorry,” he added. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
“You didn’t scare me,” you replied automatically. It was a lie and it was the truth. Everything was scary now.
He was quiet for a little while. Outside, the moon, as usual, was making its quiet lap around the Earth.
“Don’t you want to turn a light on?” Mingyu finally asked.
“Haven’t found the generator yet.”
“You been to the basement? Usually they’re—”
“I know where you put a generator,” you cut him off. “I haven’t been down to the basements yet.”
“Want to go now?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
You gave him a baffled look. Wasn’t it obvious? “It’s been ages since anyone was here. If something’s hiding down there, I’d rather be sharp when I find it.”
Now Mingyu was the one staring. He didn’t seem to get it. He frowned, but his eyes were fixed on yours.
“There’s nothing down there, you know.” He said the words like he was carrying a box full of porcelain.
“How can you be sure?”
“We’ve scoured the area pretty good. No one’s left. We think those horrors follow people. No people, no horrors.”
The same thought had occurred to you before, so you spared him a condescending reply. “We?”
“Me and the guys. We’ve been in town a while.” His look softened. “You could come with us, if you want,” he added quietly.
“Do they know you’re here?”
Mingyu hesitated. “No.”
Liar. “I don’t believe you.”
“It’s true. I was alone at the station.”
“So you just wandered off and left your mates? Not exactly reassuring,” you commented, in a tone you hoped sounded light.
What you didn’t say out loud was that he’d followed you, on a whim, for hours, without even knowing where you were headed. This guy was unhinged. You felt the blood pounding in your ears.
Mingyu ran a hand through his hair. Black, overgrown. “Yeah, I didn’t really think it through. I hope they’re not too worried,” he mumbled, even quieter.
Then—another knock. You startled hard in your seat, gaze whipping to the cause. At one of the windows, silhouetted against the night’s glow, was the unmistakable shape of an owl, watching you. Your blood went cold. Owls were indifferent
4. Chased
This was not going well. A proper disaster, more like. Sure, he hadn’t exactly thought it through, and yeah, he’d heard before, in another life, that these meetings didn’t always go to plan. Even so, Mingyu hadn’t imagined that his main concern upon meeting the person apparently meant to change his life would be whether she was going to knife him or let him see another day.
You were terrified of him, sat there rigid on your chair, and he had to give you credit—you had serious nerve to keep talking to him. Your hand kept drifting up to your neck. Above your roll-neck, Mingyu could see the line of a necklace, some sort of charm maybe. He wondered if you even knew you were doing it.
When something tapped the window, you jumped so hard Mingyu was sure you hadn’t noticed he’d flinched too. Then your face just shut down, eyes as wide as the owl’s staring you both out. Mingyu breathed in. Breathed out. It was unsettling, but Mingyu had always liked owls. He wondered if you did too, or if you’d come to hate the thing on your skin.
There was no doubt that for you, too, it was an owl that had flown away upon seeing Mingyu. The grimace that had flickered across your face, the obvious but fleeting pain you’d felt—it could only be that. You clearly hadn’t worked it out yet. But Mingyu could sort that, probably. Once he was sure you weren’t going to stab him, he’d clear things up.
Suddenly, you pushed back your chair.
“Right,” you said, snatching your beanie off the table.
You jammed it on as you stood. Bad sign.
“Hey—what are you doing?”
You hardly looked at him. “I’m off. You can stay.”
“What?” Mingyu was on his feet too. No, no, no, no. This was the worst idea.
He started after you as you moved purposefully around the room. You grabbed your bag from the floor. “Where are you going?”
“Out.”
“What? But why?”
“Not staying with you,” you stated, hand flat on the door.
One shove and the station opened onto the night. Mingyu halted. Seriously? You were just going to leg it?
“Wait, why?”
You turned and nailed him with a murderous look. “You’re a freak.”
When you’d taken two steps outside, Mingyu knew he had to follow. So he did, hissing in panic.
“Hey, I’m not crazy! You’ll freeze out here!”
“You’ll freeze. I’ll be fine.” You didn’t even bother turning round now.
Mingyu stretched his stride. There were few things more annoying than having to run in snow.
Thankfully the moon made everything eerily bright. He couldn’t just let you stay out here, could he? This was fate. He was here, he was alive, so you could stay alive, right? There had to be rules, some kind of code, that meant he couldn’t let you just vanish into the wilds like this? And even if there weren’t, Mingyu wasn’t having you die such a stupid death when finally something normal had happened to him.
He shot out a hand and caught your wrist. You were both so caught up in your movements that the tug spun you round, and Mingyu got a full view of your twisted expression as you spat the words at him.
“Get off me!”
“Why now?” he asked. “Can’t we just wait for first light? I won’t tail you anymore,” he added, not really meaning it. “Or you could come with me. There’s room. Better than being all alone, isn’t it?”
“Don’t talk to me about better.”
“Alright, alright. But can’t it wait till morning?”
“I’m not being shut in with you.”
“But why? What did I do?”
“You followed me all day? Ditched your mates for this?”
“I told you, I wasn’t thinking! Can we not just talk inside?”
"No,” you started wrenching your arm again. “Owls don’t lie,” you bit out.
That threw Mingyu so much his grip slackened for a second. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means that stupid owl had no business turning up to gawp at us,” you snarled, each word strained with the effort of trying to break free. Mingyu had never worked so hard to make someone stay. “But it did... And I’m not hanging around waiting for you to lose the plot!”
You both realised at the same moment you’d stopped even pretending to whisper. The knowledge froze you both solid, in the forest’s silence, two taut figures under the hulking shadow of the radio telescope. The thing might be out of use,but there were other things in the dark that could hear. Suddenly, Mingyu wasn’t so sure the horrors had left when the crowds did. And what were the two of you standing here for, if not to make a crowd?
He leaned in closer, your wrist still in his hands, and dropped his voice to the lowest whisper.
“Alright, I didn’t tell you the full story.” He felt you tense to pull away and rushed on. “My mark. It disappeared when I saw you, back at the station. That’s why I came.”
For a second, you just blinked at him.
“You still believe in that? You’re not right in the head.” A brutal twist of your elbow finally got your arm loose. Put a step of snow between him and you.
“It’s real,” Mingyu whispered, simple as that. “I saw you. With your little fire. My mark burned out. It’s gone.”
“Don’t care. Where is it, then? Go on, spin me a tale. Doesn’t make it true.”
“You know how it works. They go when you meet.”
“I know. And isn’t that handy? No mark, no proof. But me? I’d have no way of knowing if you’re full of it.”
“Yours is gone too. Since I walked in.”
Your eyes went slitty. “How do you figure that?”
“I know. You pulled a face,” Mingyu said. Even hushed, his lisp slipped out. If you’d just believe him, if you’d both just get back inside. “You felt it too. I know you did.”
You straightened up. “So what? That’s all past. Doesn’t mean a thing now.”
Mingyu thought of the sad little fire you’d built for ghosts at the station. The charm you kept touching, even now, your suit still unzipped at the throat.
“Seem pretty wrapped up in the past to me,” he observed.
“You don’t know me,” you said again, the words barely there.
Mingyu tipped his head back in frustration, and caught the shadow of an owl passing overhead.
“Alright. Humour me, then. What was yours?”
You ignored his answer, head turning left and right, searching in the forest.
“We’ll say it together. On three. One, two, three. An owl.”
“An owl,” you said, utterly calm, glancing around.
Mingyu said nothing. He already knew.
You still weren’t looking at him. “It’s meaningless,” you commented. “You’re obviously fairly lucky.”
Mingyu considered letting it drop. But he pictured the owl that had watched over his entire life. You were standing right in front of him. Didn’t he owe it to keep trying? You were right here. You were scared. You were alone. You were clearly sharp enough to have survived this long solo, while Mingyu had always had the others. Was he insisting for his own sake, chasing some pathetic scrap of a story that might end okay? Or was he doing it for you, some misguided pity for another lost cause?
Your fingers went to your necklace. In the moonlight, it looked like a string of claws. You were clumsier with the pendant now, and Mingyu clocked you hadn’t bothered with your gloves; your fingers were stiff with cold. You squeezed the charm in your fist one final time before zipping your suit collar shut.
“You should go back, Mingyu.”
“What?”
“I’m not spending the night with you. So you’d better get under cover.”
“Hey.” Mingyu said your name for the first time. “What are you doing? Give it a rest, yeah? Why don’t you just check for yourself that your mark’s gone?”
You fixed him with a fresh, devastating look of are-you-kidding-me. Maybe it would be less awful if you were looking at him like that in some place warm. Maybe if Mingyu played his cards halfway right, he could even get used to it.
“Are you thick? I’m not getting my kit off out here.”
Ah. Right. There was a new edge in your voice. Mingyu felt his ears grow hot. It hadn’t crossed his mind that not everyone’s mark was in such a convenient spot.
“Sorry, I swear I won’t look.”
“You’re not right! I’ll freeze solid!”
“I thought you weren’t going to die out here?” Behind his scarf, Mingyu couldn’t help a wry smirk tugging at his mouth.
You gave him a once-over, hands cupped over your mouth. Your breath plumed white in the air. You had to know, same as him, you couldn’t last the night out here like this.
“I show you, you back off?”
Mingyu briefly raised his hands in surrender. “You’ll get a quiet night.”
You let out a sigh. It didn’t sound like the noise Mingyu wanted attached to his victory. He crouched as you roughly unzipped your suit to your waist.
Hands over his eyes, he listened, gaze fixed on the snow, to the rustle and scrape as you wrestled the suit off your shoulders. Just how much did you have to strip down? Was he pushing it? Couldn’t he have just slept outside and come back tomorrow? But you were the one who decided to bolt, right? You never asked him to do this. Mingyu stifled a smile. Wasn’t that proof already that you were looking out for him?
“There,” your voice came, dry and closer than he expected.
He looked up. You’d moved nearer and turned your back to him. Your hand was hooked awkwardly behind you, hiking up your jumper and the layers under it.
“See for yourself.”
Mingyu didn’t need to stand. He took the fabric where you held it, exposing the skin at the small of your back, puckered with gooseflesh. He watched your stiff fingers trace vertebrae before stopping, sliding to the left.
“There’s nothing there,” he informed you.
You turned your head just enough to catch his eye from the corner of yours. A few heartbeats passed, frozen. Mingyu didn’t know what you were waiting for, but he let go of your clothes, patting them back into place.
You slid your arms back into the suit sleeves and with a shrug of your elbows, hauled it back over your shoulders, then fumbled with the zip.
After a moment of watching you struggle, Mingyu stood, stepped around you, and moved in close.
“Let me.”
Your hands flew into your pockets without a word, but you kept your head turned, watchful for anything moving in the trees. Without issue, Mingyu zipped your suit, running it all the way up to the collar. And stayed there.
“You think I’m full of it?” he breathed.
It was hard to tell in the moonlight, but he really thought your lips looked too stiff. It didn’t stop you from answering.
“No.”
5. Witnessed
You glanced at Mingyu. He was already staring right back. He opened his mouth, but before a sound could escape, the unmistakable crunch of footsteps in snow cut through the air. You both moved at once, but in opposite directions. You, whirling around. Mingyu probably trying to get his guard up.
In the confusion, you elbowed him, he yanked your arm, you stamped on his foot. You felt his weight drag you down as your back hit the snow. Pushing up from the powder, you got halfway up, just enough to see the hulking shape approaching. Behind you, Mingyu’s breathing was loud.
The blood wasn’t flowing right to your hands, but you managed to wrench open one of your thigh pockets, fumbled out the pouch with your knife. You closed your fist around the handle as tight as you could.
The creature emerged from the trees. Its long legs were deliberate, moved with unhurried grace. Above, a massive set of antlers, broad and many-branched, seemed to float for a moment before the head they belonged to appeared beneath them.
“Shit.” You heard Mingyu behind you.
It was enormous. Mingyu shifted closer. You could feel his breath on your ear. Even if he stood to his full height, the elk would still tower over him. You gripped your knife tighter.
Then, the beast noticed you. Its great head swung your way, its path shifted. The air burned in your lungs. The moon backlit the animal. It was impossible to tell if it was real, or if something monstrous had just taken its skin. Out of habit, you tried to reach for your necklace. Instead, your right hand just trembled against the collar of your suit.
The creature halted, facing you.
Was it staring? Was it wondering what you were doing here? What you were? Was it working out the best way to eat you?
You felt pressure against your stomach. Without turning your head, you glanced down. Mingyu had slipped an arm around your waist.
“What the hell are you doing?” Your lips were so numb you didn’t even have to force a whisper.
His reply came from so close it was like he was speaking directly into your skull.
“You’re frozen. Dying of cold now would be plain stupid.”
The elk didn’t move. Behind it, you noticed the door to the radio-telescope was standing wide open. Mingyu hadn’t bothered to close it. You wondered if he could run fast enough to make it to shelter, or if the massive body in front of you would just run him down.
In silence, an owl came to perch on the elk’s antlers. It was facing the dish, but its head performed a full, unsettling half-circle to look right at you.
You breathed in. You breathed out. Mingyu’s breathing was ragged, completely out of time with yours.
The owl finally decided you were uninteresting, looked away, and took flight. The elk seemed to take that as its cue. It walked across the clearing and melted back into the trees.
A long time after it was gone, Mingyu said your name. Turning your head towards him required an effort that felt all wrong.
“Let’s go back in, yeah?”
You nodded, but your legs refused to bend. Wordlessly, Mingyu hauled you up as he stood, his grip firm around your middle. For a second you thought you’d stumble, then you found your feet. The only sound was the scratchy rustle of your suits.
Inside, as Mingyu went looking for your gloves, you wondered if the little robots on Venus also had to hold onto each other when everything got this cold and scary.
Thank you for reading, please let me know if you enjoyed it 🫶💖
You told one tiny lie about being engaged to Vernon. Now you’re spending Christmas with his entire family. Faking it should be a walk in the park, except Vernon is playing the perfect boyfriend a little too well, and it’s throwing you off your game.
Genre: fake dating, smut
Pairing: SEVENTEEN Vernon x afab!reader
Warnings: mature themes, explicit sexual content (18+) MDNI
Notes: 22k words. Loosely based on the movie The Proposal. Happy Holidays everyone! I hope you like this one <3
Disclaimer: I do not know them, nor claim they would ever in real life behave the way they were portrayed in this fic. If you see the same exact fic in a different blog, for ENHYPEN, that is me. I did not plagiarize myself. Otherwise, pls let me know.
You were halfway through a phone call when the elevator doors opened, one hand clutching your handbag as you rattled off reminders about deadlines, inventory counts, and the very real need to restock supplies before the holiday rush.
“Yes, by next week,” you said, already walking. “No, I don’t care if it’s ‘usually fine,’ I want the warehouse well-stocked and ready—”
You stepped onto the floor and kept moving, heels clicking, bag swinging. You didn’t notice the way the floor fell quiet the moment you stepped in. People scrambled back to their desks, suddenly invested in their screens, shuffling papers that did not need shuffling, answering phones that were not ringing. A few heads ducked. A few shoulders squared. No one made eye contact with the icy, headstrong, amazonian boss who had clearly woken up on the wrong side of the bed.
You.
Still mid-call, you marched straight toward your office, listening to your warehouse officer explain that the warehouse was well-stocked and ready for the holiday rush and that everything would be fine. “I’m not asking for some words of affirmation, Joe. Show me that this confidence is not unfounded. I need updated numbers by lunchtime.”
It wasn’t until you pushed open the glass door that you finally ended the call, pinching the bridge of your nose for half a second before refocusing.
“Morning!” Becca said brightly, already there, already holding out your iced coffee like an offering.
You took it without slowing down. She fell into step beside you, launching into your schedule like she always did—meetings, contracts, things that needed signing before lunch, and ones that could wait until after. You dropped into your chair, skimmed the first page of the file she handed you.
You were halfway through skimming the file when you noticed something in your periphery. You looked up and saw that there was a man standing just behind Becca. Tall. Good-looking. Broad-shouldered. Hands in his pockets. He was staring around your office like he had time to admire the view, eyes flicking over the shelves, the windows, the framed awards.
For a second, you wondered if you’d forgotten you were supposed to have a meeting with some model for your brand’s campaign.
You frowned. “Who’s your friend, Becca?”
“Oh—right! Sorry. This is—” She paused, then quickly nudged the man with her elbow
“I’m Vernon,” he said, smiling at you before Becca could finish. He gave a lazy little wave. “The intern.”
You blinked. The intern. He said it like this was a college club meeting. Or orientation. Or literally anywhere but here, where interns usually tried desperately not to be noticed. You stared at him. Then back at Becca. “Why is the intern in my office?”
Becca cleared her throat. “He’s the temp I told you about. He’ll be covering for me while I’m on maternity leave. Assisting you directly.”
You glanced back at him, unimpressed. “Is he ready for that?” you asked Becca.
“Yes. I walked him through everything,” she said quickly. “He’s picked it up really fast.”
“So he knows this isn’t a light workload? Long hours, hectic schedules, all that?”
Before you could respond, Vernon leaned forward slightly.
“You can ask me, you know,” he said. “I’m right here.”
The room went very still.
You stared at him, more surprised than offended. Most interns shrank under eye contact. Apologized. Overexplained. This one had the audacity to interrupt you, like he wasn’t face-to-face with the person everyone else avoided before coffee. For a second, you couldn’t tell if he was clueless or if he just didn’t scare easily.
You didn’t like either option. “I won’t be needing you yet,” you said flatly. “You can go.”
Vernon didn’t argue. He simply nodded once, hands dropping from his pockets as he turned toward the door. “Alright.”
And then he left. The door clicked shut behind him. You and Becca stared at it for a moment.
You exhaled through your nose and picked up your pen. “What kind of temp did you get me?”
“He’s very competent. Just a little tactless at times. And he was once…” She hesitated. “…reported to HR for insubordination.”
“Insubordination?”
“Yeah, he was. But it was all a misunderstanding.” She paused for a second and then added, “Apparently, the way he talks pissed some people off. Which was why I thought he’d be perfect for this role.”
You slowly looked up from your paperwork. “What’s that supposed to mean?
Becca grimaced, then covered her mouth. “Okay. That—yeah. That was supposed to be an inside thought.”
You scoffed, shaking your head as you went back to signing. “You’ve been working for me too long.”
She cleared her throat, tapping her tablet like she needed something to do with her hands. “Mr. Zhou just stepped into the lobby. Should we… um… go wait for him in the conference room?” she asked, already smiling.
“Fine,” you said, signing your name a little harder on the last paperwork. “But we’re unpacking that later.”
You were puzzled to see Vernon waiting by the car as soon as you stepped out of your office at noon. He looked out of place there, standing in a crisp set of suit and coat, looking like he was shooting an ad for Ralph Lauren. You were realizing in real time that he was unnecessarily too good-looking and too well-dressed to be someone’s errand boy.
He was holding Becca’s work tablet and the leather briefcase she’d usually brought to meetings.
“Where’s Becca?” you asked, not slowing down as you watched him open the car door for you.
“She’s gone,” he said, watching you settle onto the backseat. “Told me my secretary duties start today.”
“What do you mean she’s gone?”
Vernon blinked, confused. “Oh, you didn’t know? I thought she discussed this with you beforehand.”
You sighed, waved him off, and leaned back on the seat. As Vernon closed the door and rounded the car, you took your phone out and typed out an urgent message to Becca.
You: I’m docking your pay.
Vernon took the driver’s seat without ceremony, adjusted the mirror, and pulled into traffic.
“Read the documents carefully,” you said without looking up. “And pay attention during the meeting.”
“I will,” he said. “To both.”
The car ride was quiet. You reviewed the agenda on your tablet while the city slid past the windows, aware of him in your periphery—too relaxed, but not sloppy.
Your phone rang not even ten minutes into the ride and you sighed when you saw the caller ID. But answered anyway. “Hi, Grandma.”
“I just wanna remind you that you have a date this evening,” she said immediately. “You’re going, aren’t you?”
“No,” you replied. “I’m working.”
“You said that last week.”
“I was working last week too. I’m busy, Grandma. Right now, I’m heading out for a lunch meeting with suppliers.”
She clicked her tongue. “You’re always working. You can’t keep postponing your life like this. Why do you always put that damn company first?”
You pressed your lips together. “Grandma, this was your company. You put me here.”
“Excuses. When will you have a husband?” she shot back. “Or children? I’m old and dying. Do you think time is gonna wait for me? I just want to see you settle down and be happy. Is that too much to ask?”
You looked out the window. “You’re healthy. You’re strong. You’re not going anywhere.”
You heard her exhale sharply on the other line, clearly annoyed now. “If you don’t come tonight, I’ll erase your name from my will. You won’t get a single penny from me.”
“You’ve been saying that for years,” you said evenly. “Need I remind you that you only have one living relative and it’s me?”
She huffed. “Don’t test me. I might just donate my whole fortune to charity. You must go this time. I swear this one is better than the previous dates. His name is Pa—”
“I love you,” you said, cutting her off. “I’ll call you later.”
You ended the call before she could respond.
For a moment, the only sound in the car was the hum of the engine and the soft click of the turn signal. You slipped your phone back into your bag and leaned farther into the seat, already compartmentalizing the conversation the way you always did.
You caught movement in the rearview mirror. Vernon was looking at you. “Persistent grandma?” he asked when your gazes met.
You sighed, unimpressed. “Eyes on the road.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, tone mild enough to be irritating.
You let the silence stretch after that, your attention returning to the tablet in your hands. You scrolled through the agenda, noting the points you wanted addressed, the concessions you were willing to make, and the ones you absolutely were not. Vernon drove without comment, smooth and calm, like he wasn’t ferrying someone who could fire him on a whim.
You glanced up again, studying his reflection this time with intention. The angle of his jaw. The familiarity you hadn’t been able to put a finger on ever since you saw his face.
“Have we met before?” you asked.
“Yes,” he replied immediately. “We went to the same university. And met once at a freshman party.”
That checked out. You’d seen enough of him around campus for his face to register, even now. You hummed, “Knew you looked familiar. You have an unforgettable face.”
That slipped out unintentionally, making you pause. You considered taking it back, but you ultimately just decided to roll with it. You cleared your throat. “I mean—well… Have you seen yourself?”
“Sorry, what?” he asked, glancing briefly at you. “I didn’t catch that.”
But the slight smirk on his lips told you that was a lie. You rolled your eyes, then watched him for another second. “If we went to uni at the same time,” you asked, “how are you still interning? At this age?”
He grinned. “Are you discriminating?"
“I’m just asking.”
“As my boss or as someone who knew me from college?”
You exhaled through your nose, realizing now that Becca wasn’t exaggerating when she said Vernon can be annoying for some. “Forget it,” you said.
He just smiled, focusing on driving. But a few moments later, he said, “I just got out of a slave contract with my previous employer.”
You looked up. “I assume that’s an exaggeration.”
“It could be,” he replied, shrugging.
You didn’t comment. Some jobs did feel like that. You knew it, even if you’d never experienced it firsthand. You’d never been employed under someone, except when you interned for your Grandma, but even that was hardly employment. You’d always been your own boss.
The car slowed as the restaurant came into view. Vernon found a parking space easily. “We’re here,” he said as soon as the engine stopped.
You straightened, already stepping out of the vehicle. “They’re gonna give us the revised version of the contract from last time. Remember to go over it very, very carefully.”
“Got it,” he replied, gathering his things and fixing his coat as he stepped out of the car.
You paused, looked at him once with furrowed brows, then said, “Lose the coat.”
He blinked. “What? Why?”
“Just lose it,” you said, waving your hand dismissively. “You’re gonna make these people think I brought a date to this meeting.”
The realization hit him a second later. “Oh.”
His ears turned red almost immediately, the color creeping up fast enough that it caught you off guard. He looked away, cleared his throat, and shrugged out of the coat with noticeably less confidence than he’d had five seconds ago.
“Right,” he said. “Okay.”
You didn’t respond. You were already walking.
He followed a step behind. You noticed the way he kept tugging at his sleeves, the way his shoulders squared like he was suddenly conscious about his posture. It didn’t slow him down, but it made him seem less casual and more shy.
You filed that thought in the far back of your mind and pushed open the restaurant door.
Vernon settled into his role faster than you’d anticipated. He learned your schedule within days, memorizing the gaps between meetings, the calls you always took walking, the ones you preferred, seated and uninterrupted. By the first week, he stopped asking what you needed and started having it ready before you spoke. Coffee appeared when you’d skipped breakfast. Documents were summarized and tabbed—never highlighted, because you hated highlights.
He remembered dates without reminders. Flagged clauses you would’ve circled anyway. Anticipated questions before clients finished asking them. He spoke only when necessary in meetings, and when he did, it was concise enough that no one dared interrupt him.
“Your two o’clock wanted to move to three,” he said one morning, falling into step beside you as you walked down the hall. “Mr. Lee begged. Said something about traffic and divine intervention.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That divine intervention doesn’t outrank your calendar.”
You didn’t break stride. “Good.”
By the end of the second week, you—and everyone around you—had realized that you now have a second Becca, a more merciless one at that. People stopped going to you first. They went to Vernon. He filtered what mattered and killed what didn’t. When he brought you something, it was because it deserved your time. He filtered your calls ruthlessly. If something reached you, it mattered. If it didn’t, it never existed. People learned quickly that arguing with him was pointless; if Vernon said you were unavailable, then you were.
Occasionally, he tested his boundaries. Not in ways that interfered with work, but in tone.
“Do you always look like this when you’re thinking?” he asked once, watching you review a document.
You didn’t look up. “Like what.”
“Like you’re about to ruin someone’s life.”
You slid the folder toward him. “Page twelve.”
He glanced down, eyes scanning. “Ah,” he said. “There it is. I knew something was odd with this.”
In meetings, he was quiet, efficient, present without being intrusive. He passed notes when necessary, caught errors before they reached the table, and never spoke unless spoken to or unless you were about to walk into something avoidable.
“Clause eighteen,” he murmured once, sliding you a note.
You corrected the issue mid-sentence and moved on. Afterward, in the elevator, you said, “Good catch.”
His brows lifted in surprise. “Was that praise?”
“Don’t get used to it.”
“I won’t,” he said, grinning. “But I will cherish it.”
By the third week, he stopped flinching when you corrected him. By the fourth, he started correcting other people before you had to. He learned quickly what earned silence versus what earned a look. Silence meant he was safe. The look meant he had exactly one more word before his internship became a cautionary tale.
He respected that. Mostly.
“So,” he said once, handing you a folder, “do you want the bad news first or the worse news?”
You took the folder. “If you ever phrase it like that again, you’re fired.”
“Noted,” he said calmly. “Then I’ll just say this contract is trash.”
You looked up slowly. He met your gaze without flinching. “Respectfully.”
You skimmed the page. Then the next. Then the clause he’d marked with a single tab. It was, in fact, trash.
You closed the folder. “Schedule a call.”
“I already did.”
He had an irritating habit of leaning where he wasn’t supposed to. Doorframes. Desks. The back of chairs that did not belong to him. He never slouched in meetings, never interrupted, but outside of them, he carried himself like he wasn’t intimidated by anyone in the building.
Including you. Especially you.
“Do you actually read all of these,” he asked once, eyeing the stack of reports on your desk.
“Yes.”
“All of them?”
“Yes.”
He paused. “I guess you’re not like those other nepo babies who—um… nevermind.”
You lifted your pen. “Finish that sentence, Secretary Chwe.”
“Nope,” he said, chuckling nervously and retreating a step. “I’m quite attached to my paycheck, you see.”
You rolled your eyes, but Vernon kept his grin. “When will you call me by my first name?”
Your brows furrowed. “Why would I do that?”
“Well, there’s Becca. You address her not only by her first name but by her nickname.”
You tutted, shaking your head and deciding to ignore his question entirely. “Go. I don’t need you right now,” you said, waving him away.
“Yes, ma’am,” he chimed, walking away. You returned to your screen. You didn’t fire him.By the end of the month, Vernon no longer felt like a temporary replacement to your intuitive and reliable Becca. He felt like his own fixture. An irritating, unnecessarily good-looking, deeply unserious, but very competent fixture.
“Is that Armani?” you asked, just as Vernon turned the engine off.
He glanced back at you, then at his coat. “I think so? I got this as a gift for my birthday.”
You chuckled, reaching for the door. “Your clothes are too expensive for an intern.”
You stepped out of the car, eyes blinking at the blinding building right in front of you. Vernon fell into step beside you not 30 seconds later, and you noticed that he’d taken off his coat.
“You should keep it on,” you said.
He tilted his head. “But wouldn’t it make them think you brought a date to the meeting?”
You shrugged. “Maybe, but these people are worth impressing. I’m heading inside first. You go get your coat and make yourself look good.”
You were inside the building for less than two minutes when you ran into someone that made your eyes twitch. He called your name from across the lobby, his voice ringing out annoyingly.
“Is that you?” he asked when he approached you. “Well, damn. It is you.”
“Carlo,” you acknowledged, offering a curt smile.
“Oh, so you remember me,” he grinned, his eyes roving from your head to your foot, then back up to your face again, not without pausing briefly on your chest. “It’s been a while, huh?”
You nodded once, polite and brief, already angling your body toward the other direction. “It has. If you’ll excuse me, I’m on my way to a meeting.”
“Yeah, yeah, you’re always busy,” he said, waving it off. “But who isn’t?” he added, laughing out loud.
He then launched into a recap of his life since the last time you’d seen him—his job, his connections, the people he knew, the Dubai prince he was chummy with, the places he’d been. It was all very impressive, apparently. You tried to interject twice. Both attempts failed. He spoke over you like it was muscle memory.
You remembered, dimly, the disastrous blind date your Grandmother had set you up on last year. Apparently Carlo was a friend’s son who was intelligent and sweet. You gave it a chance because you’d run out of excuses to decline. But Carlo was downright obnoxious. He was preposterous, talked only about himself, and after the date, he told every mutual acquaintance you both had that you were the reason why it never worked out after the first date—as if he didn’t blow up your phone asking for another chance after you refused to go on another date with him. He’d framed your refusal like a misunderstanding, and acted like persistence was a charm.
“So anyway,” he said, finally pausing just long enough to inhale, “I was thinking maybe we could grab dinner sometime. Catch up properly.”
You spotted Vernon a few steps away. “There you are, my love,” you called out with an exaggerated sigh of relief.
Vernon looked up at the sound of your voice, just as you crossed the distance and slipped your arm around his without asking, fingers curling into the fabric of his sleeve. For a moment, you thought he might ask what was happening. But he looked at you and at the puzzled Carlo just nearby and seemed to understand the situation right away.
“Sorry,” you said, turning back to Carlo with an apologetic smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “What were you saying?”
Carlo took a step back, posture stiffening, his grin faltering as his eyes moved from Vernon’s face to his tailored clothes, then back to you. Whatever confidence he’d walked into the lobby with seemed to deflate all at once.
“Oh, by the way,” you began, turning to Vernon. “Have you met Carlo? He’s in the export business. And the son of Grandmama’s friend.”
Vernon didn’t miss a beat. He offered his hand. “Vernon,” he said pleasantly.
Carlo stared, shaking his hand. You smiled and said, “My fiancee.”
“Oh,” Carlo said. “Fiancée.”
“Yes,” you replied simply. You could already imagine how this little lie would spread among your mutual acquaintances and business spaces you shared with Carlo, given how loose-lipped he was. But all you could care about right now was getting him to leave you alone.
“Well—uh,” Carlo said, shaking Vernon’s hand a little too quickly. “Nice to meet you. You two look… great.” He stepped back, already glancing at his phone. “I should get going. Busy day. You know how it is.”
You watched him retreat without comment, hurrying through the lobby until he disappeared entirely. Only then did you exhale.
You loosened your grip on Vernon’s arm, turning toward him. “Thank you,” you began.
“Your fiancée?” said someone from behind you.
You immediately froze, recognizing the timbre, the authority, and the unmistakable tone of your Grandmother’s voice.
You turned slowly and found her standing a few feet away, handbag tucked neatly under her arm, eyes sharp and clearly amused.
“Did I hear that right,” she said, her smile widening as her gaze flicked between you and Vernon, “or am I finally losing my hearing?”
Vernon, to his credit, didn’t move. Neither did you. And somewhere between the impulsive little lie and her grin, you realized that things were about to blow out of proportion.
“OMG, Grammy. You heard that? I’m sorry. This is my assistant. I only said he was my fiancée to get that obnoxious Carlo off my back.”
You could have said that and gotten it over with. But you couldn’t. The delight on your grandmother’s face was too precious for you to shatter with the truth. So here you were, sitting across from her for an impromptu family dinner, Vernon holding your hand beside you.
You were usually the most intimidating person in any room you walked into. Boardrooms, negotiations, crowded halls full of people waiting for you to speak—none of it ever rattled you. But at that dinner table, you were painfully aware of your posture, your hands, the way your expression changed with every interaction.
Your grandmother had that effect on you. She was the only person who could ever make you nervous, especially when it involved major life decisions like this.
It didn’t help that she was beaming like she’d just won the lottery. Vernon, as it turned out, was the grandson of an old friend of hers.
“Why didn’t you tell me you knew my Grandma?” you had discreetly asked him earlier during the meeting with an investor, while your Grandmother watched from a few tables away.
She had insisted she’d wait until you finished the business meeting, and that was how you found yourselves trapped in this ‘family’ dinner.
“So,” she said, eyes bright as she looked between you and Vernon, “how did the two of you meet?”
You stiffened slightly, already bracing yourself. Vernon answered easily. “Oh, we met in college,” he said, reaching for his water. “We reconnected only recently when I started working for her.”
Your grandmother’s eyebrows rose. “Oh? And when did you start dating?”
You kept your gaze on your plate, listening. “About a month ago,” Vernon replied smoothly.
A month ago. You did the math immediately, your mind racing ahead of your body. That was the exact week he’d started working as your temporary assistant.
“And engaged already?” your grandmother said, delighted rather than suspicious.
Vernon nodded. “We didn’t see the point in waiting.”
She laughed, clapping her hands softly. “Oh, I love that. Life is too short to hesitate.” She turned to you then, eyes sharp and delighted. “So you mean to tell me you got engaged without telling me you were dating my best friend’s grandson?”
You opened your mouth, only to just close it again. Vernon cleared his throat. “It all happened rather quickly.”
“That’s what I love about it,” she said, waving a hand. “Destiny waits for no one,” she added, laughing.
You laughed too—awkwardly enough that you were sure you’d given it all away. You stared at the food on the table, suddenly finding your favorite dish from the best chef in the city unappetizing and dry.
“Does your family know?” she asked Vernon again.
Vernon hesitated, glancing at you for an answer. You had absolutely nothing to offer him. Not even a lie half-formed. So you lifted one shoulder, the smallest shrug you could manage.
He turned back to her and smiled. “Not yet. We wanted to keep it quiet for a while,” he said, shrugging lightly. “It hasn’t been very long. But I guess the secret’s out now that you know.”
Your grandmother looked like she might burst from excitement. “Oh, this is wonderful,” she said, already reaching for her phone. “They’ll be thrilled.”
You sat up straighter. “Grandma—”
“Wait,” Vernon said at the same time.
She waved both of you off, already dialing. “Oh, don’t worry. I’ll just tell them quickly.”
You watched in horror as she put the phone to her ear. “Hello?” she said brightly. “Yes, yes, it’s me. You’ll never guess what I just found out.”
You sank back into your chair, heart thudding.
She spoke excitedly, voice warm and loud enough that you caught pieces of the conversation—laughter, delighted exclaims, repeated congratulations. You could hear someone else speaking on the other end, just as excited.
You didn’t catch the names, but you didn’t need to. Whoever was on the other end was laughing too. Your grandmother kept nodding along, with soft mm-hmms and delighted sighs.
“I know. I couldn’t believe it either.” She glanced at the two of you, eyes shining. “They’re here with me right now.”
Vernon didn’t move. His hand was still resting near yours on the table, close enough but not quite touching. He looked composed, if a little too still, like he’d decided that reacting would only make things worse.
Your grandmother laughed again. “Oh, don’t be dramatic. Of course it makes sense. Haven’t you always said fate has terrible timing?”
She listened for a moment, then hummed approvingly. “Yes. I’ll tell them.”
She ended the call with a satisfied tap of her finger against the screen and set her phone down carefully, as if savoring the moment. “There,” she said, pleased. “They are over the moon.”
You exhaled slowly through your nose. “Grandma—”
“You never even told them that you were seeing someone, Vernon,” she added. “They’re insisting on dinner soon. All of us.”
“That might be difficult,” he said carefully. “With work and—”
“Oh, nonsense,” she interrupted. “You’ll make time. You always do for family.”
She smiled at you then, softer and fonder. “And you,” she said, “I’m gonna excuse the fact that you kept this a secret from me.”
You pressed your lips together, offering something that might have passed for a smile.
Across the table, your grandmother reached for her glass, perfectly satisfied. Beside you, Vernon shifted just enough that his knee brushed yours under the table. Neither of you commented on it. But you both understood the same thing at the exact same time.
This had officially gone too far to undo politely.
By the time you finally parted with your grandmother outside the restaurant, you were exhausted. Not the kind of tired you felt after negotiations or long meetings, but the slow, creeping kind that sank into your bones and stayed there.
You slid into the backseat as soon as Vernon opened the door for you, barely waiting for it to close before sinking back against the leather. The city lights blurred past the windows as the car pulled away from the curb.
“That,” you said, staring at the ceiling, “went so wrong so fast.”
Vernon huffed a small laugh from the driver’s seat. “That’s one way to put it.”
You dragged a hand down your face. “I just wanted Carlo to leave me alone. I didn’t plan on my grandmother calling half the city to announce my engagement.”
“She seemed… enthusiastic.”
“Oh, trust me. That was her being restrained,” you muttered. You straightened slightly, folding your arms. “You’ve been with me long enough to know how she takes my love life very, very seriously.”
The car stopped at a red light. Vernon glanced at you through the rearview mirror. “You could let her have it for a few days,” he said casually. “Then tell her it didn’t work out. People break up all the time. We haven’t been dating long anyway. It’ll be believable.”
You sighed, nodding. “That’s the plan.”
The light turned green, and he eased back into traffic. You watched the city slide past again, your reflection faint in the glass.
“I’m sorry,” you said after a moment. “For dragging you into this. For the phone call with your folks. For—” You waved a hand vaguely. “All of it.”
Vernon shrugged, eyes on the road. “It’s fine.”
You looked at him. “You don’t have to say that.”
“No really,” he replied. “I don’t mind. I’ll just consider it part of the job.”
You rolled your eyes. “I’d hate the job if I were you.”
He tilted his head, considering. “Well,” he said, “it’s not the strangest thing I’ve been dragged into for work.”
You snorted despite yourself. The car slowed in front of your apartment building. Vernon parked and turned the engine off. You stepped out of the car, the night air cool against your skin. Behind you, Vernon followed, just another assistant at your side.
That was all it was supposed to be.
“See you in the morning, boss,” he said, handing you your bag as you both stopped in front of the elevator.
You nodded. “See you in the morning, Secretary Chwe.”
He nodded back, then stepped closer—so suddenly that you barely had time to register it before he was right there, warmth and presence crowding your space.
You froze, surprised by the proximity. For a split-second your mind was racing to process so many things at once—the closeness, the clean scent of his cologne, his steady breathing, and the way you’d been holding yours without realizing it.
Then his arm lifted past your shoulder. The elevator button clicked softly behind you.
“Oh,” you breathed, the sound escaping before you could stop it.
Vernon pulled back, his expression unreadable for a second, before his mouth curved into a smile—one that made you pause. You’d seen that smile every day for the last few weeks, but this was the first time you’d found yourself completely disarmed by it.
The elevator dinged. The doors slid open, and air rushed back into your lungs like you’d been underwater. You looked away first, stepping inside without a word.
Vernon remained outside, one hand lifting in a wave. “Good night,” he said.
The doors closed between you, sealing him out, and the last thing you saw was that damn smile.
The very next morning, you woke up to the sound of your phone ringing on the nightstand. You squinted at the screen. Grandma.
“Oh my god, what now?” you grumbled, sitting up before answering. “Good morning,” you croaked, rubbing your eyes.
“Pack your bags,” she said immediately, skipping any niceties. “We’re going away for the holidays.”
“It’s still two weeks before Christmas, Grandmama.”
“Oh, honey,” she gushed. “We’ll be spending the holidays with Vernon’s family.”
You straightened up, swiping at the alarm that had somehow joined the chaos. “Excuse me?”
“Yes. For a week. Isn’t that wonderful?”
“A WEEK?!” you echoed loudly, standing up on your bed now, clutching a fistful of your hair. “Grandma, what do you mean a week? What… Where—WITH WHOM?”
“Okay, young lady. Calm down. I can’t understand you when you’re rambling like this.”
“Grandma, I can’t—I have work. There’s the holiday promos, the rush, meetings and deals. I literally can’t even disappear for a day, let alone a whole week.”
“You have competent employees for that. I’m sure they can handle it,” she said casually. “Besides, I checked your calendar and you don’t have anything major that requires your immediate attention. Surely you can pause your micromanaging for a few days?”
“Excuse me?” you scoffed, offended. “I don’t micromanage—ugh. Not the point,” you muttered, more to yourself.
You took a deep breath and sat back on the bed. “Listen, Grandma. I haven’t met his family yet. I haven’t even been introduced as his girlfriend yet. I can’t just show up as his fiancee out of nowhere.”
“Yes, yes, I know,” she said, waving the thought away like dust. “But this is exactly the right moment. It’s the holidays.”
You paused, genuinely bewildered. “How did this even happen?”
“Oh, my dear, this wasn’t my idea,” she replied, her voice lighting up. “Vernon’s grandmother insisted.”
You let out a long, shaky breath. “Grandma—”
“Pack your bags,” she said cheerfully. “Don’t argue with me. I’ve already told them you’re coming and I already took care of everything.”
Now here you were, sitting in your office, heels tapping impatiently on the marble floor, fingers drumming against the wood of your desk. Every five seconds, you checked the clock, willing Vernon to appear.
Finally, the office door slid open, and there he was, smiling so calmly like things hadn’t blown out of proportion already. “Oh, there you are!” You exhaled sharply. “I need you to act as my fiancée. Again.”
His brows furrowed, confused. “Why?”
“Surely your family’s told you by now that I am to spend the holidays with you?” you snapped, exasperation leaking into your tone.
He shrugged. “I’ve been told. But… you don’t have to. I can get you out of it if you really hate the idea.”
You leaned back in your chair, crossing your arms. “I don’t like the idea. But you know as well as I do that dissuading my grandmother is impossible.”
He chuckled lightly. “You’ve never let anyone tell you what to do.”
You snorted, leaning forward. “I’ll have you know that my grandmother can—and will—tell me what to do. Ghosting blind dates is a walk in the park, but things like this? Yeah. No way.”
Vernon hummed in acknowledgment. “She does seem like the formidable type.”
There was a moment of silence between you, one so comical you could hear the crickets in your head. “So?” you prompted. “Will you do it, or not?”
Vernon just shrugged, eyes still playful. “Do I get a raise?”
You rolled your eyes, exasperated, but also relieved. “I’ll even make you a regular while I’m at it, Intern Chwe.”
Being the meticulous person you were, you drafted a contract days before the trip. Not a legal one, of course, but a set of rules you and Vernon both agreed to follow while pretending to be engaged. You and Vernon made it together and agreed to both of your conditions, especially involving physical intimacy.
You made a point to make sure holding hands and displays of affection were strictly in front of the family only. And of course no hugging unless absolutely necessary. There were clauses about sticking to an agreed context and backstory, and never answering major or intrusive questions without the other.
“How do you feel about sharing a bedroom?” he asked.
“Do we have to? Can’t I get my own guest room?”
Vernon shook his head. “You clearly don’t know my family at all. An engaged couple staying in separate bedrooms? They’re gonna be suspicious.”
That made sense. “Alright. But I’m taking the bed. You can have the couch. Or the floor. Whatever works.”
“Come on,” he said, mock-protesting. “It’s my house. I should get the bed.”
“And I’m your boss,” you countered. “Rule number five will be, I always win.”
“Now you’re just power tripping.”
You waved a hand dismissively. “Fifth clause. Very important.”
Vernon raised an eyebrow at said clause about ‘no kissing or hugging’. “Exceptions?” he asked casually. “Christmas games, dances, mistletoe… maybe a moment of festive goodwill?”
“Absolutely not,” you said firmly. “Exceptions are only if the world is literally ending. Or someone dies. Or—” You stopped yourself, realizing you were overexplaining. “Just don’t ask for exceptions.”
Vernon nodded, taking that in stride. “But the situation could call for a hug, you know?”
You rolled your eyes. “Let’s just not.”
“Fine. But I’m telling you, my family will notice.”
“Just what kind of family do you have?”
Apparently, the kind who were affectionate and close, and took Christmas very seriously.
Days later, you boarded a plane with your grandmother practically vibrating with excitement beside you. She chatted the entire time—about the food, about the weather, about how nice it was that you were finally dating and thinking of marriage—while you nodded along, occasionally exchanging looks with Vernon over the divider between your seats. Thankfully, first class gave you just enough privacy that you didn’t have to perform more than absolutely necessary.
When you landed, the cold winter air hit you first, stinging your cheek. You’d barely stepped outside the terminal when a pickup truck rolled to a stop in front of you, horn honking cheerfully.
A jolly older man hopped out, grinning wide. “You must be exhausted,” he said warmly, eyes immediately landing on your grandmother. “It’s been too long.”
Her face lit up in a way you didn’t see very often these days. “Look at you,” she said, holding his arm affectionately. “All grown up.”
They hugged like no time had passed at all. Behind you, Vernon carefully placed a coat over your shoulder, its warmth engulfing you almost immediately. Then he leaned in slightly, one hand still on your shoulder. “That’s my uncle.”
Vernon introduced you and you offered a hand for a shake. “Lovely to meet you.”
The entire drive into town was filled with laughter and reminiscing, stories bouncing back and forth like they’d only seen each other yesterday instead of decades ago. Apparently, his uncle had spent a good portion of his childhood around your grandmother, running around while the adults talked business and dreams and things far too big for children to understand.
You watched your grandmother from the backseat, her smile so soft and sweet, and felt something warm settle in your chest.
“Just how long have you known this family?” you asked her, half-teasing.
Vernon’s uncle laughed before she could answer. “Oh, longer than me,” he said easily. “Her and my Ma go way back. Back when I wasn’t even born yet.”
She nodded fondly. “We were already friends when we both had nothing,” she said. “We used to talk about what we’d do one day, when life finally got easier. Now, we have money. But we’re both too busy to see each other.”
You hummed, thoughtful, eyes drifting out the window. A moment later, curiosity got the better of you. You turned slightly toward Vernon. “I don’t think you’ve told me what your family does?” you asked.
He shrugged. “Merchandising.”
That was vague. You narrowed your eyes at him, but before you could press further, his uncle laughed and pointed ahead, where a tall building rose proudly in the middle of the city square. It stretched for blocks, glass gleaming even under the sky.
“That,” he said, clearly pleased, “is what my dear mother—Vernon’s grandma—built from the ground up.”
Your breath caught. It was a shopping mall. Not just any mall, either. You recognized the name immediately. You’d seen more than a few of them back home, even had business with them!
Slowly, you turned to look at Vernon, scanning him from head to toe like you were seeing him for the first time.
He noticed. “What?”
“Merchandising?” you said flatly.
He shrugged again, entirely unapologetic. You leaned back in your seat, stunned, eyes flicking back to the building as it disappeared behind you.
Great. Of course you’d accidentally gotten fake-engaged into another powerful family.
When the truck finally came to a stop, you stepped down onto solid ground and immediately turned to Vernon, catching him by the sleeve before he could move too far ahead.
“Wait,” you said under your breath. “Why didn’t you tell me you were rich?”
He blinked, genuinely taken aback. “What?”
“That mall,” you said flatly. “The one your family runs. You don’t just forget to mention that, not when you know we’re retail partners with them.”
Vernon huffed a laugh. “You never asked. And besides, I’m not rich. My family is.”
You stared at him. “That’s not an answer.”
“It is,” he said mildly. “Just not one you like.”
You scoffed, lowering your voice even further. “Then why are you working as an intern? In my company. For—” you gestured vaguely between the two of you, “minimum pay and maximum suffering?”
His mouth opened, like he was about to say something but his uncle’s voice came booming from a few steps away. “Vernon!”
He looked over his shoulder. “Coming,” he replied easily, then glanced back at you. “Come on.”
You followed them down the pier, heels clicking against weathered wood as the sea air wrapped around you. Only when you reached the edge did you finally understand why everyone had stopped.
A sailboat waited at the dock, white and pristine, bobbing gently against the water. You slowed to a stop.
“Why are we getting on a boat?”
Vernon glanced at the sailboat, then back at you, a smirk tugging at his mouth. “My family thinks we’re better than everyone else,” he said, “so they bought a whole island and decided to live far away from the commoners.”
You stopped walking altogether. “I’m sorry—what?”
His uncle let out a bark of laughter, clapping a hand on Vernon’s shoulder. “That’s not true at all,” he said. “We didn’t move there. It’s just for family gatherings. Holidays. Reunions. That sort of thing.”
“And no, we don’t own the whole island,” his uncle added, looking out into the horizon, one hand on his hip. “Only half of it.”
Like that made it less unreasonable.
You’d spent years thinking your grandmother was extravagant—buying properties she rarely stayed in, collecting things simply because she could. But apparently, somewhere two thousand miles away, another woman had been doing the exact same thing.
No wonder they’re friends.
Vernon hovered beside you now, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his presence without looking at him. “You okay?” he asked quietly.
You opened your eyes. “I’m fine.”
He smiled at that, then held a hand out toward you. You hesitated for half a second, narrowing your eyes at him, then just as quickly, remembered the whole happily in love act had officially begun. So you took his hand and let him help you aboard the boat.
You had a feeling this week is going to be a lot harder than you’d anticipated.
The ride out to the island was mercifully short. The boat cut smoothly across the water, cold wind biting at your cheeks until your eyes watered. You pulled your coat tighter around yourself, breath fogging faintly in front of you.
Someone was already waiting there. A girl stood at the edge of the dock, bundled in a thick coat and scarf, waving with both arms like she didn’t feel the cold at all.
“That’s my sister,” Vernon said beside you. “Sofia.”
The moment your feet hit the dock, Sofia made a beeline for him, throwing her arms around his neck without hesitation. “You’re alive,” she said dramatically. “I was starting to think you’d fallen off the face of the earth.”
Vernon laughed, hugging her back. “You facetimed me three days ago.”
“Three days is a long time,” she shot back, then said something else under her breath that made him groan and flick her forehead lightly. You didn’t catch the words, but the sight of their teasing and laughter made your chest feel oddly warm.
Then Vernon turned slightly and gestured toward you. “This is—” He paused for half a second, then continued smoothly. “My girlfriend.”
Sofia’s eyes snapped to you, sharp and curious, then widened with unmistakable delight. “Girlfriend,” she said slowly, grinning mischievously. “That’s not what I heard,” she added in a sing-song.
Vernon sighed. “Please be normal. Don’t embarrass me.”
“Welcome,” Sofia said cheerfully, offering a hug which you returned awkwardly. Then she pulled back just enough to study your face. “Wow. You’re very pretty. Why would you wanna marry that guy?”
“Alright,” Vernon interjected, tugging Sofia from behind by her jacket collar. “That’s enough. Go away.”
“What? I think she’s too good for you.” She turned to you. “You sure you don’t wanna change your mind?”
“Stop,” he chided softly, chuckling, “Don’t discourage her. She might just change her mind. Nothing’s decided yet.”
“Oh, what nonsense.”
The voice came from behind Sofia—calm, amused, unmistakably unimpressed. A woman stepped forward, elegant in every sense of the word, eyes narrowing playfully as she looked Vernon over.
“You left a perfectly good position in the family business saying you wanted to fend for yourself,” she continued, “and now you come home with a fiancée?” Her lips curved into a smile. “You didn’t even wait a year before crawling back.”
You were taken aback, instinctively scooting closer to Vernon after what you heard. In your mind, you were wondering who this was and why she seemed to dislike him.
But beside you, Vernon merely sighed, shook his head in exasperation, and told you, “This is my mom.”
You blinked, momentarily caught off-guard. Then it immediately clicked that this might be how they normally talked to each other, and all in good fun, you assumed.
His mother didn’t give you much time to dwell on it. Her attention shifted to you immediately, her expression softening as she stepped closer and pulled you into a hug before you could react.
“Oh,” you exclaimed. Behind her, you mouthed to Vernon, ’Is this normal?’
He just shrugged, a smile playing on his lips. “Welcome,” she said warmly. “We’re so happy you’re here.”
You laughed softly, a little breathless, returning the hug despite the nerves curling in your stomach. And then everything moved at once.
You were ushered forward, names thrown at you faster than you could catch them—aunts, cousins, someone’s partner, someone else’s child—smiles and greetings blurring together as you were guided further into the property. The words ‘Vernon’s fiancee’ kept echoing in your ears, and you felt a little lightheaded as you realized that lie felt bigger by the second, ballooning with every new face and every fond look directed your way.
Warm air hit you the moment you stepped inside the house, carrying the smell of food and something sweet. It was massive, but you barely had time to take it in before you heard someone call out your grandmother’s nickname.
“Oh my goodness,” a voice exclaimed, followed by hurried footsteps.
An elderly woman appeared with her arms already open, and your grandmother’s face lit up like a sunrise. They met in the middle of the room, hugging tightly, laughing, talking over each other all at once.
You watched them fondly, feeling warm all over and knowing it wasn’t because of the central heating. Then the noise swelled again around you, and you were being pulled into a hug by Vernon’s grandmother who had affectionately asked you to call her ‘Nana’.
Eventually—somehow—you and Vernon finally escaped everybody’s attention and you found yourself trailing behind him aas he led you down a quieter hallway. You passed through wide corridors, went up several flights of staircases, before he finally stopped in front of a wooden door that looked like every other one in the hall.
“Come on in,” he said, pushing the door open and letting you step inside first.
The room was spacious, sunlight spilling through tall windowsr. A queen-sized bed sat at the center, dressed in crisp white linens under fluffy navy blue duvets. A thick rug covered the hardwood floor, and a small writing desk sat neatly in the corner. A fireplace along one wall had a few framed family photos on its mantle. There was also a couch just in front of the fireplace, and you noticed a subtle scent of pine and cinnamon lingering faintly in the room.
“How big is your family?” you asked, your gaze drifting around, taking in the comfort and scale of the space.
“Not very,” he said, hauling the last of your luggage over to the corner and setting it down with ease. “Nana has five kids, all married with kids. And most of my older cousins are married too, so I’ve got eight nieces and nephews.”
“Wow. Are there like, thirty of you?”
“Almost thirty,” he said, shrugging, a small smile tugging at his lips. “If everyone comes home for the holidays this year, you’re looking at twenty-eight Chwes under one roof.”
“That’s a lot of people,” you murmured, scanning the room.
“What about you?” he asked.
“Well, my dad was an only child who had only one kid,” you replied, leaning slightly against the desk. “So, no aunts and uncles for me. No horde of cousins either.”
Vernon glanced at you from the doorway, tilting his head slightly. “Right, why didn’t your parents come here with you? I assume they’re thrilled that their only child is engaged.”
You froze, realizing in that moment that you’d never actually told him your parents had passed. Before you could answer, a sharp knock came at the door, swinging open just as quickly without really waiting for anyone to respond.
“Hello! I hope I’m not disturbing anything,” a warm, lively voice called out. Vernon’s mother stepped inside, carrying a tray laden with small snacks and a thermos of tea.
“No. We were just settling in,” you answered, trying to sound normal.
“I figured you’d be hungry after that long journey,” she said brightly, setting the tray down. She turned her gaze on you, eyes sparkling with curiosity. “How are you feeling? You’ve traveled so far! Are you comfortable? Did you eat enough on the plane? Oh, do you like sweets?”
You opened your mouth, then closed it again, blinking at the rapid-fire questions, completely overwhelmed.
“Oh, and I’m so sorry about the chaos,” she said, smiling as she poured tea into the teacup. “Our family tends to overreact. Especially with Vernon being the only man in the family who hasn’t married yet. Everyone’s just excited to meet you.”
You felt a genuine warmth spread through your chest. “Thank you,” you said softly, taking a small step closer to accept the cup she was offering.
“And how is my son? Is he good to you? Does he treat you well?”
“Oh, he’s… wonderful. He takes care of everything for me,” you replied, and in a way, what you said was true.
“As he should,” she chimed, looking proud. “He must have been really good to you for you to decide to get married shortly after dating. OH!” She exclaimed, practically jumping in her seat. “You haven’t shown us your engagement ring yet!”
You froze, eyes flitting to Vernon across the room. He too looked surprised. You were both realizing in real-time that you had forgotten one, if not the most important thing about this whole engagement thing.
The damn ring!
“Is this it?” his mother asked, reaching for your hand where your default favorite ring to wear wrapped daintily on your finger.
You glanced sideways at Vernon, your expression screaming Help me.
“Alright, Mom, we’re tired. We need some rest. Please give us some space,” said Vernon, walking over and gently tugging her mom away from you.
“Oh, fine,” she said, still beaming as her son dragged her all the way out of the door. “But you need to tell me everything later!”
“Okay, bye-bye,” Vernon said before closing the door to her face.
The silence that followed was like a breath of fresh air. You slumped onto the couch, exhaling a long, tired breath. “I can’t believe you forgot about the ring.”
“Nah, I think that’s on you,” he said casually, sitting on the edge of the bed. “This whole thing was your idea. You should have known getting engaged includes getting a ring.”
“Are you saying you didn’t know that?”
Vernon paused, head tilting, deep in thought. You sighed and waved a hand dismissively. “Forget it. Where’s the contract? Let’s go over it one more time.”
Vernon laid it out on the desk and went through the rules you’d carefully set up—holding hands only in front of family, no hugging, no kissing, agreed backstory, a clear understanding of what questions could be answered and which ones required a unanimous decision, and most importantly, telling everyone after the holidays that things didn’t work out and you had to break up.
You came to the clause about the bed, and after a short discussion, agreed to alternate each night between the bed and the couch.
“Alright, get some rest,” he said after, standing up and walking toward the door. “maybe a shower if you’d like.”
You raised a hand. “Wait, where are you going? You’re not allowed to leave me alone. It’s in the contract. Rule number eight.”
His brows furrowed. “You okay about me being in the room while you shower and get dressed?”
Your cheeks heat up instantly. “Okay. You can go,” you said calmly.
He chuckled softly, hands in his pockets, turning to the door again. “I’ll just check out the field, see what’s there to expect. Don’t worry. I won’t be long,” he beamed, giving a small wave before closing the door.
By the end of that night, the engagement ring situation had been settled. You’d stared down at the ring already on your finger and said, “We can just say this is it.”
Vernon had squinted at it, thoughtful. “It doesn’t look like an engagement ring.”
You lifted your chin. “It does. The rock is a diamond. Just smaller than what engagement rings usually have. Do you have a better idea?” you shot back.
He didn’t. So that was that. The ring was promoted on the spot, its significance upgraded without its consent, and you both agreed never to question it again unless absolutely necessary. Preferably never.
And then the week began and nothing could have prepared you for what the holidays looked like in his family.
It was loud. Doors were always opening, someone was always calling out from another room, laughter echoing down hallways. There were meals that turned into three-hour affairs, dishes clattering, voices overlapping, debates breaking out over the most insignificant things. Someone was always touching someone else—an arm around a shoulder, fingers laced together, hair ruffled in passing. Affection here wasn’t saved for special moments. It was everywhere.
It was nothing like the holidays you knew.
Christmas, to you, had always been quiet. A peaceful dinner with your grandmother. Soft music playing in the background. Catching up, exchanging gifts, sitting side by side on the couch with wine glasses until you both got sleepy and called it a night.
Here, Christmas started days early and showed no signs of slowing down.
You were fed constantly. Asked questions constantly. Complimented, hugged, pulled into conversations you barely understood, handed drinks you didn’t ask for. At some point, someone insisted you had to try a dessert because it was “Vernon’s favorite growing up,” and suddenly he was there beside you, watching your reaction.
That was another problem entirely. Vernon was a little too good at this.
He held your hand casually, like it was second nature. Thumb brushing over your knuckles without thinking. He leaned in when people spoke to you, an arm slipping around your waist like muscle memory. He remembered to pull out your chair, to pass you food first, to check if you were cold before grabbing you a sweater.
None of it felt forced. If anything, you were the awkward one. “How are you so good at this?”
He glanced at you, amused. “Good at what?”
“This,” you said vaguely, gesturing between the two of you. “The loving boyfriend thing. It’s weird!”
His mouth twitched. “Would you rather I be awkward and obvious like you?”
You scoffed. “I am not obvious.”
“You flinch every time I touch you.”
“That’s because you don’t give me a heads up,” you hissed.
He just smiled, infuriatingly smug, and reached for your hand again as someone walked past. “Real couples don’t need a heads up for something like this,” he said, lifting your joined hands, then pressing a soft kiss on the back of your hand.
“What are you doing?” you deadpanned, but the smile on his lips remained.
“Nana and your grandma are looking right at us,” he said.
You turned your head to said direction, and found that they were, in fact, not looking. You scoffed, pulled your hand back and glared at him. “I’m docking your pay for this month.”
“You really think I need it?” he asked smugly, spreading his arms in a grand gesture.
You grimaced, taken aback by an arrogance you’d never seen in him before. “Stop. It’s your family’s, not yours.”
“Well, I’m part of this family, so…” he replied, shrugging arrogantly. You snorted, rolling your eyes but not denying your laugh.
Vernon has always been popular in your company. You noticed that much after weeks of having him beside you everyday. People were always ogling him, heads turned whenever he passed by, followed by giggles and dreamy sighs. It was different from when it was just you. Most of the time, people tried to avoid eye contact with you and turned the other way when they saw you coming.
Of course you knew why he was popular—it has all to do with his good-looks. You tried, but you could never deny that his appearance was, in fact, out of this world. Not to mention he’s tall, has good genes, and is intelligent. But other than that, there wasn’t much you could say about him as a person. You didn’t really know what he was like outside of work, after all. You never paid him that much attention unless he was giving you a rundown of the day’s agenda.
But here, in his home, surrounded by his family, you started noticing him more—not as your assistant, not even as your fake fiancée—but as someone in his own world. You saw the way he laughed freely here, all toothy and loud. The way he let his nieces climb all over him, how he listened when his grandmother spoke, how his mother scolded him and kissed his cheek in the same breath.
He was warm here. Soft and gentle in a way you’d never seen at work. And he was always close to you. His hand would find the small of your back in crowded rooms. He’d tuck you in beside him on couches, offer you food before himself, glance at you like he was checking if you were still okay. Sometimes you caught him watching you when he thought you weren’t looking, his eyes gentle and unreadable.
You told yourself it was part of the act. But as the days passed, surrounded by noise and laughter and far too much affection, you started feeling like you were the one pretending the hardest.
“You ready?” he asked on the morning of the 23rd.
You’d just finished touching up your makeup. “Yes.”
“Okay good. Let’s go. Everyone’s waiting.”
You hesitated, retracting your hand when he reached for it. Vernon looked at you like he was over it. “Well? Come on then.”
“It’s just…” you huffed, gesturing vaguely. “It’s a family pictorial. I’m not exactly… family.”
Vernon chuckled, reaching for your hand again. “We’ve talked about this. It’s not that deep.”
Except it was. You couldn’t fathom how Vernon could be so calm about this whole thing. Not just the family pictorial, but the whole sham of an engagement you two were in.
“I can hear you thinking. Stop that,” he prompted, tugging you by the hand, all the way out of the bedroom.
The house was full. Not metaphorically—literally full. Every bedroom was occupied, couches were claimed, extra chairs pulled out from storage, voices overlapping in every corner of the house. The entire family had arrived, cousins and partners and children. You’d naturally been absorbed into it, everyone’s basically been treating you like family.
They had a tradition, apparently. A family photo every Christmas. Same spot, same arrangement, different years. It was said to always happen every morning of the 23rd, two days before Christmas. And everyone took it seriously, dressing up with intent and looking their best.
“You can’t not join,” Vernon reminded you, steering you toward the center of the room. “That’d be weird. Am I supposed to tell everyone, ‘this is a fake engagement so she’s skipping out’?”
You lowered your voice as people shuffled around you, calling names, arguing about height order. “That’s the thing. This is fake and temporary, but the photo we’re taking is gonna live forever in your family albums. Immortalized and revisited every year.”
He laughed softly, like it hadn’t even occurred to him that this could be a problem. “If you really feel that bad about it,” he said, shrugging, “you could always marry me for real. Clear your conscience.”
You gave him a deadpan look. He simply grinned, completely unrepentant, then gently nudged you forward as someone called his name again.
By then, it was too late to back out. You let yourself be placed beside him, his arm slipping easily around your back like it belonged there.
The camera flashed.And just like that, this Christmas was immortalized as the year Vernon brought home a girl. If you didn’t get caught in the lie, then it would be the year he brought home a fiancée and things didn’t work out. If you did get caught, then it would still be the year he brought home a fiancée, but a fake one.Either way. It would be humiliating for him.
You thought that would be the end of it. But later, after breakfast, when the living room had devolved into noise and laughter and people sprawled across every available surface, Sofia pulled out a Polaroid camera.
“Oh, we’re doing couples,” she announced. “This is non-negotiable.”
Groans followed, and some cheers. You felt Vernon’s hand find yours before you’d even fully processed what was happening, his fingers lacing with yours like muscle memory.
“You weren’t kidding,” you muttered under your breath. “Your family really does love each other.”
“You love us too,” he murmured back, grinning.
“I’ve known you people for a week,” you retorted, scoffing. But then, looking around, you added, “But yeah. You guys are cool.”
You were herded onto the couch together, shoulders pressed close. Sofia crouched in front of you, aiming the camera. She looked into the camera, then at the two of you, brows furrowed.
“Are you guys really dating?” she asked, and you felt your heart drop to the floor. For a second, you wondered if you got caught, but then she added, “Scoot closer. This isn’t the 1800s.”
You chuckled and it came out strained. Vernon’s arm snaked around your waist, making you stiffen and glance at him. He gave it a gentle squeeze, urging you to relax. So you tried.
“Kiss!” someone shouted from behind, followed by a chorus of hoots and whistles.
“That’s enough,” Vernon said lightly, but firmly. “You’re not getting a show.”
There were groans. Booing. Someone yelled that he was no fun. He just shrugged like none of it bothered him.
“Smile!” Sofia prompted.
You smiled without thinking. Then the camera clicked, and the photo slid out with a soft whirr.
Vernon didn’t move right away. Neither did you. When you glanced at him, he was already looking at you. You blinked. “What?”
“Nothing,” he replied, eyes gleaming, a smile playing on his lips. You stared back, brows furrowing, confused at the attention he was giving you.
You waited a second. Then another. The smile on his lips didn’t change, it just stayed there, sweet and knowing, like he was in on something you weren’t.
Heat crept up your neck. You shifted slightly on the couch, suddenly very aware of how close you were sitting, of his arm still resting behind you. “Why are you staring at me?”
He hummed softly, like he was thinking about it. But he still didn’t answer. So you stopped looking away. If he was going to stare, then fine. You could stare too.
But that was a bad idea. The noise around you slowly faded while you held his gaze, your heart thudding louder and louder with every passing second. His expression changed then, and you couldn’t tell what it meant. It was something between amusement and surprise.
Click!
You both broke at the sound, turning toward his sister.
“Oh,” Sofia said, already sprinting toward the tree just across the room. “This one’s going on the tree!”
Everyone eventually drifted off to do their own thing. The kids bundled themselves up and tore out into the snow, their shrieks of laughter muffled by scarves and knit hats. You stayed inside, lounging on one of the couches near the wide living room windows, a warm mug cradled between your palms as you watched them tumble and recover and tumble again.
Nana sat beside you with a knitted blanket over her lap, while your grandma sat across from you, glasses perched low on her nose.
“They used to do that too,” your grandma said fondly, nodding toward the window. “Run around like little monsters until we had to drag them back inside.”
You smiled. “Who?”
“Your father,” Nana replied with a smile. “And my kids. Every summer, without fail. They’d come stay here for weeks. This place was a rental at the time. We didn’t have enough money yet to purchase it.”
Your attention sharpened. You hadn’t heard much about that time—just fragments, half-remembered anecdotes your grandmother would mention in passing.
“Oh yes,” your grandmother chimed in. “We saved up a few months of salary just to rent this out for summer,” she added, laughing heartily.
Nana nodded, looking outside. “They were inseparable. Always muddy, always hungry. Your father was so polite, though. Even as a boy.”
Grandma chuckled. “Polite until he got comfortable.”
You laughed softly, the sound surprising you. “That sounds like him.”
“They were happy summers,” Nana continued, her voice warm with memory. “Those were good days. This place witnessed those kids grow up. Your mom and dad got engaged here.”
The room fell into a gentle hush, that subtle heaviness creeping in. You knew it all too well. It always happened whenever your parents were brought into the conversation. Nana reached out and patted your knee, her touch gentle and affectionate.
“You must miss them very much,” she said softly.
You swallowed, then nodded. “I do. But it’s okay. Really.” You managed a small smile. “I was young. I barely remember some things.”
That wasn’t entirely true—but it was the version you’d learned to give people, the one that made them stop looking at you like you might shatter.
Nana studied you for a moment, eyes kind but knowing. “Still,” she said, “we’re glad you’re here. You’re family too, you know.”
You blinked, throat tightening unexpectedly. “Thank you,” you said, meaning it more than you could explain.
Then, as if sensing the mood had sunk too low, your grandma straightened a little and clapped her hands together lightly. “Well! Speaking of family,” she said brightly, “have you two thought about where you’ll get married?”
“I—what?” you blurted before you could stop yourself.
“Oh, don’t look so shocked,” your grandma laughed. “This is not an unexpected subject.”
You chuckled awkwardly. “No. No, it’s not. I just—we… Vernon and I haven’t discussed it yet.”
“But you’re gonna get married anyway, aren’t you?” Nana asked, placing a hand on your arm. “Why wait? You could do it here. After Christmas. The snow would be beautiful.”
“Oh, I love winter weddings,” your grandma gushed.
“I do too!” Nana agreed, also gushing. “My youngest had one and it was majestic!”
Your mind scrambled, panic blooming fast. After Christmas? Here? You could practically feel the lie ballooning again, threatening to burst.
“I think that might be a little—” you started, glancing desperately around the room, looking for Vernon.
“Oh, of course we’ll leave that up to you two,” said Nana, giggling. “But think about it and let us know. I know a good organizer who can give us an amazing event in short notice.”
Right on cue, the front door opened. Cold air rushed in along with laughter, Vernon’s uncle stomping snow off his boots as Vernon followed behind him, cheeks flushed from the cold.
“Perfect conditions out there,” his uncle announced cheerfully. “Snow uphill is just right. We can go sledding today!”
The kids immediately erupted, cheers echoing through the house. Vernon’s gaze flicked to you, taking you in—your posture, your pallid face and horrified expression—and quickly understood that you needed him.
“Hello, ladies,” he greeted, kissing his Nana on the cheek and your grandma too. “I hope you’re not bullying my fiancee.”
They both chuckled, waving their hands. “Oh, we’re just talking,” Nana said, smiling.
Vernon turned to you. “Wanna go sledding?”
“Yes,” you exclaimed with enthusiasm, not because you wanted to go but because you couldn’t wait to get out of there. “I love sledding.”
“Then we should go before they destroy the hill,” he smiled, offering a hand.
Nana laughed, waving a hand. “Go on, go. We’ll talk weddings later.”
You nearly tripped over your own feet standing up. Vernon fell into step beside you as you walked toward the main door, leaning in just enough to murmur, “You okay?”
“Pretty sure I was this close to spontaneously combusting,” you whispered back. “But yeah. I’m okay.”
Outside, the cold bit through your coat immediately. The sky was pale and endless, the snow untouched and glittering. Laughter was echoing from the hill as kids dragged sleds uphill.
Vernon handed you a pair of gloves without comment. You took them automatically, slipping them on. “Our grandmas suggested we get married here, just after Christmas. Apparently they both love winter weddings.”
“Oh, wow. What did you say to that?” he asked, walking over to fix your bonnet.
You scoffed, then rolled your eyes, letting him tie the laces of your bonnet under your chin. “What do you think? Couldn’t even get a word in. They were taking a mile a minute.”
He chuckled softly, patting your head after he was done with the laces. “Don’t mind them. Ultimately, the decision would be up to us. They can’t force us to do anything.”
You hummed to that, agreeing. Then you looked up at his hand, still sitting on your head. “You’re getting comfortable, Secretary Chwe.”
He grinned, defiant, not moving his hand away as he leaned down to say, “Except I’m not Secretary Chwe right now. I’m your baby.”
You grimaced, swatting his hand away. “Ew. As if.”
“Ah, it wasn’t ‘baby’. What was it, again?” he teased, walking backward. “My love, was it?”
You scowled, running after him to hit him. But he dodged easily. “You’re so annoying. I’m firing you first thing when we get back.”
“No, you won’t,” he grinned, holding out a hand. “You’re not gonna find a secretary who can do better than me.”
You scoffed, but you knew he was right. “Only for now,” you retorted. “As soon as Becca’s back, you’re out,” you added, then took his hand and followed him into the snow.
Sledding, apparently, was a two-person activity. You found that out only after everyone had already scattered across the hill, pairs forming naturally.
“Oh, I’m good,” you said quickly, hanging back near the fence. “I’ll just… watch.”
Vernon turned toward you, breath fogging in the cold. “You don’t wanna try?”
“I’m perfectly content being moral support,” you replied, hands tucked into your coat sleeves. “Very enthusiastic moral support.”
“Come on. It’s fun. You’re gonna love it,” he offered, smiling. Then he held a hand out to you, palm up.
“C’mon,” he said again. “One ride.”
You hesitated. You really did. You even glanced back toward the house, like the contract might physically manifest and slap his hand away for you. But then he tilted his head slightly, arm still extended, that stupid smile on his lips, and you sighed.
“Fine,” you muttered, stepping forward. “But hands around me is against the rules.”
He lifted a brow. “We’re sledding. I have to hold you.”
You considered that for a second, then nodded. “Alright. Compromise.”
You followed him, letting him guide you toward one of the sleds waiting at the top of the hill. The snow was packed down from use. You sat down first, legs tucked in, bracing yourself.
Vernon climbed on behind you and you stiffened immediately as his knees bracketed your hips, your back pressing flush against his chest through layers of winter coats.
“Relax,” he murmured, his voice too close to your ear that it made the hair on your neck rise.
“I am relaxed,” you blurted, which was a blatant lie.
His hands hovered for a second, like he was giving you time to object. When you didn’t, he placed them carefully at your sides instead of fully around you, fingers gripping the edge of the sled.
“See?” he whispered in your ear, and you felt that in the way your heart started racing. “No rules broken.”
Your heart was already pounding like you were halfway down the hill. “Just… don’t move them,” you warned.
“I won’t.”
The sled jerked forward. Snow rushed past in a blur as gravity took over, the world tilting, the cold air biting at your cheeks. You gasped, half-laughing, half-panicking as the speed picked up.
Behind you, Vernon laughed too, his breath warm where it brushed your ear. The sled hit a small bump, and you jolted back instinctively. His arm tightened at your side—not wrapping, but close enough that you felt it anyway.
“You okay?” he asked.
You nodded, even though he couldn’t see it. “Yeah!” you replied, grinning so hard as the wind whipped against your face.
When the sled finally slowed at the bottom of the hill, snow spraying up around you, you were both still laughing, breathless, a little unsteady.
Then the laughter faded. You looked up at him at the same time he looked down at you, and suddenly the space between your faces felt too small. Small enough that you could feel his warm breath against your cheek.
You blinked a few times, surprised and frozen in place. Vernon’s gaze dropped to your mouth, just for a second. When it lifted again, he swallowed, adam’s apple bobbing once. Seeing that and the intent in his eyes made your heart kick painfully against your ribs, like it was trying to escape.
Laughter and cheering exploded behind you as another sled barreled to a stop nearby.
You moved instantly, standing too fast, stepping away before your body could do something stupid. Cold air rushed back in like a shock as you brushed snow from your coat, cheeks burning despite the winter air.
Vernon cleared his throat. “That was fun,” he said, smiling like nothing happened.
You swallowed, looking away. “Yeah.”
Behind you, you could feel his gaze linger. You told yourself it was just adrenaline. Still, when he reached for the sled again and asked, “One more?” you didn’t say no.
The rest of the day passed in a blur. You drifted between rooms, between conversations—helping in the kitchen, sitting in on half-finished card games, watching kids chase each other until someone inevitably cried over a stolen candy cane.
Somewhere in the middle of it all, you realized you’d stopped keeping track of where Vernon was at all times. Not because you didn’t care, but because you didn’t need to.
He was there when you glanced up from a conversation, leaning against a doorway, already looking at you. He was there beside you when someone handed out mugs of something warm, your shoulders brushing as you accepted yours. There were looks shared across the room, quick whispered comments that made you laugh under your breath, inside jokes forming without effort.
For once since you got here, there was no pressure to perform. No constant mental checklist. No fear that you’d look too distant for two people who were supposedly engaged. You were just genuinely enjoying yourself.
By nightfall, after a movie that half the room slept through, you found yourself walking back down the hall beside him, the house was quieter now, voices fading behind closed doors.
You were still laughing about a scene from the movie neither of you could take seriously. Your steps slowed naturally as you reached the door to the bedroom.
Vernon lingered in the hallway, hands in his pockets, watching you with a thoughtful expression. “You know,” he said casually, “you’re a really good person.”
You snorted, already turning toward the door. “Okay.”
“I’m serious.”
That made you pause. You glanced back at him, brows lifting. “Right. Sure you are.”
He rolled his eyes. “No, really. People at work call you Medusa, but I think they’re wrong about you.”
You blinked. “What?”
“Oh, I don’t call you that,” he added quickly. “It’s just them.”
You stared at him, genuinely caught off guard. “Medusa?”
“Like I said, they’re wrong. Please forgive them,” he said, smiling. “It’s just that they’ve never met someone so hardworking and intelligent. So sharp. So… wonderful. I think they figured there’s no way a real person could be that amazing, so they called you Medusa.”
Your stomach fluttered, completely against your will. But then you scoffed lightly, shaking your head. “Or,” you said, recovering, “it’s because people freeze when they see me. Like Medusa turns them into stone.”
He laughed. “That too.”
You laughed too, the sound echoing softly down the quiet hallway. And then for a moment, neither of you said anything. You were just staring at each other. When he leaned on the wall adjacent to the door, you mirrored him by leaning on his bedroom door.
Crossing your arms, you said, “It’s my turn on the bed tonight.”
Vernon chuckled softly, eyes glimmering, shaking his head. “No, it’s not.”
“It’s not?” you asked, feigning ignorance.
He opened his mouth—probably to argue, like always—then stopped. His gaze was still on you, that soft glow in his eyes was still there.
“…Fine,” he sighed, pushing himself away from the wall and walking toward you. He stopped just a breath away. “You can have it.”
You frowned, caught off guard. “That was too easy.”
He shrugged, reaching for the door knob behind you, leaning in so close. “Don’t get used to it,” he murmured, still not moving away even after he had pushed the door open.
You smiled, shaking your head lightly, and walked in. You took your cardigan off, reached the bed, arranged the blanket—you counted the steps in your head, not because you needed to, but because your chest was doing this ridiculous fluttering thing.
Vernon followed quietly, the ghost of a smile still lingering on his lips, and you watched as he picked up his blanket and headed to the couch. Then he gave you a small wave before disappearing behind the backrest.
You lay down, smiling to yourself, staring up at the ceiling, heart doing something inconvenient in your chest.
This is bad, you whispered in your thoughts. This is so bad. You were smiling like an idiot. Because of Vernon Chwe!
You exhaled through your nose. Okay. So maybe you were enjoying this holiday. A little too much. And yes. Fine. Vernon likes you. You weren’t imagining that. You’d spent your entire career reading people; you weren’t about to pretend you couldn’t read this.
But the more troubling realization was: you might be starting to like him back.
And that was bad because you had no idea how to tread this territory. This wasn’t in the agreement. There was no clause for catching feelings, no protocol for what to do if that ever happened.
“Hey,” Vernon’s voice carried from across the room, making your head snap that way, quieting your thoughts.
“Hey…” you murmured back.
“Goodnight,” he said softly.
You didn’t answer right away. You let yourself breathe. Then you exhaled softly, trying to get some control back, and making a decision right then and there. “Goodnight, Secretary Chwe,” you murmured.
You knew what it meant to call him that, knew how that sounded. But the words weren’t exactly for him. Not really. They were for you—a reminder to draw a line, to keep your head straight and not get distracted.
Because it turns out that the most dangerous thing about fake dating is not getting caught; it’s when things start to feel real.
The house was already awake when you stirred the next morning. You could tell before you even opened the door—voices overlapping downstairs, footsteps on the stairs, laughter that was louder than usual. Vernon noticed it too the second he stepped out of the bathroom, hair still damp, sleeves rolled as he buttoned his shirt.
“Is it just me or is the house noisier than usual?” he asked, voice light.
You huffed a laugh. “Maybe your family multiplied in their sleep.”
You didn’t get far down the stairs before his mother intercepted the both of you, beaming, hands clasped together like she’d been waiting all morning for this exact moment.
“Surprise!” she said brightly.
Behind her, the living room was packed. Not just relatives—new faces. Older couples you didn’t recognize, younger people clustered near the windows, a few men Vernon vaguely waved at in recognition. Someone had already put music on. Someone else had brought food. There were flowers on the table that definitely hadn’t been there yesterday.
Vernon blinked once. “Mom, what’s going on?”
His mother laughed, waving him off. “Oh, we thought it would be nice to surprise you with an engagement party and invite our family friends, and your friends of course.”
“Your friends?” you asked, looking at Vernon.
“Yes, dear,” his mom answered. “Kids he grew up with and went to school with.”
She looped an arm through yours before you could take a step back. “I know it’s a lot, and you two have a penchant for keeping things lowkey. But don’t worry, this is just a small function. We won’t put you in too much spotlight, so no pressure.”
“Hah,” you exclaimed, then chuckled awkwardly. “Of course. No pressure,” you echoed, glancing sideways at Vernon.
“Mom,” he said, “you really didn’t have to—”
“Oh hush,” she said, already steering you further into the hall. “Everyone’s been dying to meet you properly.”
And just like that, the lie wasn’t a snowball anymore. It’s an avalanche.
You endured. That was the only way to describe it. Endurance. You smiled when people congratulated you. You nodded when they said you were beautiful together. You accepted hugs from women who smelled like perfume and winter coats and cinnamon.
Someone pressed a drink into your hand. Someone else asked how you met. You answered automatically, muscle memory carrying you through a story you’d told often enough that it no longer snagged.
Vernon stayed close. A hand at your back, a glance across the room when the noise spiked. Every so often, he’d hold your hand and give it a light squeeze, as if he was apologizing and asking you to power through.
His friends were easier than you expected. They were polite, warm, and a little teasing, the kind that only comes from a long shared history.
One of them clapped Vernon on the shoulder. “Good for you man. Moving away, starting over, meeting someone you wanted to marry.”
“Jealous, Gyu?” another guy scoffed. “Maybe if you stopped sleeping around like a menace—”
“Oh, shut up, Seungcheol,” Mingyu shot back. “You’re the one flirting with sad married women.”
“For the last time,” Seungcheol sighed, rubbing the back of his neck like this argument had worn him thin, “she’s not married. She’s divorced.”
You watched Vernon through it all—relaxed, carefree, amused, completely at ease in the presence of friends who knew him best.
“So,” Wonwoo cut in, eyes flicking between the two of you. “What are you doing these days, Vernon?”
“Yeah,” someone else added. “What happened after you left the company?”
That caught your attention. You glanced at Vernon. “The slave contract you were talking about,” you said slowly, “that was with your family?”
He grinned, entirely unapologetic. You scowled. “The hell? So you were a nepo baby too. How dare you call me one.”
Vernon laughed, head lolling back. You just stared at him, unimpressed. His friends too, apparently. They were just staring like they had no idea what was so funny.
Vernon eventually noticed it, so he stopped, cleared his throat, and straightened up. “I’m working as a secretary,” he said, and then, with visible pride, slid an arm around your shoulder. “In her cosmetics company.”
The pause was immediate. “…Wait,” Seungcheol said. “You work for her?”
“She’s the CEO?” Mingyu asked, and Vernon nodded again.
“So you’re—” Wonwoo pointed at you, then back at Vernon. “—his boss?”
“Yeah,” Vernon said proudly. “She’s very cool.”
There was a second where you braced yourself, afraid they might judge him for it. But then Mingyu barked out a laugh. Then suddenly, everyone else was laughing.
“No way,” Seungcheol said, shaking his head. “You? Taking orders?”
Mingyu followed, grinning wide. “Do you have any idea how insane that is? This man has never worked under anyone.”
“Ever,” Wonwoo added. “He used to boss entire departments around like it was a sport.”
Vernon rolled his eyes. “That’s not true.”
“That’s extremely true,” Mingyu shot back. He turned to you, “He’s so annoying. And he doesn’t even realize it. He once made a manager wait because he ‘wasn’t done talking.’”
You blinked, surprised, then laughed before you could stop yourself. Nodding, you said, “He is kinda annoying. And tactless sometimes.”
Seungcheol pointed at you, delighted. “See? Imagine that kind of guy working under someone?”
Mingyu asked you, “Bet you’re always on the verge of firing him every day, huh?”
You shrugged. “Not really. He is annoying but I can keep him in line. And he’s pretty good at his job. There are only two people who can keep up with me, and he’s one of them.”
“Figures,” Wonwoo said, nodding like it all made sense now. “Leaves the family business, ends up working for someone smarter than him.”
Vernon didn’t deny it. If anything, he looked pleased, standing there beside you like this arrangement wasn’t something to be embarrassed about, but something he’d chosen.
You felt something warm settle in your chest at that.
“So,” Mingyu said, dragging a chair closer and plopping down like he was settling in for a story. “I gotta ask. How did this happen?”
You blinked. “What?”
“You two,” Mingyu clarified, gesturing between you. “From boss and secretary to engaged and getting married soon.”
Seungcheol leaned forward, eyes bright. “Yeah. Did he seduce you with his wiles while pretending to work as your secretary?”
Vernon scoffed. “I did not seduce her.”
“You absolutely did,” Mingyu said. “Look at him. That’s a man who knows how to weaponize his good looks.”
You snorted. “That’s slander.”
“Oh, come on,” Seungcheol said. “You’re telling me he didn’t pull the whole competent, always-there, remembers-your-coffee-order routine?”
Vernon opened his mouth to protest again, but you beat him to it. “It’s not hard to fall for Vernon,” you said.
The table went quiet. You hadn’t planned to say that. It just slipped out.
You cleared your throat, suddenly aware of the way Vernon had turned fully toward you. “I mean—he is,” you continued. “He’s thoughtful. He pays attention. He notices things most people don’t bother with. He anticipates what needs to be done without making a show of it.”
Vernon didn’t interrupt. He just watched you, expression unreadable, eyes steady.
“He’s… considerate. And patient. And surprisingly kind. Of course, he’s sarcastic and all but even that is excusable because those little arguments are fun and makes every day less dull,” you added, smiling absently. “And he’s the sweetest. Which is annoying, actually, because it makes it hard to stay mad at him.”
You finally looked at Vernon.
He was smiling—but not the smug one, not the teasing one. This was softer, the same smile he had been giving you these last few days. The kind that looked like he was grateful for the existence of you. He looked like he hadn’t expected to hear all that, but he was holding it carefully now that it existed.
You gave him the same smile. Or as best as you could reflect it, hoping, and knowing, that he knew exactly what it meant. And you realized now that you had just crossed a line.
Straight up just stepped over it without hesitation, after telling yourself very clearly the night before where it was.
Mingyu stood abruptly. “Okay. Nope. I’m too single for this.” He waved a hand between the two of you. “You’re both being disgustingly in love. Kissing in front of me would’ve been less damaging.”
Wonwoo laughed. “Agreed. Let’s move on before I start believing in love again.”
You huffed a laugh, but it came out weaker than you meant it to. Your chest was heavy with warmth and feelings and… and love.
But you had no time to dwell on it. Someone suggested games. Someone else brought snacks. Chairs were pulled, conversations restarted, the day rolling forward like nothing had almost happened.
But when Vernon held your hand under the table later, not for show because no one would’ve seen it, you didn’t move away. And for the rest of the day, you didn’t bring up the line you’d drawn. You just quietly stood on the other side of it.
The engagement party thing was over by noon. Guests left one by one, and the family resumed preparations for Christmas Eve dinner. You were gathered in the kitchen with the adults, helping out with the cookies.
Vernon was sitting in a chair beside you, casually chatting with you and his mom about holiday traditions.
“Your parents actually used to host the winter bonfires,” said Vernon’s mom, smiling fondly at you.
“They did?” you asked, delighted to hear another anecdote about your parents.
She nodded. “Yes. Every year. And then your mom got pregnant with you, so they skipped a year. After that, the whole tradition just stopped,” she added, sighing. “They’d always made it so magical. We simply could not recreate it.”
Vernon leaned forward, gesturing with his mug. “I remember when I met her parents. Incredible people. And her mom’s so beautiful.”
The room froze. Adults exchanged sharp glances, eyebrows raised. His mom looked at him, brows furrowed. “You met her parents?”
“Yeah. I—” You nudged Vernon’s leg under the table, stopping him.
“But that’s impossible, dear,” Nana said, her voice laced with sympathy, “you couldn’t have. Her parents passed away a long time ago.”
You felt Vernon freeze beside you. Quick on your feet, you leaned slightly toward him, your tone casual as if nothing unusual had happened, as if your heart didn’t just sink to your stomach.
“Oh, I took him to their graves,” you said smoothly. “He met them there.”
Vernon blinked at you, clearly realizing he’d made a mistake.
“I wanted to introduce him to them first,” you added, smiling, channeling your best acting yet. “I didn’t know our connection yet at the time, but they were probably thrilled to know I’m marrying their close friend’s son.”
“Aw,” Vernon’s mom sighed. “That’s very thoughtful of you, isn’t it?”
The tension in the room melted almost instantly, replaced by murmurs and soft chuckles from the other adults. Conversation resumed around you, with only a few glances exchanged—reminders of the near slip, and of just how good you were at thinking on your feet.
Vernon reached for your hand, so you glanced at him. He looked apologetic, and you could tell it wasn’t because he nearly revealed that you weren’t in a real relationship. You smiled at him, patting his hand and mouthing, ‘It’s okay.’
By the time dinner preparations were done, you were exhausted. Exhausted from the engagement party, from socializing with people who were basically strangers to you, and exhausted from helping out in the kitchen.
“This is nice and all, but I think I prefer our boring Christmas dinners, Grandma,” you told your Grandma while getting dressed for dinner.
She chuckled heartily, sitting in front of her vanity and trying on a different shade of lipstick. “Being surrounded by people you love on Christmas is how it’s supposed to be, my dear. It’s a shame I couldn’t give you this kind of warmth growing up.”
“Hey,” you chided, walking toward her and wrapping your arms around her shoulder. “I have no complaints, so you shouldn’t talk like that. You raised me as best as you can and taught me everything I know.”
Your Grandma melted in your embrace, sighing as she put the lipstick down. “Yeah, you’re a wonderful kid, alright. I just wished you were a little sweeter.”
“Please,” you chuckled, pulling away. “My lack of sweetness and my attitude in general is thanks to you, as well.”
“I know that, but couldn’t you be more affectionate? Or expressive?” she sighed, gaze following you across the room. “Learn a thing or two about expressing yourself from Vernon.”
“Too late for that,” you quipped, checking your reflection in the mirror once more.
Your Grandma sighed in defeat. “I guess I should be glad you’re marrying him then. He can express affection for both of you.”
Then came a series of knocks on the door. You quickly walked toward it, yanking it open knowing Vernon would be on the other side.
“Hi,” he beamed, taking you in with his eyes. “You look amazing.”
You shrugged. “You don’t look so bad yourself, my love,” you replied, using your endearment, not because your grandma was there, but because… just because.
“Shall we?”
The dining room was warm, the scent of roasted meat and cinnamon filling the air. Dinner was loud like always in this house—chairs scraping, someone always talking over someone else, Nana shushing nobody in particular.
You ended up seated beside Vernon, mostly because every time you tried to move, someone asked you to stay. He passed you food without asking. You corrected his grip on the serving spoon once. He fixed it without comment.
At some point, his Nana leaned over. “Is now the best time to talk weddings?”
Vernon chuckled lightly. “Nana, it’s Christmas eve. We’ll have time for that later.”
Nana tried to insist, but eventually gave up when you both refused adamantly. Later, when some cousins got up to chase the kids outside for an impromptu snowball fight, Vernon leaned closer.
After dishes were cleared and the family settled around the living room for a low-volume carol playlist, you both slipped out to the balcony, leaving the laughter and chatter behind. The night was cold, and snowflakes drifted lazily downward, coating the garden below in soft white. Vernon wrapped a blanket around himself, then stood behind you.
“Is this okay?” he asked, wrapping his arms and the blanket around you.
You chuckled, feeling the warmth seep in immediately. “Are people watching?”
“Yeah. About a dozen of them,” he replied briskly. “I think I need to hold you closer. Make it more believable, you know?” he added, already tightening his arms around you.
You could tell he was lying, but you didn’t bother confirming. “You should, or we’d get caught,” you said, leaning your head against his chest.
“Your family has a lot of stamina,” you said after a pause. “I would’ve tapped out after day one.”
“You did better than I expected,” he replied, chuckling. “Everyone likes you. Nana adores you.”
“That’s terrifying,” you said, looking up at him. “She’s very perceptive.”
Vernon smiled, shifting a little and pressing his chin on top of your head. “Tomorrow’s Christmas Day.”
“I know. One more day and this is all over,” you replied, taking a long relieved breath. “We can finally go back to how things were.”
You felt him stiffen behind you, recovering almost as quickly. He laughed slowly. “I was actually thinking the same thing. When this is over, we could go back to our hectic, caffeinated daily routine, closing deals like champs, terrorizing the marketing head, pressuring manufacturers, calling the lab day in and day out for new and improved formulas.”
“You’re making us sound like bad capitalists,” you quipped, grinning. “I mean we’re capitalists but we're not that bad.”
Vernon chuckled, his chest vibrating against your back. “And I was also thinking…” he paused, loosened his arms, and turned you around so you could face him fully.
He braced his hands on the railing, caging you in as he stared into your eyes. You held your breath and looked away, unable to meet his eyes.
“I was thinking maybe we could go out on nice dinners sometimes. After work,” he continued. “Go on a road trip on weekends. Maybe catch a movie if you’re into that.”
“Like bosses and secretaries do?”
He huffed a laugh. “I’m pretty sure they don’t do that.”
You shrugged, still looking anywhere but his eyes. “They might. If they’re… dating.”
The word lingered between you, more meaningful than you meant it to be. Vernon stayed quiet for a few moments, then, softly, carefully, he said your name, the word rolling beautifully on his tongue.
You looked up, finally meeting his gaze. “Yes? Vernon?”
Something changed in his expression. Like you’d tapped something only he could feel. “That’s three times,” he said softly.
“What?”
“Three times you’ve called me by my name since we met.”
You blinked, surprised he’d even noticed. “You’re counting?”
He shrugged. “If you’re Secretary Chwe every minute of the day, you just can’t help but keep count.”
Neither of you moved. He didn’t step closer, diidn’t touch you, he just stayed there, giving you space and somehow still holding you in place.
“Can I kiss you?” he asked softly, almost in a whisper.
“That would be breaking the rules,” you said, automatically. Not because you actually cared about the rules, but because you were too nervous. Your heart was kicking hard against your ribs. Your breathing was getting unsteady. And your skin was pricking not from the cold, but from anticipation.
“I knew you’d say that,” he chuckled, already leaning in.
You met him halfway. In a kiss that was soft and careful, growing firmer with every breath. His hand found your waist, warm through the layers, steadying you as your lips pressed back with more certainty.
For a moment, you couldn’t hear or see anything. You could only feel. Feel his hand around you, his lips against yours, his warmth, your warmth, his heartbeat against your own. Snow fell. Laughter drifted faintly from inside. The world continued on, unaware. Or maybe they were aware. You didn’t care. Right now, nothing else mattered but this moment right here.
Even after you pulled away, you stayed close, foreheads touching, breaths fogging, cheeks flushed, and grinning. Vernon’s hands lingered at your waist, firm but gentle, the warmth through the layers of your coats seeping into you like it was meant to.
“God, it’s freezing out here,” he murmured, voice low.
“You don’t say,” you whispered back, and the words were a laugh and a shiver at the same time.
He tilted his head slightly, nudging yours so your noses brushed. “I—” He stopped, exhaling sharply.
You tilted your chin up, meeting his eyes. “I know,” you said softly.
He let out a small laugh, almost a sigh, pressing a little closer. “I don’t want to stop.”
“Neither do I,” you admitted, and it came out softer than you expected, a confession you hadn’t planned to give aloud.
There was a pause, long enough that you could feel your heart hammering against your ribs, long enough that the wind seemed to hush around you. Your hands found his neck, and he leaned into your touch, eyes closing for just a fraction of a second before reopening, searching yours.
“I can’t pretend anymore.”
“Then let’s not,” you replied softly, and before you knew it, Vernon was scooping you up again for another kiss.
You were used to being in control.
Boardrooms fell silent whenever you walked in. People listened when you spoke. Decisions were set the moment you made them. Even now, in Vernon’s bedroom with the door closed and the city humming somewhere across the sea, you expected that familiar balance to tilt in your favor.
But it didn’t.
“What are you doing?” you asked, eyes wide and brows furrowed at Vernon who just stopped kissing you out of nowhere.
He shrugged, infuriatingly nonchalant and relaxed. “We need to slow down.”
“What?” you demanded, thoroughly confused. “What do you mean? This was your idea.”
“It is, but I need to know we’re on the same page here,” he said, smiling casually, but the firm grip of his hands on your hips told you he was restraining himself hard.
“I thought we made that clear?”
“No. What we did was stare into each other’s eyes and use vague words,” he said, gesturing vaguely.
You rolled your eyes, frustration bubbling over. “Vernon Chwe, I swear to God if you don’t kiss me right no—”
He crashed his lips into yours, shutting you up completely. Your body reacted immediately, heat and need shooting up through your core. Vernon’s long fingers tangled into your hair, tugging firmly until a moan escaped from your lips. He took this chance to shove his tongue into your open mouth. You pulled him even closer, breasts pressing against his broad chest.
His kisses trailed to your jaw, one hand slipping under your shirt to touch the skin of your waist. You gasped when his mouth latched to your neck, sucking and nipping.
“Vernon,” you said, tapping his shoulders. “Take me to the bed.”
Vernon pulled away just enough to press his forehead against you, smirking. “Is that an order?” he rasped, his hand underneath your shirt now moving to slip past your bra.
“No?” you breathed, holding back a moan when he gave your nipple a gentle squeeze. “Is it?”
“It better not be,” he whispered into your ear, lips brushing the sensitive skin. He took your wrists “I’ll allow that at work, but don’t think for one second that I’m gonna let you tell me what to do in my room…”
He kissed your neck, making your skin shiver in the best way. “Or on my bed,” he added, licking your throat.
You moaned out his name, but he was quick to press a finger on your lips. “Shush, love. This may be a big house, but the walls here are thin.”
“Vernon…” you purred, and he cupped your cheek gently, then pressed a long, lingering kiss to your forehead.
“Be quiet, alright?” he said, smiling before disappearing from your line of sight.
You were confused for a fraction of a second. Then you felt your skirt being lifted, followed by something pressing on your clothed cunt without warning.
You gasped, realizing belatedly that it was Vernon’s nose. You felt him take a long sniff, hand wrapping around your thigh. You grabbed a fistful of his hair and he let out a growl the likes of which you’d never heard before.
A second later, he was devouring you, relentless and insatiable, leaving you trembling under his touch. Your grip on his hair tightened, your knees were threatening to give out with every lick. If it wasn’t for his tight hold around your legs, you would have collapsed on the floor already.
Vernon slipped a finger into you, without warning, making you gasp. He rose to his feet, finger still inside you, his other hand pushing loose hair behind your ear as he shushed you gently.
“The entire house is gonna hear you, and they’re gonna know exactly what’s going on in here,” he said, as if it wasn’t his fingering that was making you make all these noises.
But you listened anyway, biting down your lower lip, tears pricking at your eyelids when he pushed a second finger in. You buried your face on his chest, fingers digging into his shoulders as he pushed you closer to the edge
Vernon pressed his lips on the side of your head, shushing you gently while still brutally ramming his fingers in and out of your sex.
Then you felt that familiar knot twisting low in your belly, threatening to come undone. Your breathing turned erratic, breasts falling and rising rapidly as you braced for an orgasm. Vernon saw that, kissed your cheek, and moved harder amd faster.
His fingers were cramping, but the delightful look on your face was spurring him on. He couldn’t wait to see the beautiful face you’d make when it’s finally him drilling into your sweet cunt. Just thinking about it was making his cock throb—hard and hot, still trapped in his pants.
“Vernon, I’m—” you cut yourself off, gasping, body jerking, hands on his shoulders gripping tighter as a wave of orgasmm surged through you.
Then you fell limp against Vernon, who held you steadily. He kissed you again because… well because he just couldn’t stop himself from kissing you, could he? His head was clouded, and all he could think of was how much he wanted to fuck your brains out.
So he lifted your thighs, wrapped your legs around his legs and carried you over to the bed.
You fell on the mattress with a bounce, still out of breath from the aftershocks of your orgasm. Vernon crawled over you, smirk tugging at his lips.
“Still wanna tell me what to do?” he asked, mouth hovering just above yours.
You hesitated. That hesitation made him smile. “That’s what I thought,” he murmured, kissing you again.
His hand pinned your wrist above your head, the other tracing down your side like he was rewriting the rules you lived by. He gathered the hem of your sweater, yanking it up and over your head, before crashing his lips back to yours.
Your skirt and stockings followed immediately after, his hands settling on your thighs, spreading them wide enough for him to marvel at the sight of your wet pussy.
“Like what you’re seeing?” you asked, confidence spiking because Vernon was looking at you like you were the eighth wonder of the world.
He huffed an amused laugh, hand tracing your thigh. “Oh, I love it. You have no idea.”
When was the last time you felt this kind of intense desire and uninhibited pleasure? You couldn’t even remember. Not that it mattered. Vernon was here to rock your entire world tonight, with that rock-hard, standing tall, deliciously girthy manhood that had just sprang free from the confines of his boxers.
You held your breath when he positioned himself between your legs, licking a stripe on his hands and coating his cock with the slick. Your fingers curled into the sheets as he pressed into you slowly, the earlier orgasm making him slide smoothly, but the stretch made you whimper.
“Don’t make me cover that mouth myself,” he warned, grinning so sweetly, unaware of the surge of pleasure that just shot through you when he said those words.
He bottomed out with a groan, his body settling over yours as he collected himself. His hair brushed your face as he moaned against your chest, muttering curses under his breath.
Meanwhile, you were catching your breath, chest rising and falling rapidly. “Vernon, I need you to move. Please. Please. Please,” you’d basically pleaded.
Vernon exhaled sharply, lifting his head to meet your gaze and plant a quick kiss to your lips. “I’ll allow it because you asked nicely,” he quipped, pulling out for a second just before thrusting into you.
Your chest rose and fell against his, nerves dancing in sensations his every move was sending through your body. Your fingers tangled, your breaths mingled, heat lingered in every glance, and every brush of skin. You clung to him, losing track of everything except his touch and the way he held you close.
The world had narrowed to the feeling of him against you, the pull and the push—especially the push. Your lower lip stung from biting too hard to keep yourself quiet. Your heart was beating wildly in your chest, echoing in his.
He brushed a strand of hair from your face, lips grazing your temple, and the shiver that ran down your spine was delightful and hot.
“You are most beautiful,” he whispered, eyes locked with yours, filled with sincerity and something tender… something that looked a lot like love.
Snow kept falling outside, and somewhere between the haze of lust and warmth, you were sure that whatever came next would leave both of you ruined in the best possible way. But at the same time, you realized you wouldn’t have wanted to stop even if you could.
You woke up to Vernon’s arms wrapped around you, his warmth seeping through the blankets, his scent lingering in your hair and on your clothes. He was awake, head propped on one hand, watching you with that half-smile that made your chest tighten.
“What are you doing?” you mumbled, embarrassed, burying your face against his shoulder.
“Keeping my eyes on you in case this turns out to be a dream and you disappear,” he said in one breath, brushing loose strands of hair behind your ear.
You grinned, snuggling closer. “That’s so corny.”
You stayed like that for a few more minutes, savoring the warmth and the way his hand traced idle patterns along your side. But the inevitability of the morning eventually caught up with you. It’s Christmas Day. By now, the rest of the family would be gathered downstairs, waiting to open gifts and celebrate some more.
“Come on. You should see what I got you,” he said, sitting up. “It’s in a red box with a shiny green ribbon on it.”
“You got me something?” you asked, genuinely surprised.
Vernon looked at you like the answer should have been obvious. “Of course, I got you something. It’s Christmas. You’re supposed to— wait…” he paused, narrowing his eyes at you. “You didn’t get me anything, did you?”
You smiled sheepishly, and Vernon’s jaw dropped. But then he shrugged, reached to cup your face, and grinned.
“It’s okay. I think I received my best Christmas gift yet,” he chimed, leaning in to kiss you.
You ended up cuddling in bed again. Vernon was relentless, kissing the back of your neck, tugging your hands, soft murmurs of promises that made your heart flutter and your cheeks burn. Getting up after that was slow. Clothes, brushing teeth, and somehow, through a haze of laughter, stolen kisses, and whispers, you managed to get ready.
“You’re so pretty,” he said, standing behind you in front of the mirror and wrapping his arms around.
“Thanks. I figured I should try harder if I’m gonna date someone so handsome,” you replied, turning to face him, arms finding their way around his neck.
Vernon grinned, clearly pleased with what he just heard. “You don’t need to. You’re already too beautiful for someone like me.”
You rolled your eyes, not buying it. “You clearly don’t understand just how beautiful you are, Vernon Chwe.”
He kissed you again, and you had to squirm out of his hold and walk out of the room first or you’d spend the whole morning locked in the bedroom with him.
The first thing you noticed when you reached the bottom of the stairs was the silence. The usual mayhem of children squealing and zooming around, adults chattering, holiday music in the background—it was all gone. Only the adults were there, standing rigidly, staring at the two of you.
Your stomach dropped. Something was wrong, you could feel it in your bones.
Vernon stepped closer, taking your hand in his. “What’s going on?”
No one answered. Then his mom stepped forward, her smile tight, eyes not quite meeting his. She shoved a piece of paper into his hands, and you immediately recognized your carefully constructed contract even before reading the words.
“What is the meaning of that?” his mom asked, her voice small and hesitant. “Vernon, tell us right now. Why is there a document like that in your bedroom?”
The words didn’t register at first. The paper in his hands felt heavy, like it had gravity all its own. You tried to breathe but your chest felt hollow.
Vernon opened his mouth, searching for the right words, and your heart hammered in sympathy and panic. “We… I can explain…”
Voices erupted around you, overlapping, frantic and sharp. Someone asked why he did this. Another said this was unnecessary and that he didn’t have to deceive everyone. One voice asked if he had any motive. Another asked if he thought of this family as a joke.
You barely made sense of it, caught between the tidal wave of accusations, most of them being directed at Vernon. He kept his hand around yours, holding you tight and shielding you with his body as his family demanded answers from him. The rest of the room seemed to tilt and spin. You barely heard him try to speak again; his words were drowned out by questions, accusations, demands—all of it directed at him.
Finally, you found your voice, loud and firm, “It’s my fault.”
All eyes turned toward you, stunned at your words. You took in their confused faces, then exhaled sharply.
“I made him do this,” you added, tugging your hand away from Vernon’s grasp. “There was a… a situation,” you began to explain, choosing your words carefully.
“A supposedly one-off situation that unexpectedly spiraled out of control. And I know, we could have avoided this by being honest from the get-go but…” Your gaze swept the room and settled on your grandma in the corner. You thought she’d look angry, but all you could see on her face was sympathy. “But we didn’t. We couldn’t.”
You flattened your lips into a smile, still directed at your grandmother. “Not when it was the first time in a long time that I saw someone smile as brightly as she did when she heard I had a fiancee.”
Your Grandma’s hand flew to her mouth, his brows furrowing, and she looked away. You turned to the rest of Vernon’s family. To his Nana, to his parents, his aunts and uncles—the very people who welcomed you warmly into their home.
“I’m sorry. I really am. I have my reasons, but they’re all just excuses. Selfish excuses. I shouldn’t have dragged your entire family into this. I wouldn’t have,” you paused, taking a deep breath and turning to Vernon. “I wouldn’t have if I had known just how much you loved Vernon.”
You turned to everyone again. Nana’s hand was on her chest, Vernon’s mom was covering her mouth in shock.
“So don’t blame him. It’s not his fault. He’s a really good man,” you added, smiling bitterly. “He just couldn’t say no to his Medusa of a boss who promised him a raise and regularization if he agreed to do this.”
“Stop,” Vernon said, taking your hand. “I didn’t agree to this because of that—”
“It’s okay, Secretary Chwe,” you interrupted, forcing a smile. “I’m sorry for ruining your Christmas. I’ll leave,” you said, voice steady despite the tremor in your chest. You glanced at Nana, and the words escaped almost like a prayer: “You have a wonderful family. I’m sorry. I wish we didn’t have to meet like this.”
And with that, you walked out, leaving Vernon rooted in place, the paper still in his hand, the room swirling with stunned silence.
Before you knew it, you were sinking into your seat on the plane, the engines vibrating softly beneath you. Beside you, your grandma was perfectly composed, her hands folded neatly in her lap as she stared out the window at the receding tarmac.
Vernon’s family had tried to make you stay. Gentle pleas, promises to table the matter of your deceit and unpack it properly. But you knew they were only being polite. That was just the kind of family they were, too nice for their own good.
You stared at the screen in front of you, counting the buttons, the logos stamped into the leather, your thoughts spinning in circles. Finally, you broke the quiet.
“Grandma…” Your voice was small, tentative. “Why aren’t you mad?”
Her calm eyes met yours. “Why would I be mad?” she asked, tilting her head slightly, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. “I knew everything from the beginning.”
Your chest tightened. “You did?”
She nodded serenely. “Of course. You thought you were so clever, but you forgot that I taught you how to use that intelligent brain of yours.”
You blinked. “Wait… what? How?”
Grandma leaned back, unbothered by your wide-eyed stare. “My dear, with whom do you think I set you up with on that last blind date I begged you to go to?”
Your stomach dropped. “That… that was… No way.” You chuckled, in denial. “It can’t have been Vernon.”
“Oh, but it was,” she said, as if it were the simplest, most obvious thing in the world. “I kept telling you I knew his family. But you wouldn’t even give a second to hear me out. Imagine my surprise when I saw you in that hotel lobby, calling Vernon Chwe your fiancee.”
At this point, your heart beat has turned erratic. “If you knew, why didn’t you say anything?”
“I was trying to see how far you were willing to take this charade. I can’t say I’m not disappointed, but Vernon asked me to play along, so I did,” she explained.
You turned sharply to face her, incredulous. “Vernon knew that you knew?”
“Yes. He was confident he could make you fall in love and turn this pseudorelationship into a real thing. Sunhee and I had so much fun watching you struggle to maintain a face all week.”
Your jaw dropped. “Who else knows?”
“No one else, as far as I know.” Her hand rested gently over yours. “My dear, you’re clearly overwhelmed right now. Let’s talk about this later.”
You slumped back in your seat, staring out the window at the clouds streaked with gold from the rising sun, your mind buzzing. She knew. Nana knew. Vernon knew they knew. And somehow, that knowledge made the entire avalanche of the past twenty-four hours feel both heavier and… a little lighter.
Vernon first met you when he was ten.
It was summer, hot and loud and bright in the way summers only feel when you’re a kid. His kite had gotten stuck in a tree at the park, and he’d decided that climbing it himself was a good idea.
But he was wrong. He slipped on the way down, scraped his knee, and sat there sniffing quietly, holding back his tears, more embarrassed than hurt.
Then you appeared out of nowhere, crouched in front of him, asked if he could stand, and when he said no, you sighed like an adult who’d already dealt with worse problems than a bleeding knee.
After covering his knee with a cartoon Band Aid from your purse, you climbed the tree yourself and brought the kite down like it was nothing.
You were taller than him back then. Probably smarter, and more mature. And when you handed the kite to him and smiled, all he could think was that you were pretty. Like an angel.
He never saw you again after that day. Life moved on, as it does. He went to school, made friends, and had growth spurts. The memory of you drifted to the back of his mind, filed away with other half-remembered moments from childhood.
Until college.
He didn’t recognize you at first. Years had a way of blurring faces, and he almost walked past you at the freshman welcome party until you laughed. Suddenly he was ten again, at the park with a scraped knee and a kite in his hands.
You’d grown prettier, smarter, and more graceful. He was much much taller than you now, but the difference in height only made Vernon think you were cute.
He hadn’t even wanted to attend this party. He’d only gone because his cousin promised to cover his chores for a month if he showed up. Vernon wasn’t naïve—he knew his cousin wanted him there as decoration. He’d grown into his looks by then, and he was ‘handsome’, something people never let him forget, even when he wished they would.
But that night, for the first time in his life, he thought maybe he could use his looks for something other than being stared at. Maybe he could use it to charm his way into your contacts.
He planned to talk to you. Just to say ‘hi’. Maybe ask if you remembered him from all those summers ago. Or maybe he didn’t need to bring up the past at all. He could just talk to you. Say something normal. Ask for your number.
He stood near the drinks table, psyching himself up. But when the moment came, his nerves got the better of him. So he took a shot of soju.
Liquid courage, he told himself.
Then another. Then a third, because his heart was still beating too fast and you were laughing again and seeing that was making it hard for him to breathe.
By the fourth, his cousin was asking if he was okay. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he said, eyes locked on you a few tables away.
His cousin poured a shot for himself, and Vernon snatched it away, downing it straight just to see if it would make him less nervous.
Before he knew it, he was already wasted, slumped over a table, cheek pressed to cold plastic. Someone had drawn something obscene on his hand. The party was over, and you were gone. He lay there for a long moment, staring at a bottle, wondering how he’d managed to mess it up without ever actually trying.
After that, he saw you everywhere. The library, the quad, the cafeteria line. Sometimes alone, sometimes surrounded by people. You never noticed him, and he never pushed himself into your space.
Then one afternoon, he saw you holding hands with someone. Apparently, you’d started seeing this guy from the Liberal Arts department. That night, he went back to his dorm, shut the door, lay on his bed, and stared at the ceiling.
His cousin glanced over. “What’s up with you? You look like you just got dumped”
“I might as well have been,” Vernon said, voice flat. He turned his face into his pillow and let himself feel stupid for exactly five minutes.
Then he moved on because that was just life. He was happy that you were happy.
He dipped his own toes in the dating pool. Dated seriously, even. He laughed, fell in and out of love, learned what he liked and didn’t. You became a fond thought in the back of his head, not a fixation. And also something his friends teased him about every now and then.
Then senior year came. He heard you’d broken up, and realized he still liked you. So he thought about trying again.
He did the same thing without realizing: took shots for liquid courage. One too many shots, obviously. And passed out on a couch before he could say your name, obviously.
Senior year came and went. Graduation followed. He figured that was that. Some people were just meant to be memories.
And his life after college had already been mapped out for him. Vernon worked long hours in his family’s corporation. He learned how to sit through meetings without showing boredom, how to be sharp without being cruel. He dated when he had time, stopped when he didn’t. He built a reputation he hadn’t asked for but carried well enough.
Every once in a while, your name surfaced not from memory, but from screens. LinkedIn updates. A promotion. An article shared by someone else. Your company’s name appeared frequently in industry chatter. You weren’t loud online. You had Instagram but didn’t post much.
He nodded at those updates like they were news about someone he once knew well.
Years later, when he heard about a potential partnership with your company, he volunteered to handle it without hesitation. It wasn’t even his division, but he argued his case until he won.
He told everyone else that it was professional curiosity. Strategic interest. Nothing else. In reality, he thought maybe this would finally put him in the same room as you again.
But it didn’t. Nana collapsed. That family emergency pulled him away the day of the meeting, and the opportunity slipped through his fingers. Life, once again, had other plans. He never made it to the meeting. Someone else took over. The partnership went through anyway, handled efficiently, just not by him.
You stayed untouchable and unseen. And of course, he moved on again.
Years passed. Nana recovered and became sharper than ever. She mentioned your name casually over tea.
“Her grandma’s worried,” she said. “She thinks that brilliant granddaughter of hers works too much. She called, asking if I knew someone suitable.”
“Someone suitable? A husband?” Vernon’s mom asked.
He froze in his seat, hand hovering as he reached for his teacup.
“Yes,” Nana continued, watching him carefully over the rim of her cup. “I told her I might know someone, but I don’t approve of arranged marriages.”
Vernon’s mom glanced at him too, the only man in the family who hasn’t married yet. “It would be nice. I heard she’s very intelligent and pretty. But I’m a fan of true love too, mama. These days they call it ‘organic encounter’.”
That night, Vernon stared at his ceiling for a long time and made a decision.
He left his job, much to his family’s dismay. They managed to reel him in with his contract, but as soon as that was over, Vernon was out. He moved cities. Applied to your company hoping he’d get closer to you through work. But te only position open was an internship. He took it anyway.
It was a humbling position. Educational. Occasionally ridiculous, and nowhere near you. Apparently interns didn’t meet CEOs on the reg.
So for months, you were just a name, a presence on another floor. Interns and other employees often talked about you—brilliant, dedicated, but formidable and terrifying. Medusa, they called you.
Vernon would find himself standing up for you against men in his department who uttered inappropriate comments. Especially those who questioned your right to sit in the CEO’s office.
And then one Tuesday morning, Vernon was at the reception desk, sorting documents he wasn’t technically supposed to touch yet, when the elevators chimed.
He didn’t look up. He didn’t really need to. But then he heard a familiar voice calling him by name.
“Vernon Chwe?” the voice repeated, making him look up and freeze.
Your grandmother stood at the front desk, elegant as always. She looked exactly the way Vernon remembered her from childhood. She leaned on her cane more out of habit than necessity, eyes sharp as they swept his face. “Is that you, dear boy?”
Vernon straightened instinctively, unsure why his heart had started beating faster. He swallowed. “Yes, ma’am.”
A pleased smile spread across her face. “Well,” she said lightly, tapping her cane against the floor once. “I thought so. My, how much you’re grown.”
His mouth went dry. “You remember me?”
She laughed softly. “Of course I do. What are you doing here? Last I heard you were Executive Director at your family’s company.”
Vernon hesitated. Then he sighed, knowing full well how hard it was gonna be to lie to your grandma. “I think we’re gonna need to sit down if I’m to answer that question.”
Your Grandma seemed to understand something. “Come to tea this Sunday. Let’s unpack whatever that is.”
And Vernon did meet with your grandma that Sunday. And he confessed that he was there because of you. After hours of talking about you, your grandma decided to set him up on a blind date with you.
To say he was thrilled was an understatement. Vernon was over the moon. He couldn’t wait for the day to come. Though Grandma did warn him that she had a habit of not showing up to these dates. He was still looking forward to it, hoping your grandma stayed true to her words when she said she would try to convince you.
Then Becca came by the intern lounge, asking if anyone wanted to be your temporary secretary while she was on maternity leave.
“For Medusa?” someone murmured quietly.
Silence followed, and interns exchanged nervous glances. Vernon was the only one who raised his hand.
Becca stared at him. “I need to know if you’re serious about this.”
“Yes.”
“You’re gonna be paid a regular’s rate, but it’s not gonna be an easy task.”
“I know. I can handle it.”
She sighed. “Fine. No backing out at the last minute, alright?” she said, pointing her pen at him. “Follow me. Training starts now.”
Vernon trained for a week, learning schedules and systems, familiarizing himself with important names and contacts, copying the cadence of your emails. All this while stealing glances into your office, or staring a little too long whenever you passed by.
He reminded himself to be normal. To not let the past—or the crush—color the present. Even though it had clearly already taken over his entire world.
And then came the day Vernon was finally getting introduced to you. Becca had given him the head’s up the day before, and he took an extra hour getting ready the next day.
He stood with Becca in your office, patiently waiting for you to walk into those heavy glass doors. When you did, Vernon straightened up. Luckily that time, he didn’t get drunk or pass out anymore. Everything after that was an experience Vernon would never forget.
And now, over a month later, there he was, standing just inside your office, asking you to take him back.
It was the 29th. Just two days before New Year’s Day and four days since the whole fiasco at the Chwe Estate. Grandma and Nana had invited you out on a brunch where you apologized—more than once. For the lies. For leaving. For ruining Christmas.
Nana waved it all off with a soft laugh, insisting none of it mattered as much as you thought it did. “We’ve seen worse.”
She said the family wasn’t really angry, just shocked. Said that if you’d stayed, things wou;d’ve been resolved over breakfast and hot cocoa, the way they always did.
“What’s done is done,” your grandma had said simply, stirring her coffee. “At least you learned a lesson from this experience.”
You didn’t bring up Vernon. You couldn’t, not after how vague things were left between you. The grandmas seemed to understand that the subject was touchy and decided not to bring it up either.
After brunch, you told them you had something for Nana—and for everyone back home. It had arrived at the office that morning, and that was how the three of you ended up there instead of going straight home.You drove back to the office with the city humming around you, hands steady on the wheel despite everything sitting heavy in your chest.
They followed you into the building where employees greeted your grandma at every turn, surprised to see THE big boss parading the halls. You heard Nana quip about your grandma building an empire through inflicting fear upon her people, and laughed along when they did.
But that laughter died down the moment you stepped out of the elevator and found Vernon Chwe standing near reception, hands clasped loosely in front of him, jacket still on like he hadn’t been sure whether to stay or leave. He looked up the moment the elevator opened, like he’d been waiting for it.
For a second, no one moved. Your brows furrowed, relief and confusion washing over you. Relief because four days felt too long and you’d missed him the whole time. Confusion because what was he doing there? And why did he wait until now to come see you?
“What are you doing here?” you finally asked.
He picked up a clear bag from the floor and lifted it for you to see. “You didn’t get to see what I got you,” he said and your eyes locked on the red giftbox with a green ribbon inside the clear bag.
Your grandma squeezed your arm gently. “We’ll give you two a moment.”
Nana was already nodding, amused. “Yes. Let’s let the kids sort it out.”
You didn’t protest, letting them walk back into the elevator, muttering and giggling. The office fell quiet. You and Vernon were staring at each other while the rest of the people on that floor held their breath. You could feel their eyes, watching and waiting for whatever was about to go down.
You exhaled and started walking toward your office. Vernon followed silently behind. You didn’t say anything until you were inside your office, the door clicking shut behind you. It was quieter here, insulated from the rest of the floor.
You turned to face him. “My grandma told me something about you,” you said, not elaborating because he probably already knows what you mean. “Is it true?
“It is,” he answered quickly.
You let out a slow breath. “So you liked me even before I asked you to be my fake fiancee?”
A small smile tugged at his mouth. “Oh, I liked you longer than that.”
Your heart stuttered, just before beating wildly in your chest.
“When we were kids, when we were in college… I liked you in different ways, at different stages of my life.” He met your eyes fully. “And now… Now I’m in love with you.”
You kept your voice steady, hands clenching at your sides as you tried your best not to just go ahead and jump in his arms. “Why didn’t you come see me sooner?”
“I tried, but I didn’t really get a chance. You were in a relationship with this dude in college—”
“No, I meant after we left the island on Christmas day,” you interrupted.
Vernon paused, realization dawning on him. “Oh. Oh, I wanted to,” he said. “But no one was allowed to leave the island until the holidays were over. That’s not negotiable in my family. And I needed to sort things out. With them. With myself. I didn’t want to come to you half-done.”
You laughed under your breath. “Do you always have to do things properly?”
He shrugged. “I wanted to do this one right.”
Silence fell between you. You crossed your arms, still unsure what to do, how to navigate this. “I’m sorry,” you said first, because you had to. He deserved it. “For leaving like that. For not letting you say anything.”
He shook his head. “I would’ve followed you anyway.”
“So?” you asked, heat creeping up your neck. “What now?”
Vernon took one tentative step closer. “Well, my new year’s resolution is to kiss you everyday for the rest of my life.”
You huffed a laugh, caught off guard. “That’s a… very specific commitment.”
“I’m very committed to it.”
You laughed despite yourself, and Vernon watched with a fond smile, just before silence came again. You were both standing at the edge of something you didn’t want to rush or ruin.
“Well?” you asked, raising an eyebrow. “Are you just gonna stand there all day or do I have to kiss you myself?”
Vernon’s mouth stretched into the biggest, happiest smile you’d ever seen on a man. He crossed the distance between you in one step, then wrapped his arms around you. You hugged him back just as tightly, instinctively, like it was something your body had been waiting for longer than your mind wanted to admit.
Then he kissed you. A kiss that answered everything, one that didn’t ask questions anymore. For a moment, the world narrowed down to just the two of you. But only for a moment because three seconds later, the sound of clapping, cheers, and hooting erupted around the office.
Startled, you pulled back just enough to see past his shoulder and realized that the entire floor had been watching from outside the clear glass walls of your office.
“Oh my god,” you exclaimed, looking at Vernon and then laughing. “Do you think they heard you confess your love for me?” you teased.
Vernon glanced around, then back at you, utterly unbothered. “I don’t care,” he said, scooping you up and kissing you again.
The office erupted all over again, a whole floor of employees witnessing the day you and Vernon made a scene professing love like you were in cheesy Hallmark Christmas movie.
Even if my love only amounts to this
I'll be your spring to whatever winter it may be
This is all my heart can say
—"All My Love" by Seventeen
♡ pairing: lee jihoon x f!reader
♡ theme: fluff, smut [18+ mdni], hurt/comfort, 90s au
♡ wc: 14.3k
♡ warnings: alcohol/food consumption, light angst, mention of minor character death, unprotected piv sex (please do not do this irl), dry humping, bigdick!jihoon bc duh, creampie, praise kink if u squint, the lee jihoon cat dad agenda is alive and well!!!
♡ a/n: written as part of Carats Ridge: A Small Town Collab put on by @imnotshua, @100vern, and @starlightkyeom! be sure to check out the masterlist for all the other amazing fics!! i loved every moment of writing this because i am tragically in love with lee jihoon i fear, i hope yall love it too <3
♡ a/n 2: no beta we die like men
SYNOPSIS: Carats Ridge, 1991 — In a small town deep in the heart of the Pacific Northwest, a new resident in town causes a stir when he moves into the long-vacant house up on Hemlock Hill. The old superstitions surrounding the house and history begin to resurface, leaving a town full of people who already don't trust outsiders uneager to give the newcomer a warm welcome. To you, the stories are nothing more than a far-fetched local legend, and Jihoon seems nice — so you decide to befriend your new neighbor. The more time you spend with him, though, you start to realize that you've gained something much more than just friendship: you've gained a new perspective on what love can mean, and — for the first time in your life — you learn what it means to be loved.
1
pshhhhhhhh
A fine shower of droplets sprinkles coldly into your face as the vegetable misters suddenly spring to life overhead.
"Dammit!" you grumble to yourself as you quickly retreat from the heads of broccoli you were restocking onto the refrigerator shelves. You pat your face with your sleeve, ridding it of the unwelcomed moisture. You'd think that with the many years you've been working at the Carats Ridge Food Mart you would have learned how to dodge the misters by now, but apparently not.
You step back, waiting for them to shut off again before you finish stacking the last few broccoli heads neatly on top of each other. You reach for the stocking cart handle and push it, moving on to the next display; you get about two feet before the cart stops abruptly as it bumps into something — knocking the topmost of the precariously-stacked boxes of veggies off. You catch it before it falls completely, but not before several root vegetables go tumbling to the red-and-white checkered tile floor. Looking up, you see that you've just ran into a customer's cart with yours.
"I'm SO sorry!" you blurt out as you scramble to retrieve the turnips and rutabagas before they roll away. The man bends down, picking up a stray rutabaga that had bounced over to him and handing it to you as you place the rest of the runaway vegetables back onto the cart. As you turn toward him you are greeted with an unfamiliar face — a rare occurrence when you've lived in a town of 1,200 people for your entire life. It takes you a moment before you register who it is: it's Jihoon Lee, the man who moved into the formerly-abandoned house on Hemlock Hill a couple weeks ago.
"That was an accident, I didn't see you there," you tell him as you accept the rutabaga from him, mildly embarrassed at your blunder. "I should have been looking where I was going, I'm sorry," you apologize again.
"It's alright," the man responds with a small polite smile on his face. He's soft-spoken and seemingly a bit shy, judging by his eyes flickering in and out of your gaze. "No big deal."
"You must be Jihoon," you say to him warmly. "I'm y/n. I heard you were the one who just moved into the house up on Hemlock Hill."
Hemlock Hill. The name feels strange coming off your lips for the first time in a long while. It used to be the talk of the town, due to its former resident: an old woman, known only as Agatha, whom nearly the whole town suspected was a witch. Rumors abounded — according to some she practiced black magic or worshipped the devil, which was scandalous enough in and of itself; but there was also a terrifying rumor amongst schoolchildren that if any child wandered too close on her property, she would cook them and eat them. There was never any proof of the far-fetched tales — but that didn't stop the town from making wild speculations and shunning her from society. One frigid winter's day about 10 years ago she was spotted walking into the woods — dazed and incoherent, barefoot and coatless in the snow — and was never seen again. The police searched for days, but never found her. It was presumed she died from exposure, and that her remains were carried off by a bear or mountain lion. The house sat vacant for the next decade, whispers of rumors of its cursed nature still floating around from time to time — but for the most part, no one likes to talk about it anymore.
"Yeah, that's me," he replies, looking sheepish. "Seems like the whole town knows my name already."
"That's Carol Milford's fault," you say quietly, leaning in so no one happens to overhear you. "She's the resident town gossip — if anyone does anything, she'll find out about it and tell everybody and their grandmother."
Jihoon smiles. "I'd always heard that about small towns, but I didn't know how true it was until I got here. This is all very new to me."
"Where did you move here from?" you ask, returning to stocking the shelves. "If you don't mind me asking."
"Seattle," he answers. "Lived practically in the heart of downtown."
"Oh wow! That's so cool," you tell him earnestly. "I went down to Seattle once as a child. I was only six, so I don't remember all that much, but it felt like a different world."
"It definitely is," Jihoon agrees. The misters suddenly spring to life again right as you're leaning into the shelves.
"Oh, not again!" you mumble, quickly wiping the mist off your face. A grin pokes at the corners of Jihoon's mouth, but he shoves it back down. He was amused by your reaction, not laughing at you — but he met you one minute ago, and he doesn't want to make a bad first impression.
"Anyway, I live just down the road from you," you continue. "About a five minute drive. So I suppose that makes us sort-of neighbors!"
"Oh!" Jihoon remarks interestedly. "That's good to know."
"This is the first time I've ever actually had a new neighbor, so it's pretty exciting for me! If that tells you how eventful it usually is around here," you laugh. "But I'll stop bothering you now and let you get back to your shopping. It was nice to meet you!" you tell him cheerfully.
"You're not bothering me," he smiles calmly. "But it was nice to meet you too."
2
"Here you go, hon."
You look up from your newspaper as the waitress slides a plate of fresh, warm apple pie before you.
"Thanks, Janice," you smile at her.
"Of course," she beams back before scurrying off back behind the counter to tend to the other customers.
You had a longer shift at the Food Mart today and you weren't in the mood to cook, so you stopped by the C.R. Diner on your way home for a hearty meal — which wasn't complete without a slice of their famous pie. As you finish up the delicious apple pastry you reach into your purse and retrieve your wallet, leaving the cash payment on the table behind you as you exit the diner. On your way out, you pass a group of older ladies in the booth behind yours; it's none other than Carol Milford, speaking to her good friends and fellow gossipmongers Matilda Brown and Donna Smith in a hushed tone.
"I heard that's why he moved here — the house is perfect for devil worship, given its history…" she whispers to the other ladies. As you pass, she catches your eye.
"Y/n!" she says to you, waving you over. "Good to see you, darling, how are you?"
"I'm alright, thank you," you reply politely. You don't particularly like the woman, but you know well enough that it's best to stay on her good side.
"We're talking about the new resident," she tells you, lowering her voice slightly. "The one who moved into Agatha's house."
"Yeah, that's Jihoon," you answer casually. "I ran into him at the Food Mart a few days ago, he seemed really nice."
"Be careful with him," Matilda warns. "He's too quiet. And we heard he's practicing black magic just like she was."
You know this is a load of bullshit — a classic case of the elder residents being unwelcoming to a new, young face in town. You don't even believe the old rumors about Agatha, so you certainly don't believe the polite man you met the other day is anything close to a devil worshipper.
"Oh, that's interesting," you say nonchalantly. "I'll keep that in mind."
"Don't speak to him again," Donna tells you insistently. "If you get too close there's a good chance he'll lure you in and use you as a sacrifice."
It takes everything in you not to blatantly roll your eyes at her.
"Right," you reply, desperately trying to get out of the conversation. "Well, thanks for the advice, but I have to head home now. It was nice to see you all."
"Stay safe out there, honey," Carol insists. You nod, giving them a wave as you quickly make your exit.
On your drive home you pass the gravel road leading up to Hemlock Hill, and Jihoon pops into your mind again. You wonder if he even knows about the house's history; you know Carol and company aren't the only ones in town with the same attitude toward it — and you're certain Carol has already told everyone she's seen about the newcomer and his alleged devil worshipping. Most in town know not to fully trust anything she says, but Carats Ridge's superstition around Hemlock Hill runs deep. Jihoon seems like a nice guy — and you just hope others in town meet him with a warm welcome instead of a cold shoulder.
3
"How many entries do we have for the chili cook-off?"
You look up to see Carrie, one of your fellow committee members, looking mildly frazzled. The Yuletide Fest is next weekend, and there's still much to be done in the meantime.
"Um," you reply, picking up one of many clipboards strewn upon the table and counting the names on the list. "Looks like fifteen."
"I thought Tommy Higgins dropped out?"
"He did, but Bill & Susan Alton signed up last minute yesterday before the deadline."
"Okay, great," she replies. "I'll be sure to get that extra table after all so we have enough room."
Yuletide Fest is Carats Ridge's beloved annual tradition — each year on the Winter Solstice nearly the whole town comes out to the makeshift fairgrounds on the town square to celebrate the coming holiday season. There's food, drink, music, and merriment for all — and all of it is put on by you and the other seven members of the Fest committee. A big responsibility, but you've loved the Fest since you were a kid, and despite the stress of it all you love putting the many hours in that it takes to run the whole show. Besides, it's a good way to stay busy this time of year — having a thousand different tasks to juggle all at once is still better than sitting at home, depressed and alone.
You're fortunately at a point where you rarely think about Max anymore, but every once in a while he will find a way to pop into your mind. As you work to untangle the long strand of icicle lights that had been sitting jumbled in a bin since last year, you flash back to Christmas three years ago — the last Christmas you spent with your now-ex-boyfriend. You spent the day together putting up the decorations in your yard, finishing it all up by hanging the lights across the eaves of your house. You very nearly fell off the ladder trying to reach a bit too far; luckily, he caught you before you hit the ground, and you were fine — but that didn't stop him from lovingly teasing you about it for the rest of the season. But Christmas came and went, and soon after so did your relationship. He suddenly decided he'd had enough of small town life and of cold weather, and so practically on a whim he packed his things and headed off for California, leaving Carats Ridge — and you — in the rear view mirror.
Your eyes begin to water, but you quickly brush the tears away before they can fall. In retrospect, your relationship with Max wasn't anything particularly special. You were friends in high school but never dated until a few years after graduation; your only other former boyfriend had also moved away by that point, and you liked Max enough to agree to go on a date with him. Your relationship was fine — happy enough, but even though he was nice you always felt like you weren't getting enough out of it. But, being lonely sounded worse, so you stuck it out. By the time he left, you had gotten so used to being in a relationship that you forgot how to be on your own. You had your friends, sure — and they were there to support and comfort you. But, they couldn't offer you romantic love — and honestly, you came to realize that was something Max didn't even really fulfill for you. You fell into a deep depression; for months you barely left your house, pretty much only going to work and back. It wasn't until Maria suggested the idea of joining the Yuletide Fest committee that you found a reason to go out again.
"C'mon, you've always loved the Fest!" your best friend had reminded you. "And the committee could really use an extra pair of hands."
So you joined the committee. Quickly you acquired about a dozen different responsibilities, leaving you no time to even think about Max anymore. You rekindled your relationship with your community and now you have them to lean on, and for that you are beyond grateful. But still, you often feel alone; there's always that dream of being loved — truly loved — lingering in the back of your mind. You tell yourself it will happen when the moment is right — that you're not doomed to be alone forever. And while you know it's probably true, that there is somebody out there for you, you can't help but wonder when your time will finally come.
4
"If you like piña coladas, and getting caught in the rain…"
The music plays tinnily overhead from Food Mart's old speaker system. You find this song in particular to be bothersome, especially when the store seems to cycle through the same 20 songs over and over again, but you've worked here long enough that you're pretty good at tuning it out. It's been a slow day today — most people aren't grocery shopping mid-afternoon on a rainy Tuesday. You zone out from behind the empty register, staring blankly at the tabloid covers in the checkout line to see if there's anything interesting on them, but no such luck. Out of the corner of your eye you spot a customer heading toward your register. Looking over, you're surprised to see it's Jihoon again, carrying a number of small cans in his hands.
"Hi Jihoon!" you greet him cheerily. "Good to see you again, how are you?"
"Hi, y/n," he smiles timidly as he sets his items on the conveyor belt. "I'm alright, how are you?"
"A bit bored," you admit. "Slow day today." Reaching for the products as they drift toward the scanner, you notice he's buying a handful of cans of Fancy Feast.
"Oh, do you have a cat?" you inquire interestedly as you scan them and place them into a small brown bag.
"No, I don't," he replies, shaking his head. "But there's a stray that's been coming around the house ever since I moved in. I made the mistake of tossing it scraps of chicken and now it won't leave."
"Sounds like it's your cat now," you say with a grin.
"No, no, it's staying outside," he insists. "But it seemed hungry, so I don't mind feeding it."
You ring up the total and Jihoon hands you a couple one dollar bills; you take the cash and give him a quarter in change, your fingertips bumping into his palm lightly as you drop the coin into his hand.
"Thank you," he says politely. As you hand him the paper bag, a thought pops into your head.
"Are you going to the Yuletide Fest?" you ask him. He looks up at you, curious.
"What's that?"
"Only the best day of the year," you grin. "It's a festival that happens on the Winter Solstice every year. This year it's on the 21st — so, this Saturday. I'm on the committee that helps put it together. There's a chili cook-off, all sorts of food and drink, ice skating, live music, carnival games… but the best part is the huge bonfire where you can roast marshmallows," you inform him enthusiastically.
"Wow, that sounds like a huge production. And you put it all together?"
"Myself and a few others, yes," you say proudly. "It's been happening for decades. I loved going as a kid, but even as an adult it's a lot of fun! Nearly the whole town turns out. You should come!"
"Oh, yeah, maybe," he replies. "I'll try and stop by."
"I'll be running the hot cocoa stand this year, come find me and say hi if you do!"
He nods, smiling at you softly.
"I will."
5
"There you go, honey!"
You beam at the small child standing before you as she takes the small styrofoam cup of hot cocoa from you — you made sure to add extra marshmallows, just as she had requested.
"Fank you!" she squeals at the sight of the heaping marshmallows.
"You're welcome!" you tell her, waving goodbye as she excitedly walks back to her parents with her beverage.
As you stash the quarter the child had handed you in the money jar, Kirsten, your fellow hot cocoa stand employee, returns from grabbing another box of cups. As she starts stacking them on the table behind the booth, she notices something, looking out to the fairgrounds with a grimace on her face.
"Look, it's the new guy," she says condescendingly. You follow her gaze to spot none other than Jihoon, slowly wandering around the Fest, seemingly looking for something.
"His name is Jihoon," you inform her casually. She rolls her eyes.
"Whatever, he's a fucking weirdo."
"How so?" you ask, frowning at her. "Have you even met him?"
"No," she scoffs. "And I don't plan too."
"Why not? He's very nice — I've run into him at work a few times now."
"Maybe he seems nice, but you have to be some kind of freak to want to live in that horrible house."
"Do you really believe all those stories about Agatha?" you raise your brow at her.
"She was a batty old witch," Kirsten insists. "God knows what kind of evil magic she was doing up there, the house has to be cursed."
"I think it's much more likely that she was just a lonely, senile old woman," you counter. "There was never any proof of witchcraft found in the house."
"Whatever. That house still gives me the creeps. I don't know why anybody would ever move there."
You purse your lips together, realizing there's probably nothing you can say to change her mind on the matter.
"Would you mind running the stand for a few minutes? I'm going to go say hi."
"Suit yourself," she shrugs. "Your shift is almost over anyway, I'll go find Kelly to take over for you."
"Thanks!" you smile at her, ignoring her negativity. "I'll see you later."
You exit the hot cocoa stand and make a beeline for Jihoon, who is standing in the center of the square looking very lost.
"Hey neighbor!" you call out to him as you approach. He turns, relief washing over his face when he sees it's you.
"Hi," he smiles. "I was trying to find you, but I didn't know where to go."
"You were close," you tell him, pointing to the cocoa stand behind you. "I was right over there." As he looks over to it, Kirsten notices the two of you, glaring at him from across the way. You roll your eyes at her.
"Anyway, I'm so glad you came out!" you say, smiling again as you turn back to Jihoon.
"You sold it so well, I had to come check it out," he smiles back. "This is incredible, you did an amazing job."
"Well, I certainly can't take all the credit, but thank you!" you beam. "Do you want any hot cocoa? I know a guy, you can have it for free," you nudge his arm with your elbow playfully.
"That's alright, I don't think your friend over there likes me very much."
"Oh, ignore her," you say, waving your hand dismissively. "I'll go get it. You want marshmallows?"
Jihoon grins. "Sure."
You quickly go fetch him the promised cocoa — extra marshmallows, of course — not bothering to speak to Kirsten as you do so. You exit the booth and walk back over to him, handing him the steaming cup of cocoa.
"Here you go! On the house."
"Thank you," he says warmly as he accepts the cup. "I appreciate it."
"Anytime," you smile.
You walk Jihoon around the grounds, showing him all there is to see at the Fest, as well as pointing out various townspeople you feel he should know about.
"Ooh! There's the mayor and his wife," you whisper to him, nudging your head in the direction of the gray-haired, bearded man standing at the darts booth.
"Which one?" he asks as he sips the cocoa, downing the delicious beverage.
"The one who looks like an off-duty Santa Claus," you state. Jihoon nearly spits out his drink.
"Oh my god, are you okay?" you ask as he coughs.
"I'm okay," he replies, wiping a dribble of chocolate from his chin, a wide grin spreading across his face. "That was really funny, I just wasn't expecting you to say that."
"Sorry to make you nearly choke," you tell him with a laugh. "Anyway, yeah, Mayor Santa is really nice. Want me to introduce you?"
"Oh, that's alright," he shakes his head. "I don't want to be a bother."
"Well you're certainly not a bother."
"I think most of the people I've met so far would disagree," he shrugs. "But it's okay."
"That's absolutely not okay," you frown. "Have people been rude to your face??"
"I wouldn't say rude," he replies hesitantly. "But definitely a bit… less than welcoming."
"Ugh, I'm really sorry about that," you reply, giving him an apologetic look. A deluge of teenagers suddenly fills the area, hollering and throwing wads of popcorn at each other. You both start moving again, continuing to stroll through the Fest together. "I promise most people here are much nicer than they might seem at first."
"It's okay, I understand why people here wouldn't necessarily trust newcomers. I'm sure I seem like an outsider to them."
"Well, that's definitely part of it…" you start, wondering how much you should say on the matter. But it's his house now — he deserves to know.
"How much do you know about the history of Hemlock Hill?" you ask.
"I know that the lady who lived there before died, if that's what you mean."
"Well yes, that's true," you reply. "But that's just the tip of the iceberg."
Jihoon tilts his head slightly, his eyebrows perking up in curiosity. With a slight sigh, you continue.
"To make a long story short, nearly the whole town was convinced Agatha — the woman who lived there — was a witch who practiced black magic and that the house and the whole hill are cursed now."
Jihoon's eyes widen. "Oh," he remarks. "Well I certainly didn't hear about that part of it."
"Don't worry though — once she died and her house was cleared out they didn't find anything that suggested she was worshipping the devil or anything like that at all," you assure him. "Not that that did much to quell the rumors, though," you admit. "She died ten years ago now, but people still believe that nonsense to this day."
"Wow," Jihoon responds, trying to process this new information. "If you don't mind my asking, do you know how she died?"
"Well, she kind of just wandered off into the woods one day and was never seen again," you tell him. "Some people think she was possessed, but honestly, I think she was just a lonely old recluse who sadly lost her mind."
"That is sad," he agrees, nodding solemnly. "Thank you for telling me though."
"I should probably also tell you that Carol Milford thinks you moved here to worship the devil," you add.
"Oh!" he exclaims. "Well, I can assure you that's not true."
"That's what I tried to tell her, but I'm sure she's told at least half the town about it anyway by now," you say with an eye roll. "I'm really sorry this is the welcome you've received so far. Folks around here can be stubborn, but for the most part they're kindhearted, good people. Hopefully once they get to know you more they'll come to realize that all a bunch of baloney."
Jihoon smiles. "Thanks, I really appreciate you telling me all this, I'm feeling better about everything already."
"Of course! It's your house now, after all. You deserve to know the full story."
By now, you've walked through the entire Fest; as you reach the field at the edge of the fairgrounds, an enormous bonfire pit comes into view, causing Jihoon to stop in his tracks.
"Whoa," he gasps at the majestic sight before him.
"See? I told you — this is the best part," you say, grinning excitedly. "Say, how do you feel about s'mores?"
You and Jihoon make your way over to the bonfire, each taking a long metal skewer and some big, fluffy marshmallows. There's plenty of room around the pit; you find a good spot on the other side of the fire — the rest of the festival providing a gorgeous backdrop as the setting sun begins to fade. Night takes over as you sit together roasting your marshmallows, a massive scattering of stars becoming visible against the darkened sky.
"Wow, I've never seen so many stars before," Jihoon tells you, staring up in amazement at the stunning array of constellations above. "It's beautiful."
You glance over at him, watching as he takes it all in. The dancing flames of the bonfire cast a warm glow upon his lifted face, the light glimmering in the reflection of his dark eyes as he gazes up at the stars. It strikes you how handsome he is — not that you found him unattractive before by any means, but seeing his features up close for the first time, your stomach begins to flutter with excitement.
"Isn't it just lovely?" you remark. Jihoon nods, glancing back over to you; you quickly fix your gaze back on your marshmallow, finding it to be perfectly roasted now.
"S'mores time!" you announce with a grin. You and Jihoon reach for the bar of chocolate sitting between you at the same time, your hands colliding.
"Oops, sorry," you apologize, reaching instead for the graham crackers on the other side of the plate.
"You're alright — here, I got it."
He breaks off a row of chocolate rectangles and hands it to you. You assemble your s'mores, the milk chocolate melting nearly right away as it greets the hot marshmallow. You quickly take a big bite before it can ooze out all over your hands. Jihoon assembles his own s'mores, joining you in taking a bite of the sugary goodness.
"Hits the spot every time," you mumble to him, your mouth still slightly filled with sticky marshmallow.
"I haven't had s'mores in so long," he replies delightedly, finishing off the last bite of his own treat. "That was delicious."
Jihoon's easygoing nature combined with your chatterbox tendencies makes conversation feel effortless; you float naturally from one topic to the next as you sit there together, basking in the tall roaring flames of the bonfire. Your s'mores are long gone, but you have no desire to leave just yet. Without your realizing, nearly an entire hour passes — and the closing hour of the Fest soon arrives.
"Thanks again for coming out," you say to Jihoon as you stroll back through the fairgrounds, the festival staff having kicked everyone out of the fire pit a couple minutes ago. "This was really fun. I'm usually so busy running this whole show that I don't get to experience it like this anymore."
"Thank you for inviting me," Jihoon replies. "I had a really nice time. And I'm feeling a little bit less like a stranger here now," he chuckles.
"Good," you nod. "I'm glad you enjoyed it."
Away from the massive bonfire now, and with the crowd dissipating as everyone heads home, the cold December wind is starting to chill you to your bones. You shiver, rubbing your palms together to try and warm up your frozen fingers.
"Where are you parked?" Jihoon asks. "I can walk you to your car."
"Oh, thank you — but unfortunately I have to tear down the hot cocoa stand still. Shouldn't take too long though, at least."
"Here," he says to you, retrieving something from his coat pocket. He extends his hand to you, and you see he is offering you a pair of leather gloves. "Take these so you can warm up."
"Oh! That's okay," you tell him, waving your hand to decline. "I'll be fine—"
He places the gloves in your hand anyway. "I insist."
"Okay," you smile at him. "Thank you."
"No problem at all," he nods.
"You better get going before they drag you out of here," you joke as you see a few staff members heading in your direction. Jihoon laughs.
"Alrighty then — goodnight, y/n," he bids you warmly.
"Goodnight! Get home safe."
"I will," he nods. "You do the same."
6
The next morning, you wake up earlier than expected — a bit annoying, since it's Sunday and you were planning to sleep in, but you decide to get up and get a head start on laundry. As you carry the basket of dirty clothes to the laundry room, you spot your jacket hanging on the coat rack by the front door. Walking over to it, the strong residual scent of bonfire smoke hits you; memories of last night immediately flood your mind — memories of sitting by the fire with Jihoon, eating s'mores together, talking and laughing and having a genuinely wonderful time. Smiling absentmindedly, you grab the jacket to toss it in the wash, but something falls from its pocket. You bend down to pick it up, discovering the pair of gloves Jihoon lent you. You set them onto the coffee table, so you can remember to return them to him.
A couple loads of laundry later, you plop down on the couch, ready to laze around and read your new book. As you reach for the novel sitting on the coffee table you notice the gloves again, sitting there beside the paperback, as if waiting for you to do something with them. You flip through the pages to locate your bookmark, starting the next chapter where you left off. The protagonist has just met the love interest, and the story is beginning to heat up — something that normally keeps your undivided attention, but your mind seems to be wandering today. You've only gotten a few pages into the chapter before your eyes flicker back to Jihoon's gloves. You think for a moment. Then, tucking the bookmark between the pages, you toss the book back on the table, grabbing the gloves and your keys as you make your way out the door.
The drive from your house to Jihoon's is a straight shot. There's a couple other houses along Douglas Fir Road, but for the most part it's forested, lined with tall conifer trees — growing denser as you drive deeper into the woods. As you approach a large bend in the road you slow, looking carefully for the entrance to Hemlock Hill Drive. It's a bit hard to see, but a singular rusty mailbox on a wooden post gives it away. You turn onto the gravel road, driving slowly up its steep incline. You're starting to wonder if you're in the wrong place when you finally spot a clearing in the trees up ahead. A charming cabin-style home comes into view; it's clearly old, but much of it looks recently-renovated — a far cry from the cursed, dilapidated house spoken of in the local legends.
You've only been up here one other time in your life — it was sixth grade, and a few of the boys in your class dared you and your friends to sneak onto the property with them. You didn't particularly care for that sort of thing, but then they started calling you chicken, and that was something you were not about to let slide. So you agreed. It was a chilly night — you remember how much you were shivering as you and your friends climbed up the hill. It was dark, nearly pitch black except for the one flashlight you had amongst yourselves. Fear creeped into your bones as you approached the house, all the horrible tales you'd heard of Agatha whirring through your mind as your heart pounded in your ears. The house was unlit as you approached, sitting ominously in the shadows; you felt like it was taunting you, egging you to just come a little closer. The boys were in the middle of bickering about who was brave enough to go knock on the door first when a sudden rustling in the nearby bushes sent all of you running back down the hill, screaming at the top of your lungs as you made your escape.
Seeing it now, years later and in the daylight, you can hardly believe it's the same house. You pull in behind the old blue-and-white pickup truck parked at the end of the drive. The fog is slightly denser up here — lingering in the air like a cold, misty blanket. You climb the steps leading up to the house and knock on the front door. You don't see any lights on inside, but you assume if Jihoon's truck is here then he must be around somewhere. You wait, but no response. You knock again, but something moving in your periphery catches your eye. You turn to spot a large cat walking along the side of the house, headed in your direction. It's a tomcat with a big round head — his long black-and-white fur slightly dusty but still easily spottable against the rich browns and greens of the surrounding foliage.
"Here, kitty kitty," you say as the cat approaches, bending down and reaching out to pet him. You wonder if he's going to run away, but instead he eagerly nuzzles his head against your palm.
Mrrrrow, the cat chirps as you scratch behind his ears.
"Well, aren't you friendly?" you say to the cat. Suddenly noticing the sound of footsteps approaching you from behind, you whip your head around, but it's just Jihoon, sauntering toward you from behind the house with a big stack of chopped firewood in his arms.
"He's getting a little too friendly," he comments as he sets the pile of wood down on the porch. "Guess that's what I get for feeding him." He turns back to face you, his expression warm and welcoming.
"So what brings you up here?"
"I just wanted to return these to you," you reply, pulling his gloves from your pocket and reaching out to hand them to him.
"Oh! You didn't have to drive all the way here just for that," he tells you sheepishly as he takes the gloves from you.
"I told you, I'm only about five minutes down the road," you remind him with a smile. "It's no big deal, really."
"Well, thank you," Jihoon smiles back, his soft cheeks tinged pink from the frigid winter air. "I appreciate it."
"Oh, and here—"
You motion for him to wait as you flutter down the steps, reaching into your car and retrieving something from your glovebox. You return with a miniature spiral notebook in hand, scribbling something on a clean sheet with a ballpoint pen.
"Let me give you my address and phone number. Don't hesitate to call if you need anything."
You tear the pale yellow sheet from its binding and hand it to Jihoon. He takes it, folding it carefully and tucking it into his shirt pocket.
"You're too nice to me," he chuckles. "But thank you — I will."
"Here," you say, extending the pen and paper to him. "You should give me yours as well."
Phone numbers now exchanged, you've accomplished what you came up here for; as much as you'd like to stay and chat, you did show up to his home unannounced, so you know it's time for you to go.
"Well, I'll let you get back to your firewood now," you tell Jihoon. A hint of sadness seems to flash across his face, but as soon as you blink, it's gone. "It was nice to see you!"
"Good to see you too," he smiles, giving you a wave as you head back down to your car. He watches as you drive away, eyes fixed on you until your car disappears down the hill.
As he steps through the front door to head inside he pulls the small piece of paper from his pocket, staring at your name handwritten neatly in cursive. He searches around the house for where he put his address book — he hasn't needed it once since he moved here, because you are the only person who has actually talked to him so far. He finally locates the small bound booklet in a drawer; he flips to the correct letter and writes down your contact information, contently humming to himself as he does so. He carries on with the renovations he had planned to get done around the house today, catching himself humming again as he paints the window frames, and even singing out loud as he removes gross, wet clumps of leaves from the gutters. As he lays in bed that night, his mind drifts back to you. He decides he needs to find a way to thank you for your kindness, but before he can think of anything he is blissfully drifting off to sleep.
7
Jihoon is driving home from yet another trip to the hardware store when he decides to take a slight detour.
His house is shortly after the intersection of Douglas Fir and Juniper, but instead of going straight he turns left. Juniper Road takes him past Hemlock Hill Drive — but it's also the street you live on. Just like you said, it's about a five minute drive until he reaches a small but cozy-looking red house. Your driveway is vacant, so he assumes you're not home, but he doesn't mind that for this errand. He pulls into the drive and parks; reaching into the breast pocket of his thick, flannel-lined jacket, he locates the small yellow piece of paper he's kept on his person ever since you gave it to him about a week ago. Unfolding it, he double checks your handwriting — he is indeed at the correct house. He retrieves a small, brown envelope from his glovebox and hops out of the truck.
Walking up to your front door, he suddenly becomes a bit nervous. He reminds himself that you showed up to his house unannounced, which he didn't mind, and that you're not even home right now. As climbs the steps up to your porch he sees a small tin letterbox next to your front door — perfect. He drops the card inside and heads back to his truck.
"Leaving already? But you just got here!"
He spins back around, seeing your head poking out from the now-slightly-open front door.
"I didn't think you were home," he replies, taking a few steps back toward the porch. He looks a bit embarrassed, the tips of his ears turning rosy red. "I didn't see your car."
"It's in the shop," you explain. "It was making a weird clunking noise, turns out I had bad motor mounts. If all goes well I'll have it back late tomorrow."
"Oh, wow. How are you getting around then?"
"I'm not," you shrug. "I was just planning to call off work."
"I can give you a ride, if you want," Jihoon offers right away.
"Oh, that's alright, you don't have to do that—"
"It's no problem, really," he insists. He gazes at you warmly. "I don't mind. Besides, you're just down the road — it's not even out of the way."
"Alright, then," you smile softly. "If you insist. I open tomorrow though, so I have to be at Food Mart by 7:30 in the morning."
"Not a problem at all — I can be here at 7:00, if that works."
"Sounds perfect," you grin. "Thank you so much, Jihoon."
"Of course, I'm happy to help."
"So, what did you bring me?" you ask, reaching into the letterbox and pulling out the envelope Jihoon dropped off.
"Oh, just a holiday card," he answers sheepishly, tucking his hands in his pockets. "Figured I'd save on postage."
"Well, next time you drop by be sure to say hi," you tease. "I don't bite. Wanna come in and warm up some?"
He's tempted to say yes, but he shakes his head.
"Thank you, but I have to get back home." He nudges his head toward the wooden planks in his truck bed. "Gotta finish up some repairs on the house before it gets dark."
A flicker of disappointment flashes across your face, but you smile at him.
"Next time, then," you tell him with a nod. "Good luck on the repairs!"
"Thanks, y/n," he replies fondly. "See you in the morning."
You head back inside, carefully tearing the sealed envelope open and pulling out Jihoon's card. On the front is a quaint illustration of a snow-coated forest, a deer standing elegantly between the tall pines. You open it to see a surprisingly lengthy message, written in ink, the lettering slightly messy but still perfectly legible. Leaning against the kitchen counter, you read what he wrote you:
Dear Y/n,
I am writing because I want to thank you for your kindness. When I moved to Carats Ridge a few weeks ago, I knew nobody here. Quite frankly, I still don't know anybody — except you. You were the first (and only) person to strike up a real conversation with me, and after a couple weeks of receiving nothing but disdainful glares and muttered whispers as I passed by, the warmth you showed me was like a breath of fresh air. I almost didn't come out to the Yuletide Fest that night — as much as I appreciated the invitation, I didn't want to have to walk into a crowd of strangers whom I knew would not be welcoming toward me. But after much deliberation, I convinced myself to go. I told myself I would just stop by for a few minutes to check things out, that I'd say hi to you and then leave. But then you left your post at the hot cocoa stand, all so you could show me around — and I forgot all about leaving. I had a wonderful night, and it made me feel like I have a place in this town after all. So again, thank you, for being a friend (I hope it's okay that I call you that) when I needed it the most.
—Jihoon Lee
It's not until you finish reading that you realize you're crying. You wipe the tears from your face, but they continue to trickle down your cheeks as you read the touching message a second time. Closing the card before you keep crying in the middle of your kitchen, you walk over to your fridge and post it to front of the door with a magnet — right at eye level, so you can see it every time you pass by.
—
You're finishing your second cup of coffee when you hear the soft rumble of Jihoon's truck as he pulls into your driveway again. You peep at the clock — 7:00am on the dot. Quickly donning your coat and boots, you grab your purse and head out to greet him.
"Morning!" you call as you scurry down the steps and over to his car. You see it's already started to snow — a light dusting of flakes starting to cover your yard in a frosty white blanket. Jihoon gets out and walks around the truck, meeting you at the passenger side door.
"Good morning," he says warmly, opening the door for you.
"Thanks!" you say as you hop inside the vehicle, relieved to find it comfortably toasty. Jihoon shuts the door and returns to the driver's seat, shifting the truck into reverse and backing out of your driveway.
"How'd your repairs go yesterday?" you ask as he reaches the main road, shifting into gear and beginning the drive to Food Mart.
"Much better than expected, honestly," he answers cheerily. "Finished up fixing the side of the house. Some of the old wood was rotting — it nearly crumbled in my hands as I stripped it down. But now it's good as new."
"You must be very handy to be fixing all that yourself," you commend him. "Do you work in construction at all?"
Jihoon shakes his head. "Nope, I learned it all from my dad. He was always having me help around the house when I was a kid. I didn't mind it then, but it's definitely been very useful these days."
"That's nice! What do you do for work then, if you don't mind my asking?"
"I'm a writer," he answers. "When I'm not fixing up the house, I'm working on my book."
"Whoa, that's so cool! What's it about?"
"It's um, kind of a science fiction novel. I know that's pretty dorky," he chuckles shyly. "But there's also romance involved."
"Oh, romance is my favorite genre! But I don't think that's dorky at all," you assure him. "It sounds impressive. What made you want to write science fiction?"
"It's always been my favorite genre. Do you know Dune?"
You shake your head. "Sorry, never heard of it."
"That's okay," he smiles. "It's iconic in the world of sci-fi literature, but it's not exactly mainstream. It was my favorite book when I was younger."
"Tell me about it!" you respond. "I'm curious."
"Um," he laughs nervously. "Well, it's quite long and complicated, but basically it's about a boy who moves to a desert planet called Arrakis — there's this highly coveted substance called spice that's basically a magic drug and Arrakis is the only place in the universe where it exists. They mine it from the desert, but there's these massive worms that live in the sand that interfere, and there's also this group of people who live in the desert called the Fremen—"
He glances over at you, seeing the stark confusion on your face.
"Sorry, you lost me at the big sand worm," you giggle.
"Fair enough," he laughs. "But yeah, I love the worldbuilding and the intergalactic politics of it all. My novel is nowhere near as complex, though. I've kind of ended up focusing on the romance aspect of it more than I expected."
"Well I'll definitely have to read it when it's published, then," you smile.
The green roof of Food Mart comes into view as you near your destination. Jihoon turns into the parking lot, pulling into the spot closest to the grocery store's front door.
"Well, here you are," he says as he shifts the car into park. "What time do you get off? I'll come pick you up."
"I get off at 4:00pm, but I'll have to go pick up my car."
"No problem, I can take you to the auto shop."
"Amazing — you're the best!" you beam at him, making him turn slightly pink. "See you later!"
"See you later," he smiles back at you as you exit the truck. He waits to make sure you can get in — it's far too cold to be stranded outside — but luckily the door is already unlocked. You look back as you step inside, giving him a cheerful wave goodbye. He reciprocates, gazing at you softly through the window as you disappear into the store.
—
True to his word, Jihoon returns to Food Mart at 4 o'clock to pick you up. He drives you to the auto shop, where you're relieved to find your car is just about fixed.
"You sure you're fine waiting here by yourself?" he asks when you tell him the good news.
"Yeah! It'll only be about 30 minutes. Please — go home, you don't need to wait around for me."
"Okay," he agrees. "But call me if something comes up, okay?"
"I will. Thanks again for the rides!"
"Of course. See you later, y/n."
Driving home, Jihoon approaches the intersection of Douglas Fir and Juniper. He hesitates at the stop sign, thinking for a moment, before deciding to turn left.
You pull up to your house about 45 minutes later to see Jihoon's truck once again parked outside, and its owner halfway through shoveling the snow from your driveway.
He turns as you slowly pull into the shoveled end of the drive, giving you a polite wave.
"What on earth are you doing??" you inquire as you step out of the car.
"Shoveling your driveway."
"I see that, but why?"
Jihoon shrugs. "It snowed a couple inches. How else were you going to be able to park?"
The way he says it is so matter-of-fact, so nonchalant — as if he didn't go out completely of his way to do a massive chore for you without you ever even asking.
You're not entirely sure why, but you nearly burst into tears right then and there. Instead you hold it in, blinking away the excess saline, hoping it appears as though your eyes are watering simply due to the cold.
"You didn't have to do that," you say softly.
"I know," he replies with a warm smile. "But I wanted to."
"Here, I have an extra shovel," you tell him as you march past him to go grab the tool propped up against the side of the house. "I'll help you finish — we'll be done in no time."
Indeed, with the two of you shoveling — and Jihoon having already done the brunt of the workload — the driveway is clear within fifteen minutes.
"Please, come inside and warm up," you say to him as you put the shovels away. "I insist."
He pauses for a moment, about to politely decline — but he is quite cold.
"Okay," he nods in agreement.
He follows you through the front door, removing his shoes right away as not to track snow into your home and quickly discarding his several layers of outerwear now that he is in the warmth of inside.
"It's very cozy in here," he compliments you as he takes a look around. "I like it."
"Thank you!" you chime. "I do too."
You don your nearby slippers and head into the kitchen. "I'm going to heat up some leftover soup from the fridge — minestrone that I made the other night. Would you like some?"
"That sounds delightful," he replies. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until right this moment.
You reheat the minestrone and dish up you and Jihoon each a big, steaming bowl.
"Wine?" you offer after you serve him, picking a bottle of cabernet up off the counter. You had been saving it for something special, and this seems like just the occasion.
"I'm okay, thank you," he declines, waving his hand. Without thinking, he adds "Maybe another time."
"Okay, but I'm holding you to that," you wink as you fetch the corkscrew from the drawer, opening the bottle and pouring yourself a glass.
"This is delicious," Jihoon says between slurping down spoonfuls of the thick, hearty soup. "You are an excellent cook."
"Thank you, I try my best," you reply humbly.
"Well you're doing a great job."
The room falls quiet as you both inhale your meals, but the lull in conversation feels perfectly comfortable. You each have seconds, polishing off the remainder of your big batch of soup; you also decide to pour yourself a second glass of wine as well — just a small one, you think to yourself.
"Tell me about Seattle," you say as you take the empty dishes and place them in the sink. You look over to Jihoon as you start scrubbing the bowls and spoons with a soapy sponge. "I barely remember it since I was so young when I went, all I remember it feeling huge and magical."
"I don't know about magical," he smiles. "But it's definitely huge and busy and filled with people. Basically, the complete opposite of here."
"I want to go back sometime — and see it not through the eyes of a child," you chuckle. "I've seen photos, the skyline is just so beautiful."
"I suppose it is," he says wistfully. "But not as beautiful as it is up here, if you ask me."
"I think beauty can come in all shapes and forms," you remark, rinsing the bowls and drying them with a towel. You rejoin Jihoon at the kitchen table. "They're both beautiful in their own ways, if you ask me."
He smiles softly. "I suppose that's true."
The question that has been lingering at the back of your mind since you first met him pops into your head again. You weren't sure if you should ask before, since you barely knew the guy — but he did call you his friend, after all.
"What made you leave the hustle and bustle of the big city to move out here — practically the middle of nowhere?" you ask gently. He seems to tense up, a somber expression washing over his face.
"We don't have to talk about it if you don't want," you quickly backpedal, not wanting to make him uncomfortable, but he shakes his head.
"No, it's alright," he responds with a sigh, staring down at his folded hands atop the table. "It's just… a lot. But to make a long story short, I was engaged. I had proposed to my girlfriend — we had been dating since high school, and it was the only relationship I've ever been in. I didn't know anything else, and I thought I was happy. But as we started to plan for the wedding, I came to realize I just… wasn't happy."
He shifts his gaze out your window, staring off into the distance pensively.
"I think I was too young and naïve to know it before that point," he continues. "But it was almost like a revelation: one day I woke up and realized I was putting a lot more into the relationship than she was. I think she did love me, to a degree. But I knew then that if I went through with the marriage, I would end up regretting it. So as scared as I was to do it, I ended things. It went just about as poorly as it possibly could have," he laughs somberly. "She was furious. I don't think it even was about the relationship ending, really — she ended up moving on almost immediately, it seemed. But I think it was about the fact that things were no longer going her way. She told everyone — her family, all of our friends — that I ruined her life. And to be fair, I suppose I kind of did. But in retrospect, I know it wouldn't have lasted long anyway, so I'm glad I saved myself that grief. But when nearly everybody walks out of your life in the blink of an eye… I just didn't know what to do. I had no friends left. My family is still around, but they've made it loud and clear that they think I made a huge mistake. I was sick to my stomach to even go outside and walk around the city that I loved anymore, because everything reminded me of her. So I left. I searched around for the most remote location I could possibly find — and that's how I ended up here. I never had even heard of Carats Ridge, but that was exactly what I wanted. I wanted to get away and forget any of this ever happened. And I do love it here, really — I don't regret moving here at all. But although I left all the physical reminders of my ex behind, I guess I still couldn't escape the emotional damage that was done. "
The room sits still and silent for a moment as he finishes, the heaviness lingering in the air. You take a deep breath, stopping yourself before you start tearing up again.
"I'm so sorry, Jihoon," you finally speak softly. "That's all so awful."
"Yeah," he sighs, shaking his head wistfully. "That all happened almost a year ago now. It's embarrassing that it's still affecting me this much, but truth be told I'm not completely over it yet. But I try my best not to let myself dwell on it anymore."
"That's a huge, life-changing thing that happened to you," you reassure him. "It's okay to not be completely over it. You know what they say — healing isn't linear."
"You're certainly right about that," he replies, a soft smile appearing on face. "Anyway, I'm sorry to dump all that on you, but thank you for listening to me."
The way he says it is so gentle, so grateful — it seems as if you're the first person to properly listen to him in a very long time. And given everything he just told you, you suspect that very well might be true. It nearly breaks your heart.
"Hey, I'm always here if you need someone to talk to," you respond, smiling at him warmly. "Seriously — I mean it."
"Thanks, y/n," he glows warmly back at you. "I really appreciate that."
Glancing out the window again, Jihoon realizes just how dark it is.
"Wow, it's gotten late," he remarks as he peeks at his watch. "I should get out of your hair now."
Stay, you want to tell him. Stay as long as you want.
"Thanks again for shoveling my driveway. And being my taxi today," you say instead. And for keeping me company, you think as well.
"Anytime — I'm happy to help," he nods.
You walk him to the front door, opening it for him after he's bundled himself back up his coat and boots.
"Goodnight," you say warmly as he brushes past you. He turns to look at you, and for just a split second his face lingers before yours — so incredibly close it makes your stomach turn to jelly.
"Goodnight," he speaks softly, his dark eyes fixed intimately on yours for just a moment — then he goes.
You shut the door, but peek out the front window to watch as he strolls back to his truck. As he starts backing out the driveway, he catches your eye. You're a bit embarrassed that he saw you watching him, but he gives you a friendly wave. You wave back, and he drives off into the night.
8
You're zoned out stocking soup cans on the Food Mart shelves when you register somebody walking toward you out of the corner of your eye. You turn your head, coming back to Earth, ready to assist the customer — but you smile when you realize who it is.
"Well, hey there!" you say brightly.
"Hi, y/n," Jihoon replies with a warm grin. He's pushing an empty cart, seemingly just arriving at the store. "I was hoping you were working today."
"Yep, here I am," you say, trying not to turn completely flustered. "It's been a busy day today — everyone's trying to get their groceries early before the big snowstorm rolls in tomorrow night."
"Yeah, I heard about that," he replies. "Do you really think we're going to get ten inches of snow?"
"We might," you shrug. "It's pretty rare that we get that much all at once, but it does happen every once in a blue moon."
"Wow," he muses. "Well I guess we'll just have to wait and see, then. Anyway, speaking of tomorrow night, I had a question for you."
"Oh! Sure, what is it?"
"I was wondering if you'd like to come over for dinner. We can do it early — so you can get home before the storm starts."
A big grin creeps across your face. "I'd love that," you gush excitedly.
"Excellent," he grins back. "How do you feel about steak?"
"Steak sounds wonderful!"
"Perfect, I'll pick all the ingredients up while I'm here. Let's say, 4:00pm tomorrow?"
"I'll be there at 4 o'clock sharp," you beam.
"I'll see you tomorrow then, y/n."
—
Tiny flecks of snow begin to hit your windshield as you turn onto the steep incline of Hemlock Hill Drive.
"Guess the snow's coming in early," you mumble to yourself as you pull up to Jihoon's house. You park and make your way to his front door. You're about to knock when it swings open before you.
"Welcome," Jihoon says with a smile as he beckons you in. He's wearing a plain, black apron, slightly messied with stray splatters of sauce. "Come in, it's cold out."
"Looks like the storm might be coming in sooner than expected," you say, brushing the dusting of white flakes off your coat before you step inside.
"Sure looks like it."
As you remove your outerwear, you take in the interior of Jihoon's house for the first time. It looks like the inside of a cabin, with perfectly cozy decor arranged neatly in the tidy space. A large stereo system with a turntable sits in the living room, playing upbeat old-timey swing music at a moderate volume from its speakers.
"It's lovely in here!" you tell him cheerfully.
"Thank you, but I can't take all the credit. Most of the furniture came with the house," he explains. "It was all rather dusty, but with a bit of effort I got everything cleaned up and good as new, if I do say so myself."
"Wow. So much for the past occupant being an evil witch," you say with a laugh. "Not that I ever really believed any of that. But I'm sure most people in town would be expecting a big cauldron or pentagrams or whatever."
"Can confirm — not a single pentagram found in this house," he grins. "Please, have a seat — dinner is almost ready." As you walk through the house you are hit with the enticing aroma of steak; he leads you to a small table in the dining room, pulling a chair out for you before zipping back into the kitchen to check on the meat. The table is set, covered in a delicate linen tablecloth intricately embroidered with farmhouse scenery.
A couple minutes later he returns, now apron-free, carrying two fine porcelain plates — each bearing hearty roasted potatoes, tender-looking asparagus, and a thick, sizzling filet mignon.
"Wow, this looks amazing!" you tell him as he sets the first plate before you.
"One more thing…"
He returns to the kitchen, emerging again moments later with a bottle of expensive-looking cabernet sauvignon and two crystal wine glasses.
"I wasn't sure what else you liked, but I saw you were drinking a cabernet the other night, so I figured this would be a safe bet," he tells you as he opens the bottle with a corkscrew and pours you a glass.
"No, this is perfect," you glow at him.
He sits across from you, the humble size of the table making his closeness feel even more intimate.
"I'd say bon appétit, but that feels way too fancy for me to be saying," he chuckles lightheartedly.
"Are you kidding? This could be a Michelin star meal as far as I'm concerned," you praise.
You cut into the filet mignon, the tender, juicy meat slicing with ease. Your eyes widen as you take the first bite.
"Pardon my French, but holy shit," you mumble through a mouthful of steak, eyes widening with delight as the delicious flavor floods your mouth. "This is the best steak I've ever had."
"I'm glad you like it," he replies warmly. "My grandmother taught me how to cook from a young age. All this stuff is hers, actually — the dishes, the tablecloth. I've pretty much never used it," he laughs. "Only on special occasions."
"And I'm a special occasion?" you ask playfully as you take a sip of the wine. It's deliciously dry — full-bodied with rich flavor.
"Of course," he answers matter-of-factly, smiling softly as he looks you in the eyes. Between that and the wine, you feel a rush of heat starting to fill your cheeks.
The delicious meal is quickly devoured — but you remain at the table together long after, conversation and laughter filling the room as the both of you continue to sip at the wine. You don't know how long you and Jihoon have been sitting here talking — it's surely been well over an hour now, but it doesn't feel like it in the slightest.
"More wine?" he asks, cheeks pink and glowing from the alcohol as he picks up the bottle. "Bottle's just about empty, we can finish it up."
"Yes please," you smile at him, the wine also making you a bit giddy.
"Would you like to sit on the couch?" Jihoon asks. "I can start up the fireplace."
"That sounds perfect."
Migrating to the living room, he stops by the stereo system, quickly replacing the finished record with a new vinyl. Softer jazz music begins to play from its speakers as he grabs a couple logs of firewood and sets them in the fireplace, igniting the hearth with a lighter. A soft orange glow fills the room as the fire comes to life, immediately warming up the room.
You're about to sit down on the couch when you notice the seat is already occupied with a large round, black-and-white ball of fur.
"I told you!!" you exclaim. Jihoon — still kneeling before the fireplace — pokes his head up.
"Hm?"
You reach down to pet the fluffy creature; he wakes up, lifting his big round head and making a brrrrrrp sound.
"I told you you had a cat now!" you grin, patting the animal softly.
"Oh god, he's not supposed to be on the couch," Jihoon grumbles. "No, still not my cat. I only let him in because of the snowstorm tonight — he's going right back outside as soon as the snow clears."
He walks over to the couch, making a shooing motion to the cat, but the cat just looks at him.
"C'mon, get off."
"Oh, leave him be. Look how comfy he is!" you say, scratching his furry ears. "He's made himself right at home. Besides, the couch is big enough for all of us."
"Alright, fine," Jihoon concedes. He points his finger at the cat. "But don't get used to this."
With the cat taking up one end of the couch, you and Jihoon take a seat on the other side. There's plenty of room on the couch — it's wide enough for you to each have your own cushion and sit comfortably, but as he takes the end seat you scoot in a little closer to him. He doesn't seem to mind, taking a sip of his wine as he gazes over at you, the flickering flames of the fire illuminated in his eyes. You flash back to that night at the Yuletide fest, sitting by the bonfire, Jihoon at your side. He's even closer now — making your heart beat excitedly in your chest.
"Thanks again for the delicious meal," you say, taking a sip of your wine. "You really went all out."
"You're welcome," he smiles. "I haven't had anyone to cook for in a long time, so this was a real treat."
Silence follows for a few moments. Basking in the warmth of the fire together, you finish your wine; you delicately twirl the stem between your fingers as you stare at the crystalline design of the cup, watching it sparkle in the flames' light. Jihoon also finishes his drink, extending his hand and offering to take your now-empty glass.
"Here," he says, taking the glasses and setting them atop the coffee table. Leaning back into the couch, he turns to look at you again, unknown words sitting upon his lips, waiting to be spoken. You wait, eyes locked with his, suspended in an intimate moment of time; he licks his lips, taking a deep breath.
"I—" he starts, the flicker of his eyes to your lips not going unnoticed. You shift your weight, leaning slightly into him, the side of your thigh pressing gently into his.
"I just wanted to say, I've really enjoyed spending time with you," he tells you, his face tinged with a flushed shade of pink.
"Me too," you reply softly, leaning in closer still. The romantic sounds of the jazz album fill the air around you, embellished by the pleasant crackling of the firelogs from the hearth. Jihoon seems anxious — but he decides he can't wait a moment longer.
"Can I kiss you?"
It comes out as barely more than a whisper. His eyes stare into yours expectantly, waiting nervously for a response. You answer with a smile, shining brightly from ear to ear as you nod eagerly. His pupils dilate with excitement, a huge grin spreading across his cheeks. Slowly he leans in, his lips colliding with yours — an eruption of flutters rippling through your body as he kisses you. He tugs at your lips, slow and gentle and loving, savoring every moment of kissing you for the very first time. Your hand slides onto his lap, gripping his thigh as you kiss him back fervently, the darkly sweet flavor of the wine lingering on his mouth as you taste him. His hand brushes against your cheek as he cradles your face in his palm, rubbing your cheekbone tenderly with his thumb. You drag your fingers up his thigh, making him squirm slightly in his seat; you rest your hand upon his waist, grasping at his body through the thick knitting of his sweater. His hand gradually slips to the back of your neck, holding you tightly against him as he kisses you with a passion desperate and urgent. You cling to him as he pulls you into his arms, feverously running your hands over his body as his hands wander — committing every curve of your body to memory. Finally, your lips part, breaking for air; he kisses down your jaw to your neck, pressing his lips softly into the delicate skin, making you gasp with pleasure.
"You're even more perfect than I imagined," he mutters between kisses. He begins to suck at the skin lightly, causing you to let out a soft moan. His hands on your waist suddenly grasp tightly at your flesh, pulling you up and over onto his lap. You hold his face in your hands as you straddle him, kissing him on the lips again. He wraps his arms around your torso, pressing your body into his as he kisses you and kisses you — never wanting to leave this moment.
The strain in his pants grows increasingly obvious as you make out; you grind your hips against his as you bite at his lower lip, causing him to groan into your mouth in desperation as your core presses into his burgeoning erection.
"Oh my god," he murmurs, grabbing your ass as he presses you into him further. You feel his clothed cock throb beneath his jeans, the thick mass pulsing against your equally aching clit. You've never been so certain of anything as much as you are certain that you need him — and you need him now.
Reaching down, you tug at the button of his pants, looking at him to make sure this is okay — but his pleading eyes staring up at you tell you he wants this just as much as you do. You tug the button open, slowly pulling the zipper down; a simple pair of white underwear comes into view, doing nothing to hide the massive bulge of his stiff cock beneath the fabric. You look down at it as you run your fingertips over it lightly; Jihoon inhales sharply at the sensation, his body tensing up beneath you. You lift your eyes to his face again, finding him staring at you as if he's never desired anything more. You go to stand up; Jihoon grasps at your hands, not wanting you to leave for even a moment — but when he sees you reaching to unfasten your pants he gives you a lazy grin, drunk off wine and lust. You slip your pants off, letting them fall to the floor and stepping free of them. Jihoon reaches for your hips with both hands, slipping his fingers under the delicate fabric of your panties and pulling them down in one swift motion. Discarding those to the ground as well, you sit back onto your knees, straddling his lap as he reaches for his own underwear. He tugs the waistband down, revealing a cock so thick it makes your clit pulse excitedly. You wrap your hand around its width, giving him a few slow strokes. His eyes start to roll back — his pleasure only exacerbated when you drag his tip through your drenched folds.
"Ohhh," he moans as he stares at your cunt. "Fuck you're so wet."
"I want you so bad," you whisper, stroking your clit with the head a few more times as you stare down at him desperately.
"I want you too," he mutters in a low voice, grasping at your hips. You position his tip at your entrance, slowly lowering your cunt onto his cock. Jihoon's mouth drops open, letting out another moan as your walls squeeze tight around his size. You whimper as you bottom out — the entirety of his cock now inside you. You kiss him with urgent need, his hands slipping under your sweater, tantalizingly cold against your warm skin. Slowly, you lift yourself up, dragging your pussy up his length til it's almost all the way off — then dropping again, his cock sliding back into you and making you feel deliciously full.
"Oh my god," you groan, slumping over onto him as your body relaxes with pleasure. He wraps his arms around your torso, squeezing you tight against him as you begin to ride him. The room fills with a symphony of moans as he fucks his cock into you, thrusting up into you slowly but with the perfect amount of intensity.
“Fuck,” you cry as his pace starts to quicken. “That feels so good…”
“You feel amazing, baby,” he mutters into your ear. You lift your head slightly, laying your forehead against his, gazing into his dark eyes as he stares up at you — both of you enamored and infatuated and very nearly on the brink of orgasm.
“Jihoon,” you whine, your moans growing louder and longer.
“You sound so pretty like this,” he mumbles, his voice low and grovelly as the breaths of his words hit your lips. “Gonna cum soon, baby.”
“Me too,” your voice quivers. You press another long kiss into his lips; his hips begin to jerk into you as his body tenses, the overstimulation and the pressure against your clit sending you over the edge. You cry out as your orgasm rushes through you, powerful surges of ecstasy rolling through your body as your core burns white-hot with pleasure. Your walls constrict around his painfully-hard cock as you cum, driving him straight into climax too — you feel him release into you, hot bursts of cum shooting deliciously into your cunt. He fills you up, trickles of white leaking from your pussy all over his cock as he gives you a few final thrusts. Finally, aside from the deep heaving breaths of your chests, both of your bodies still. You collapse onto him, nuzzling your face into the crook of his neck.
“Wow,” you sigh, laying atop Jihoon as he gently rubs his hands over your back.
“Yeah,” he replies breathily. “I agree.”
Gathering the energy to sit back up, you lift your head; a huge, giddy grin is plastered across Jihoon’s reddened cheeks. You giggle, pressing your nose into his, staring fondly into his eyes.
“Stay here,” he murmurs softly, giving you a peck on the lips. He fetches a towel and gets you all cleaned up, even lending you a pair of oversized sweatpants so you can be comfortable. You cuddle up on the couch again, entangled in each others’ arms underneath a thick, cozy blanket.
“Do you think we’re snowed in yet?” you ask softly as you rest your head upon his chest.
“Oh, yeah. We are absolutely snowed in,” he replies with a sheepish laugh. “Sorry, I know you were supposed to be out of here before then — but I must admit you are very distracting.”
“Don’t apologize,” you grin. “Guess you’re stuck with me for the night, then.”
“Guess so,” he smiles, kissing the top of your head tenderly. “But I don’t mind that one bit.”
9
You wake the next morning to the bright glare of the rising sun reflecting off the deluge of snow piled high outside the house.
Sitting up and peering around the room, you realize you’re still in Jihoon’s house — his side of the bed empty beside you. You get up, locating one of his sweatshirts and tossing it on as you walk out into his living room. Out the front window, you can see the top of his beanie-clad head as he is busy shoveling your car out of possibly the most snow you’ve ever seen in your life.
Donning your coat and boots, you traipse out the front door. The sidewalk from the door to the driveway has a narrow pathway shoveled through the solid twelve inches of snow resting peacefully upon the ground.
“You’ve gotta stop doing this,” you call to him as you saunter over toward him. He looks up, giving you a wave as he grins at you.
“Why?” he inquires.
“Because I’m gonna have to start paying you for doing all this manual labor for me,” you grin back.
“Nope,” he replies, shaking his head. “My services are free.”
“Because you like me?” you tease.
“Yes,” he smiles at you softly. “Because I like you a lot.”
“Let me help you at least—”
“No need,” he says with a dismissive wave. “I’m almost done. You should go back inside, it’s too cold out here. I’ll be right in.”
“Okay, fine,” you pretend to complain, but you smile back at him. As he turns to finish the last bit of shoveling, you reach down and collect a handful of snow. It’s frigid against your bare palms, but you pack it into a solid sphere anyway and chuck it at Jihoon. It hits him square in the back; he turns, giving you a quizzical look.
“Did you just throw a snowball at me?”
You respond by throwing another snowball, this time hitting him in the arm. He chuckles, rolling his eyes and returning to shoveling. You lob another one — hitting him in the butt this time.
“Oops, sorry!” you shout. “That’s not where I was aiming, I swear.”
“Sure it wasn’t,” he laughs.
“C’mon, throw one back!”
He ignores you, removing the last bit of snow from around your car’s back tire. You throw another one, hitting him right in the butt again.
“Okay, that one was on purpose.”
“It sure was,” you reply proudly. “Come onnnn, you’re just gonna stand there and take this?”
He turns, giving you a shrug.
“Fine,” he says as he gathers a small handful of snow off the trunk of your car, barely packing it and tossing it at you. It falls apart midair, showering you in a light dusting of snow.
“That’s it?” you taunt. “Haven’t you ever been in a snowball fight?”
“Sure, when I was a kid.”
You throw another ball at his chest. “Throw one back or I’m gonna stuff snow down your coat,” you grin mischievously, grabbing a handful and walking toward him.
“Hey!” he shouts, backing away. He grabs a big chunk of snow and lobs it at you, hitting you in the arm. “There! I did it. Happy now?”
“Yes,” you say, chucking more snow in his direction as you continue toward him. His eyes widen as he tries to run, but you’re quicker; you fling your arms around him, planting a big kiss on his cold cheek.
“See, that wasn’t so bad—” you start, but you stumble and fall, pulling Jihoon to the ground with you.
“I’m sorry!!” you shout apologetically as you both fall into the deep pile of snow. “I didn’t mean to do that!”
You lift your head to see Jihoon laying beside you, laughing heartily.
“It’s a good thing you’re cute,” he teases, pulling you off the ground with him as he stands back up.
Back inside again, Jihoon makes a fresh pot of coffee. You cuddle up together on the couch once more, steaming mugs in hand as you warm yourselves up underneath the blanket. The cat, still inside, is curled up in a ball on the floor, napping peacefully before the blazing fireplace.
“Gotta be honest,” Jihoon tells you as you snuggle in close. “This was the most fun I’ve had in a very long time.”
“Which part?” you ask cheekily.
“All of it,” he answers matter-of-factly. Smiling shyly, he adds, “Though, the sex was pretty mind-blowing, I must admit.”
“Yeah, it was,” you giggle, laying your head on his shoulder. “Honestly, me too, though. I really like hanging out with you, we should keep doing it.”
Jihoon doesn’t reply. Lifting your head up, you see his eyes starting to water. He quickly blinks the tears away.
“I just… really appreciate you spending so much time with me. So thank you.”
“You don’t have to thank me for spending time with you, silly,” you say to him softly. “That’s what friends are for.”
The tears return to his eyes, this time escaping and trickling down his cheeks.
"I was starting to wonder if coming to this town was a mistake,” he tells you, patting his damp face with his sleeve. “After everything that happened, all I wanted was to be alone — but I had no idea how lonely I’d get. But then one day, this beautiful girl hit me with a cart of vegetables in the Food Mart,” he laughs. “And it was one of the best things that ever happened to me."
It’s your turn to start crying.
“Oh god, what did I say?” he asks with genuine concern.
“No no, you’re fine,” you reply, chuckling through your tears. “That’s just the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me.” You sit up, turning to look at Jihoon. “I’ve never met anyone like you, you know. I’ve only been in a few relationships, but every guy I’ve ever dated barely gave me the time of day. And I thought that was normal — I thought I was just a silly romantic whose expectations were way too high. But then one day you shoveled my entire driveway. I didn’t even ask you to do that, you just did. That was the first time in my life I’ve ever felt truly loved.”
Jihoon wraps his arm around you, planting a gentle kiss on your forehead.
“I don’t have much to offer,” he tells you, gazing at you softly. “But if you’ll allow me, I’d love to keep loving you.”
You smile, staring back at him fondly.
“That’s all I could ever need and more.”
EPILOGUE
“Cat! Dinner!”
Jihoon wanders into the living room, carrying a bowl of Fancy Feast. The fluffy critter appears, tail perked up in the air as he trots excitedly to his food spot.
“There you are,” Jihoon says as he sets the food down, petting the cat as he brushes past and starts eating right away.
You look up from your book, staring at him from across the room.
“You’ve gotta name that damn cat.”
Jihoon turns his head to you.
“What?”
“You need to name him. You can’t just keep calling him ‘cat’.”
“Why not?” he asks plainly, coming to join you on the couch.
“What do you mean ‘why not’??” you ask incredulously.
“He’s a stray. If I name him that makes him my cat.”
“Jihoon. Look at him.” You gesture across the room to the cat, finished eating already, as he curls up on the fleece blanket Jihoon laid out for him. “He already is your cat.”
“Alright, fine,” he replies, waving his hand at you. “You can name him if you want.”
“Yay!” you say excitedly, taking it as a win. “Okay, how about… Hm, what do you think of Sylvester?”
Jihoon makes a face. “Why ‘Sylvester’?”
“Like from Looney Tunes! You know, the black and white cartoon cat?”
“That sounds like an old man name,” he frowns.
“Okay, fine. What about Oreo?”
He shakes his head. “Too basic.”
“Checkers, then.”
“That’s too silly for him,” he declines.
“For it ‘not being your cat’ you sure have some opinions on his name,” you tease. “You have any ideas, then?”
Jihoon looks at the cat for a moment, then looks back to you.
“Rutabaga.”
“What? That’s not black and white!”
“No,” Jihoon smiles. “But the first time I met you you dropped rutabagas all over the floor.”
“Oh my god,” you roll your eyes. “And why exactly do you want to name your cat after my embarrassing blunder?”
He shrugs, leaning over to give you a kiss on the check.
SUMMARY | Radiant and adored, Crown Prince Seokmin feels used by those around him. When he’s paired with someone labeled a “villainess,” he begins to see your true, kind heart—and realizes he’s not alone in feeling trapped.
PAIRINGS | Crown Prince Seokmin x Villainess/Mage!Reader
CONTENT/WARNINGS | non-idols au, fantasy themes, fantasy religious themes, villainess trope, domestic fluff, family and political drama, family drama, swearing, assassination attempts, mentions of death, unprotected sex (wrap it up folks!), first time (virgin!reader, virgin!seokmin), kissing, oral (m. giving, f. receiving), creampies, pregnancy, poisoning attempt, happy ending haha
AUTHOR’S NOTE | Finally finished this! Finally! Here's the 3rd installment to the series! Thank you @lovetaroandtaemin for beta reading this! Thank you everyone for joining me on this adventure! ❤️
Carat Kingdom: A Seventeen Series Masterlist
Seventeen Masterlist
"She's back, you know," you hear one of the noble ladies say and you glance at her.
"Back from where?" asks another.
"Where do you think? From the North. She spent years in exile," says your former friend and the ladies gasp.
You roll your eyes, having heard this a thousand times already. Exiled? To the North? How scandalous. As if you're some villain who deserves to be shunned by society. They were right in a sense, though. You've always been different and they never understood you.
Situated in a far corner of the ballroom and looking absolutely bored, you sip your wine and pretend not to hear the scandalized whispers directed at you. It's no surprise that you're the center of gossip. You always are when you attend a ball, and your presence at one of the most anticipated events of the year has already created quite the stir.
The young ladies, former friends of yours, avoid your gaze and whisper among themselves. Once upon a time, you dominated the social circles of the capital, but a fall from grace led to your exile from the elite circle. And now that you're back, you're greeted with suspicion and ridicule. You're used to it though and so you hold your head high.
"Well, I heard that..." Another lady lowers her voice, and you don't care to hear what else she has to say. You down the rest of your drink and set the glass on the table. You should've never come to the ball.
One would think that being the eldest daughter of a marquisate family would come with certain privileges and protection, but your family was always a target of political maneuvering. Life was nice and simple but when your mother passed away from an accident, everything changed in a blink of an eye. Your father remarried, to a baron's daughter no less, and at first she was sweet and kind to you and your older brother Hyunwoo, but that didn't last.
When your stepmother, Lady Ji, gave your father a son and a daughter, her priorities shifted. You and Hyunwoo became obstacles in her path to securing her son's inheritance and her daughter's marriage, so she spared no opportunity to make your lives miserable. When a political opportunity presented itself, she wasted no time in sending you and your older brother off to the North, under the pretense that you'd both be safe from the growing unrest in your father's territory. It was a lie, of course, and it was only by some miracle that you both managed to survive.
The guards that were escorting you to the North were paid to kill you, but luckily, you and your brother managed to escape them and seek refuge in the Xu Duchy. Despite the former Grand Duke Xu Liwen being a political rival of your father, he still took you two in and helped you rebuild your lives. Life in the North was no easy feat, especially with the monsters that lurked in the darkness, but with the help of the Xu Family, you both were able to settle in and start anew.
"Bored?" Hyunwoo, the most important person in your life, asks as he stands by you.
You glance at him and smile. "Very," you reply. "They're still the same people they were a few years ago."
Hyunwoo laughs. "Things haven't changed in the past ten years have they? Still as boring as they were when we left." He takes a sip of wine. "Ah, exiled."
You grin, remembering the days when you and your brother were sent to the North. "Who would have thought we'd be the only ones who survived that journey? And yet here we are, back home, in the capital and the palace," you pause and take a sip of your wine, "It's been years and ever since we thwarted stepmother's plans, our family is already trying to sell me off to a low ranking noble or a merchant."
"Stepmother is trying to use my connections with the grand duke to make her son and daughter's status in the court stronger," Hyunwoo says, a dark expression in his eyes.
You're aware of Lady Ji's schemes. Her son and daughter are both vying to marry into powerful political families and your father is more than willing to oblige her. Your stepmother wants to marry you off to a lesser noble or an old rich merchant so you won't interfere with her daughter's marriage prospects to a higher nobleman. She says you'll be lucky if someone marries you since you're no longer young. You're nearing your thirties and any nobleman would be too embarrassed to marry a woman who isn't even in her prime. You don't even care if you get married or not, but you're not going to let your stepmother decide your future for you.
"I'm so tired of this. Ten years of helping protect the northern borders and yet we're still treated like nobodies by our own family," you say as you stare at the dancers. "Do they think we'll accept this treatment forever?"
You finish your wine and put it on a passing server's tray. You notice that the ladies are looking your way, their fans hiding the bottom halves of their faces. Some have the nerve to look amused, smirking behind their fans. You see your half-sister in a corner with some ladies, eyeing you from top to bottom. You want to roll your eyes at the absurdity of everything.
You're used to the stares and the rumors. They always say that women with 'difficult' personalities are either crazy or possessed, or cursed by a demon. But what is your difficult personality anyway? Being headstrong and firm? Becoming one of Grand Duke Xu's high ranking mages? Or because you had the gall to walk around the imperial ball in such a scandalous dress?
"Let them talk," Hyunwoo smiles as he hands you a plate of food. "You don't have to care what they say about you."
You smile and take a bite of the food. "I know, but it's still annoying. And the more they mock and annoy me, the more I want to set something on fire."
"You and your arsonist ways," he laughs and clinks his glass against yours.
"I wonder who the Crown Prince will choose as his bride this year," one of the ladies whispers loudly. "Ever since the Splendor Princess, I mean Duchess Choi, left the Crown Prince at the altar for Duke Choi, he hasn't chosen any bride. I think he's scared of being left at the altar again. Imagine being left by the bride! What a shame."
"You weren't there at the wedding," another says. "The Crown Prince stepped down so that the Duke and the Duchess could get married. He even gave them his blessing."
"He's so nice, isn't he? Whoever becomes his Crown Princess will be lucky. I would marry him in a heartbeat," the first lady gushes as she looks at the Crown Prince with adoration.
Crown Prince Seokmin is standing next to his brother, King Jeonghan, as they converse with Duke Choi and his wife, Duchess Choi. He's dressed in a royal blue robe with silver accents and a silver crown adorns his head. He looks regal and handsome, and the women can't help but stare at him. You try not to roll your eyes.
"You're right. He is nice," another lady says, her eyes filled with longing. "He's so handsome and charming. I'd do anything to be his bride."
"Would you really marry the Crown Prince if you had the chance?" the second lady asks, her voice full of curiosity. "Even if he's to be betrothed to her?" She nods her head in your direction, her lips curling into a mocking grin.
"You mean the rumors are true? That he'll marry her?"
"I heard from my maid who heard from her cousin who's a handmaid at the palace, that the Crown Prince is set to marry the Marquis's eldest daughter this year. Can you imagine? The most eligible bachelor in the kingdom marrying a woman who's been exiled to the North for so long? She must have bewitched him somehow."
"Lady Heejoo must be beside herself. She must be feeling awful to hear that her eldest sister is marrying the crown prince."
The other women nod in agreement, their expressions a mix of disgust and envy.
"So there are these kinds of rumors," you shrug, feeling the stares directed your way. "Heejoo must be soooo mad that her dear sister is marrying the crown prince and becoming crown princess." You ignore them and turn to Hyunwoo. "Oh boohoo."
"It's not like the rumors are true though," Hyunwoo points out as he pops a piece of meat into his mouth. "You've never got along with the Crown Prince ever since we were young. You're still holding a grudge, huh?"
"He was the one who called me mean in front of all the other noble children," you huff.
"You were six years old," he points out. "You bit the son of Count Yoo's hand because he put worms in your shoe. You even broke his toe as you stomped on it, then ran away laughing. It's no wonder people call you a villain and a lunatic."
"But you have to admit that my personality isn't suited for being the Crown Princess of the kingdom. I'd be a terrible one," you roll your eyes.
"You would be a terrible one," Hyunwoo laughs. "But our family is one of the most powerful families after the Choi Dukedom and the Boo Marquisate. Because you and I are representatives of Grand Duke Xu, the position of Crown Princess is expected to fall on you since you're the most eligible among the ladies."
Your eyebrow twitches. "I will kill whoever decided that I should be married off to the Crown Prince." You scowl. "Should I just marry him? Just to see Heejoo cry?"
The Royal Family has a reputation for being hard to please and difficult to wed into, so for one to actually be chosen is considered a high honor and the woman the recipient of their favor must be perfect and irreproachable. Duchess Choi, second princess of the Splendor Kingdom, was originally betrothed to the Crown Prince but in the end married Duke Choi Seungcheol instead. The Crown Prince, who was gracious and selfless, did not make a big issue of it. Instead of reprimanding the duchess or demanding punishment, he stepped aside and wished her good luck. That act of benevolence made him extremely popular with the public and people hailed him as a noble prince indeed.
And so rumor circulated in the court that he will soon marry again to make up for the Duchess Choi fiasco and produce a successor to the throne. All eligible daughters have their mothers and fathers eyeing the chance of marrying them into the royal family and getting a chance to be queen one day.
Your stepmother is no different. She'll do everything in her power to secure her daughter's chances to become the crown princess. She would do anything, even force you into an engagement against your will to someone far beneath your status and worth. You and Hyunwoo are no strangers to her manipulation tactics and the two of you always manage to weasel yourselves out of any schemes she cooks up.
"Sister," a sickenly sweet voice interrupts your thoughts. Your mouth contorts into a frown. You'd recognize this voice anywhere. The honey laced venom in it tells you immediately whom it is without you even looking. Heejoo, your younger half-sister, saunters over, with her own group of so-called friends.
"Brother," another voice calls out. It's your younger half-brother, Heecheon, who stands to Heejoo's right.
Though it's been six months since you've returned to the capital, you and Hyunwoo were staying at Grand Duke Xu's palace instead of your family home. You refused to stay under the same roof as the family that left you and your oldest brother for dead and would rather stay at the ducal palace with the family that treated you like their own. They were far happier and loving than your birth family that abandoned you after your mother died. They raised you and your brother with care and love, teaching you how to stand on your own. You owe them your life, and you refuse to return home to people who betrayed you.
It doesn't stop your stepmother from sending you countless invitations or throwing tea parties for the nobility and demanding your presence just so she can set up blind dates or so called 'accidental' meetings, but you're adamant about avoiding her matchmaking schemes.
"Ah, Heecheon and Heejoo," Hyunwoo says, and you can sense the sarcasm in his voice. "It's been a while. You've both grown quite a bit since we last saw each other."
"We've missed you so much," Heejoo says with a smile, but you know that it's fake. Heejoo hates you both and never made an effort to hide her dislike for you. "You must be happy to be back in the capital. I can't imagine how harsh the North is."
You rolled your eyes. Heejoo is a great actress, you give her that.
"The North must have been so difficult for you two," Heecheon says with a sympathetic smile. "I heard that the North is home to all sorts of beasts and monsters."
"You must come home though," Heejoo latches onto your arm. "You must have been so lonely without female friends, sister. If you had friends, I'm sure you wouldn't have come to the ball in your current state." Heejoo's eyes roam your body and her brows furrow. "I can have a few dresses made for you since you're back home."
You can feel the anger bubbling up inside you and for a moment you want to say something but you hold it in. You're no longer a child and you won't allow these two to rile you up. Instead, you smile and say, "That's kind of you, sister, but I'm quite capable of buying dresses for myself."
Heecheon laughs. "Sure, sure. But we must keep up appearances, sister. You and our eldest brother wouldn't want to embarrass the family, would you? Your taste in dresses is quite… eccentric."
Eccentric, is it? You're wearing one of the capital's most famous designer's creations. Your dress is a beautiful masterpiece. The dress itself is a deep blood red, with a slit that reaches your thigh. Your shoulders are bare, save for the intricate lace that covers them, and your chest is covered with the same lace, which forms a V, leaving your neck and collarbones visible.
When you were dress shopping, everyone steered clear of this dress, deeming it too scandalous and vulgar, but you saw the beauty in it. The designer said it was a masterpiece that no one wanted to buy. He offered it for free when you inquired about it, but you paid him and even offered him the position to be your permanent designer. Needless to say, the man was moved to tears and accepted your offer without hesitation. Now, he and his wife have joined the Xu Duchy household staff and your closet is full of stunning dresses and pieces.
You look down at your attire. "Is it eccentric?"
Heejoo smiles and you know she's hiding a nasty remark. "Yes, we wouldn't want anyone to think that father and mother don't have a handle on their children, would we? You wouldn't want to give the impression that our family has fallen from grace."
Oh, you hate her. If only you can burn her into ashes right this moment.
"I daresay I prefer a more form-fitting fashion compared to the big bows and frills that you and the other young ladies favor nowadays," you gesture at her dress, which is bright orange with flowers embroidered into it.
Her puffy sleeves, which have little ribbons on them, complete the frilly look. The bows on her puffy skirt add more to her childish look and the huge ribbon on her hip and the matching bows at the top of her head, make her look more like a decoration on her dress rather than a young woman.
"This is the current style!" Heejoo looks indignant. "As if you know more about style than me. The women in the Xu Grand Duchy might find that dress attractive and edgy, but here it is just vulgar."
"Vulgar?" you ask with a smirk, then you take a sip of your wine, ignoring your step-siblings. "I'll tell my personal designer that he has done a fantastic job then."
"Ah, it looks like the Son siblings are here and being reunited. It warms my heart to see such a happy family." You glance at the speaker, and you see the Crown Prince approaching your group, dressed in his finest clothes.
Seokmin's presence is always felt wherever he goes. He is a striking man with features that could easily rival those of a god. His face is a perfect blend of sharp and soft, with high cheekbones, a straight nose, and full lips. His eyes are a deep brown, framed by thick, dark lashes. His hair is jet black and always perfectly coiffed. His body is tall and lean, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist, and he moves with a grace that is both elegant and masculine. He has a strong jawline and a faint smile that can disarm anyone. He is the picture of perfection and grace, and yet, he has a certain quality to him that makes you think he is hiding something.
"Oh, your highness! It is us who are honored," Heejoo gushes, giving her best simpering smile. Her smile is not missed by the ladies who watch her every move. You wanted to hurl.
"May the moon and stars embrace us with your light," you and Hyunwoo greeted, hand over your heart as you bowed and curtsied. Your half-siblings gave you an incredilous look at your greeting but kept their mouths shut when they noticed King Jeonghan nodding his head at you, impressed.
"I'm happy to see the Son siblings together again," he smiles. "Though you all resemble each other, your personalities are far too different. Your father must have had such a hard time raising you."
Your half-siblings stiffen at this, clearly insulted at the insinuation. You and Hyunwoo say nothing, the slight smile not leaving your face as you let the King talk.
"But what do I know?" he says, lifting his palms upward. "I haven't seen Sir Hyunwoo and Dame Y/N in quite some time."
The Son siblings were all different to say the least. Hyunwoo, the eldest Son sibling, was supposed to be the heir apparent to the marquisate but it changed when there was news that you and he had died. Hyunwoo, handsome and strong, is known as a fearsome knight in the Grand Duke's army. He is respected by all, even by those who declared him as a rival. You, the second eldest of the four, a beautiful and talented young lady, could have married a northern nobleman but instead became a mage for the Grand Duke's army upon learning that you wield magic that could rival Grand Mage Junhui and his apprentices.
After you and Hyunwoo were sent away and presumed dead, Heecheon became the heir to the marquisate. Heecheon is a handsome young man, but he lacks the strength and presence of Hyunwoo. He's charming, witty, and has many friends in high society, but he's also known for his love of parties and games of chance, which sometimes gets him into trouble. Heejoo, the youngest, is the opposite of you. She's pretty and she knows it. She's also charming, witty and has a knack for making people feel at ease, but she can also be quite manipulative and calculating. She's well aware of her beauty and how to use it to her advantage, and she's not above using her charms to get what she wants.
Seokmin smiles, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "I was told that Lord Heecheon and Lady Heejoo were going to be in attendance, but I didn't expect to see Sir Hyunwoo and Dame Y/N."
"It's been about ten years, hasn't it? We had all assumed the worst," the King Jeonghan says. "But to learn that you two were actually alive was a relief. The both of you are a sight to behold."
"Your Majesty flatters us far too much," Hyunwoo gives an amicable smile.
"Your Majesty is too generous," you chime in.
Your half-siblings don't want to be outshoned by the two of you, so they quickly come up with a retort to regain the spotlight, "His Majesty is gracious to us all," Heejoo says politely, "We should count our blessings and rejoice."
The other girls let out an "awww", cooing at her politeness and innocence, while some are filled with envy that she was able to speak to the Crown Prince. You stifle a laugh, but the amused smile doesn't leave your face. The petty, cunning side of your personality finds your sister's efforts to please the royal family hilarious, especially since Heejoo is far from innocent or polite.
"Your Majesty! Your Highness!" The rushing steps of your father and stepmother catch your attention. "We apologize for arriving late," your father continues. He quickly bows to the two royals while your stepmother curtsies behind him. She barely spares you a glance. "We sent the children ahead of us since the wheel to our carriage broke. Thankfully, everything is all set and in working order."
"Nothing to worry, Marquess Son. Your children did a great job filling in for you," King Jeonghan waves off. He smiles at Heejoo and Heecheon. "Lady Heejoo and Lord Heecheon, thank you for your greetings earlier."
The two of them bow their heads slightly, acknowledging the King and Crown Prince's comments. "Of course, Your Majesty," Heejoo speaks first, her words sweet and gentle, just as expected of a demure lady. "We're happy to be of service. It's all part of our duties as a citizen of the kingdom."
You raise an eyebrow and do your best not to laugh at her sycophantic tone. "Its the least you can do when you're not the ones defending the northern borders," you retort. The venom in your words surprises the others in your group and causes them to turn to you in shock.
"Who–" your stepmother's question dies on her lips when you turn your gaze to her, a glint in your eye as she stiffens under the intensity. "Y/N! Hyunwoo! My dear children, I haven't seen you both for the longest time! It's a shame that you're staying at the Grand Duke's palace instead of back home. You really should make more visits so I could spend more time with my children."
"We're not here for leisure, stepmother," Hyunwoo replies evenly. "We are here as representatives of the Grand Duke's palace."
Your father scowls at Hyunwoo's words but smiles apologetically to King Jeonghan. "Forgive my eldest's rudeness, Your Majesty, Your Highness."
"It's alright, sir. The past couple of years have been difficult for all of us. I understand," King Jeonghan nods. He regards your group for a moment before clearing his throat. "What is the situation at the Northern Borders, Sir Hyunwoo and Dame Y/N? I hope all is well?" he asks.
The abruptness of the question startles everyone in the group. No one is sure what the topic is or what it means, except for you, Hyunwoo, and the royal family.
Hyunwoo is about to answer, when your stepmother interjects. "Y/N would be useless in discussing anything related to the borders, Your Majesty. I'm sure my eldest daughter was raised in the Grand Duke's palace and was most likely busy with the softer ar–"
"Life was faring well up until the goblin uprising last year," you interrupted, choosing not to give her the time of day. You refuse to let her dismiss your hardwork and abilities. Not when you've done so much for the northern borders and Grand Duke's family. "But that was taken care of. With the help of the Hero Mingyu and his Diamond Mercenaries, we were able to repel the goblin assault."
"Grand Mage Junhui and the tower mages are collaborating with his grace, the Grand Duke, to come up with new defensive spells and new methods to deal with future goblin and monster assaults," Hyunwoo takes over and adds. "Everything is running smoothly for the moment, hence why my sister and I are in attendance tonight."
"I'm relieved to hear it. You have my thanks for all you have done to protect the empire," King Jeonghan compliments.
Your father is beaming with such arrogance that you wanted to wipe it off his face. "Your Majesty, thank you so much for allowing my children to serve the empire. If you could pass on a recommendation letter for Heecheon to join the–"
"Both Dame Y/N and Sir Hyunwoo possess amazing talent for magic and knighthood, Marquis. You should be proud of their success," King Jeonghan replies simply and starts moving through the ballroom. "Sir Hyunwoo and Dame Y/N, I expect a visit in the morning to further discuss our plans for the Northern Borders." With that, King Jeonghan moves on, the Crown Prince and members of his entourage trailing behind him.
The second they're out of range, Heejoo is throwing glares, while Heecheon scowls in silence, feeling inferior, embarrassed, and humiliated.
Your father's expression darkens. He turns to you and Hyunwoo with contempt, voice low enough for only the two of you to hear. "You will come to the estate after your audience with the king. We have much to discuss."
Your stepmother hums in agreement, her smile sending chills down your spine. You knew that nothing good would come of a meeting like that.
Seokmin knows not to get involved in anything that Dame Y/N does and knows to keep his nose where it belongs.
Ever since they were children, Y/N never allowed him or anyone else to dictate her behavior or make her follow any sort of rules or etiquette. She did as she pleased and made her own choices without anyone having an influence on her.
He watched her defy her teachers, her instructors, and her father on many occasions. She spoke her mind and would not stand for others trying to dictate who she would be or what she was to accomplish.
She was a mean little girl as a child, a demon spawn to everyone, except her older brother, Hyunwoo. So even when they grew older and had their own groups of friends and went their own ways, he avoided her, like everyone else.
As she grew older, she dominated the social scene. Her beauty is enchanting, and her manners are impeccable despite having such an ugly personality. She has a natural charisma, a way of drawing everyone's attention to her, and her tongue can be sharp or smooth as it suits her needs.
Yet, none of these can take away the fact that she is cold, harsh, and unforgiving.
Seokmin could understand why she lashed out like she did. At a young age, she had to learn to defend herself as she had no other options left. Her mother had passed on when they were younger, leaving her and Hyunwoo in the care of their cold and unloving father and the marquises' new family.
Life must not have been easy for the two Son siblings. Casted out from the marquisate as soon as they reach adulthood under the pretense that their family territory wasn't safe enough for the two and then ambushed by their own guards by the order of their stepmother, it's no wonder that she's resentful and angry.
And yet, she turned that resent and anger into her greatest strength and channeled it in ways no one could. From becoming a respected lady of society to rising in the ranks of magic and becoming one of the most powerful mage under the Grand Duke's order, she surprised many, especially the nobility that always took her and her brother for dead.
Seokmin supposes there is something admirable about her. Her feistiness, determination, and grit are things he respects.
"What are you thinking about?" His brother, King Jeonghan, appears by his side, snapping him out of his reverie. "Aren't you tired of watching people dance?"
"Just reminiscing of childhood days," Seokmin tells him with an easy smile. He takes another sip of his wine, keeping his eyes trained on a familiar red dress.
"Oh. Of young Y/N and Hyunwoo?" Jeonghan asked with a smile. "I'm just as awed that the demon spawn we knew her as children transformed into one of the greatest talents this country has produced."
"It must be a Son family thing then?" he quips.
Jeonghan raises his eyebrow and sighs. "Well those two didn't get their father's qualities. They must have gotten everything from the late Marchioness."
He turns to his brother, interest peaking at the mention of your late mother. "You've met her before?"
"Oh yes," Jeonghan nods. "The late Marchioness was one of the kingdom's greatest knights. She was the Knight Commander of the Rose-Quartz Knights. I would have loved the two Son siblings to join either the Serenity Knights or the Rose Quartz Knights but their father and that evil wife of his pulled strings."
Seokmin clicked his tongue. That's a real shame. He could only imagine how effective the two Son siblings could have been if they served the crown as knights. But of course, fate isn't fair and destiny doesn't work in their favor.
"I know you don't want to marry her. That she's the furthest thing in the world to be a princess," Jeonghan whispers and his eyebrows are pinched in the way it usually is when he's in deep thought. "But out of all the women here, Dame Y/N might be the best choice."
"Why is that?” Seokmin tries not to scoff, he truly tries.
Jeonghan looks at the two eldest Son siblings, both ignoring the looks on their half-siblings faces. “They hold more power than we imagine. They're Minghao's maternal cousins. We need to get the support of the northern nobles. Dame Y/N was the one who was responsible for the defense of the northern border, and is one of the many nobles and knights who keep the goblins at bay. We need ties to the Son Marquisate and their influence.”
“Then would it not make sense to marry Lady Heejoo since the marquis clearly dotes on her?” Seokmin asks.
Jeonghan glances at the group of angry siblings then at the marquise who's on the opposite side of the ballroom, obviously fuming. Jeonghan watches intently, a soft and amused smile curling on his lips. It disappears and a slight frown replaces it. "It would make the most logical sense. But Lady Heejoo won’t give you the military and financial resources we need even if she has the backing of her own father. Marrying her means dealing with a family that will bleed us dry. At least the elder two Son siblings will work for the sake of the nation because they don't care for material pleasures."
He's right of course, as the eldest and legitimate prince, Seokmin would need to take into consideration the benefit for his kingdom. It would have to benefit the crown. The biggest benefit in this would be the alliance to the Grand Duke, who controls the empire's northern defenses. And since the eldest two children of the marquis have worked their asses off to gain the trust and respect of the nobles in the north, making an alliance with them would make it a lot easier.
The idea of marriage shouldn't surprise him or cause this much dread and worry. He's radiant and adored as the Crown Prince. Yet, Seokmin feels like he's being used. He'd grown accustomed to it because everyone is blinded by his looks and rank, that no one sees the true him. That no one actually loves him for him.
Perhaps, he's looking too deeply into it and getting greedy, and it's not like him to think that way. As the future King of his land, it's his duty to take this step no matter how he truly feels. Even if there is no love in it, he just needs to look out for his people and his kingdom.
But somehow, that makes the decision that much harder.
"Are you still against it? Against marrying her?" Jeonghan asks.
"Is there a point in discussing it now?" he counters, already exhausted from this. His shoulders are slumping and his jaw clenched, unable to control the way his body reacts when he feels tired and irritated. "If your decision is final, why are we discussing it when the future of the kingdom depends on it?"
Jeonghan pauses. "I know you want to love the person you're marrying. That's how you are. But it's our duty as royals to look at the greater good." Jeonghan pats his brother's arm. "Who knows? Maybe you'll come to love each other. Maybe things will turn out better than you'd imagine."
"Our cousin just sent us a new missive," Hyunwoo announces once he meets you in his temporary quarters in the Grand Ducal palace. "He wants us to return home soon since he's tired of dealing with the tower mages on his own."
"Minghao is always whining," you retort. Your lips quirk upwards, unable to hide your amusement. "For being a Grand Duke, you'd think he could handle a few tower mages."
It's not common knowledge that you and Hyunwoo are maternal cousins to the Grand Duke. Only the northern territories and the royal family knew that your mother had a younger sister who married the former Grand Duke, Xu Liwen, and that union gave birth to his heir, the present Grand Duke Xu Minghao. You and Hyunwoo didn't know about this until the former Grand Duke rescued you and Hyunwoo 10 years ago. As soon as you were ushered into the drawing room, a woman who resembled your mother was staring at the both of you, tears in her eyes.
That day, you cried harder than when you did after your mother had passed away. This woman, your aunt, was your last link to your mother and to her family. Your aunt was kind and loving towards you and Hyunwoo, introducing the both of you to your cousin, Minghao, who looked at the two of you as a kind of second set of siblings.
Your aunt and your uncle became second parents to the two of you, guiding and molding you to become the strong people you were. They nurtured you like one of their own children despite the harshness your father and stepmother subjected on the two of you. They made it clear that they wanted nothing to do with the Marquis and his second wife, and gave everything you and Hyunwoo deserve. Your mother would have been proud of the way her sister stepped up to provide you and Hyunwoo with a family of sorts.
Even now, they are helping you, even as far away as they are. Ever since your uncle and aunt retired from their political duties as the former Grand Duke and Duchess, Minghao took over, and thus, is busy managing the North Territories while he was forced to sit through various meetings and spend his time mediating with his advisors. You and Hyunwoo vowed to help your cousin and offered to help run his duchy. With that offer, the two of you have been traveling the entire North on behalf of Minghao, commanding armies, giving orders, and getting your hands dirty. The hardships and battles did a great deal in getting you where you were, but, because of it, the three of you became much closer than any normal family would have been.
"Leave the poor man alone," Hyunwoo scolded light-heartedly, picking up the papers from the desk and handing them to you, "Reports from the magic tower."
You hummed. You shuffled through the paper, eyeing the words carefully as you read every single report, then laid them on the bed next to you. "I take it they've all agreed to the proposition for creating a new magic barrier, or are we still in the process of finalizing everything?" you asked, grabbing the glass of wine beside the pile of paper, bringing it to your lips.
"They've agreed. We only need the cooperation of the northern lords to gather all the necessary materials," Hyunwoo replies. He drops himself next to you on the bed, sighing as he rests. "As long as father and the other nobles here in the capital don't interfere, we should be fine."
"Easier said than done," you rolled your eyes and plop back down onto the mattress, lying on your stomach. "That father of ours will do anything to lift the family status, even if it means trampling on his own flesh and blood."
Hyunwoo's laugh is deep and amused. "Did you expect anything else?"
"At the very least I expected some family loyalty," you countered. You roll over to stare up at the ceiling and sigh. "But it's okay. It won't matter what they'll do. At the end of the day, the people of the northern territory are our family, not them."
A knock sounded from the doors and Hyunwoo bids to let them enter. "Apologies for disturbing your time," a familiar voice echoes in the room and you turn to see the aging butler entering the room, a smile on his kind and old face. "His Highness, the Crown Prince, is here to see the two of you."
"Ugh," you groan and drop an arm across your eyes. "Let him know that we'll be there and tell him not to dawdle. I have better things to do than talk about the weather." You wave a dismissive hand at the butler.
The butler bows and gives a knowing smile to your brother before he leaves. Hyunwoo shakes his head in amusement. "You are the only person I know who can get away with being rude to the Crown Prince."
"I'm not rude," you defended yourself. "I'm direct."
Hyunwoo snorts. "You are the rudest person in the kingdom, no matter what you say. If you weren't my little sister, I would have strangled you by now."
"That's a lie and you know it," you grin at him, and he gives a fond look back, ruffling your hair. "Don't be such a sap."
"Let's go meet with the Crown Prince. It wouldn't do to keep him waiting," Hyunwoo suggests, already making his way towards the door.
"Fine," you roll off the bed, dusting off your skirts.
You walk the halls of the Grand Ducal palace, nodding your thanks at the servants as they greet you and your brother. The servants are more than happy to welcome the two of you back, having grown fond of you during your visits.
The palace has a welcoming aura, unlike the frigid walls of your father's estate. There is life here, the servants are happy and well taken care of. The butler and head maid treat you with the utmost of respect as members of the Xu family, and they are the ones who have given you a place to call home no matter how far you are from the North.
As you approach the study, the butler is waiting and he nods, a kind smile on his face as he greets you. "His highness is already in the study with His Grace, the Grand Duke."
"Minghao is here? I thought he was still at the northern borders?" you asked.
"His Grace returned just moments ago and heard the Crown Prince was here. So he is entertaining him while waiting for you and Sir Hyunwoo," the butler explains.
"Thank you, Myungsoo," Hyunwoo nods. "Please have tea brought up, and some light snacks."
"As you wish, Sir Hyunwoo," the butler smiles and walks away.
The two of you make your way to the study and see that Minghao is laughing at something Seokmin said. The two of them are close friends and had a good relationship ever since they were children. It wasn't a surprise that the two of them would have a casual meeting like this.
"Ah, there they are," Minghao stands and welcomes you and Hyunwoo into the room. "My favorite cousins. You're finally here."
"We just got your letter," you said, walking into the room and giving him a hug. You pull back and smack his shoulder. "You should have told us that you were coming."
Minghao laughs. "And miss the looks on everyone's faces when I arrived? Of course not."
You scoff, rolling your eyes at your cousin's antics. You turned to Seokmin, nodding your head in his direction. "Your highness."
"No need for that, Y/N," Seokmin waves a dismissive hand, "I would have gone to your father as society dictates, but with the tensions between your father and the both of you, I decided against it."
"Oh, please," you rolled your eyes and walked towards the desk, pulling out a chair and sitting down, leaning back comfortably. "I'm sure my dear father would love to have you grace the halls of his estate. It's only a matter of time before he invites you for tea, or for a more intimate setting."
"Intimate setting?" Minghao asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Stepmother wants Heejoo to be married into the royal family and father wants Heecheon to join one of the knight orders," you look at the stack of papers on the desk and pick up a letter, scanning its contents.
"Ah, I see," Minghao nodded, a look of understanding appearing on his face. "I'm guessing Heejoo is the most agreeable candidate."
"Except the king doesn't want that, does he, your highness?" Hyunwoo asked, looking at the Crown Prince. "His majesty wants you to enter a marriage with Y/N, correct?"
"Unfortunately," Seokmin says, a pained expression on his face. "The kingdom is under a lot of stress. We're facing a lot of issues, and the people are starting to doubt the stability of the kingdom. A royal wedding would surely lift the spirits."
"But why me? I'm sure there are a dozen other women who would have gladly jumped at the chance to marry a prince," you raise an eyebrow.
"And you're not? You could have easily married into the highest noble houses, but you would rather be a mage than a noble lady," Seokmin points out. "You're not interested in a noble life or title."
"I'm not interested in playing house," you correct him, "I was ousted from high society when my stepmother entered the picture. I used to be the belle of society and now everyone thinks I'm a monster. What makes you think I want anything to do with it?"
Seokmin is quiet, a contemplative look on his face. Minghao steps in and asks, "What is marrying her entitled?"
"A stronger alliance between the Xu and the royal family," Seokmin answers immediately. "And to put a dent in whatever Marquis Son and his faction is plotting."
Minghao turns to look at you and Hyunwoo. He leans forward, propping his chin up on his fist. "Is there a possibility that the royal family would give aid and financial resources to the North, considering the state the northern territories are in right now?"
"You want me to marry him, don't you?" You narrowed your eyes at Minghao, a glare already forming on your face.
"It wouldn't be a bad idea," Hyunwoo muses, crossing his arms and leaning back on the seat.
"You too, Hyunwoo?" Your mouth hangs open, staring at your brother in disbelief. "Are you out of your mind?"
"If we marry you to the crown prince, then the crown would owe us," Hyunwoo reasons, turning to Seokmin. "Your highness, we need your help with the northern territories. It's a dangerous place and our people are dying because of the lack of resources and supplies. As a royal and the future king, you must be aware of the situation, correct?"
"Of course. The royal family is doing their best to help the northern territories," Seokmin says.
"And yet," you interject, "The royal family is too busy dealing with internal problems that they forget to pay attention to the needs of their people. You claim to help the northern territories and yet you haven't made any moves in the past five years."
"You're right. And we haven't done enough, and I'm truly sorry," Seokmin replies sincerely, "But also it's because your father and the other lords that we can't move. Your father, in particular, has been the biggest hurdle to helping the northern territories."
"Of course he has," you scoff. "I wouldn't expect anything less from that man."
"So," Minghao leaned forward, his elbows resting on his thighs. He clasped his hands together and looked directly at Seokmin, his eyes serious. "You can help us, right?"
"Yes," Seokmin says without missing a beat. "We'll work hard to help the northern territories. And in return, Y/N shall marry me."
"Then it's a deal," Minghao says with a smile.
You turn to your cousin. "Do you really want me to marry him that badly?"
"You'd rather stay single than marry him?" Minghao asks.
"Yes," you answered. "Why not?"
"Are you still holding a grudge against him for being mean to you when you were children?" Hyunwoo asks.
"He called me a meanie," you softly pout, crossing your arms across your chest.
"You are a meanie," Hyunwoo counters.
"You're supposed to be on my side, Hyunwoo!" You pout.
"I am," Hyunwoo chuckles, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he ruffles your hair. "Please just marry him, Y/N. Don't you want Heejoo to bow at your feet and grovel?"
"Now that you mentioned it, yes, I would like to see her grovel," you replied, your mood shifting to a happier one. "Fine, I'll marry the prince. But you better be prepared, your highness, I'm not a sweet princess, so don't expect a fairytale marriage."
"That's perfectly fine," Seokmin replies.
"My wedding dress better not have frills and bows," you stare at him.
"I'll discuss it with your personal designer if that eases your mind," he nods.
"And don't be a pain in the ass. I don't have the patience to deal with that."
"I won't," he laughs. "You can treat me however you'd like."
"Really? That's quite interesting, your highness," you lean forward, a glint in your eyes. "I think I'll enjoy being your future wife."
"Goddess, please help me..."
"Do you know what you have done?!"
Your father is beyond furious, his face red, veins bulging. You rolled your eyes as Lady Ji is consoling a wailing Heejoo, patting her daughter's back. Heecheon is standing next to the two, his hand clenching into a tight fist, and he looks as though he's about to lunge and punch you.
"Oh, please. Stop acting like this is the end of the world," you sighed. "You should be happy that your eldest daughter is getting married to the crown prince. Isn't that what you've wanted all along?"
"Heejoo should have been the one marrying him, not you!" Your stepmother screeches.
"And yet, I'm the one the prince has chosen," you say with a smile, tilting your head, your voice sickly sweet. "Isn't that right, your highness?"
Seokmin huffs before nodding his head, his hand holding onto yours. "Yes, it is."
After discussing your meeting with Minghao and Seokmin a few nights ago, you thought it would be a good idea for him to come meet with your family and announce the engagement himself. You wanted him to witness the full extent of your family's true nature, and he had the pleasure of seeing first hand how they all treated you.
"You can't possibly be serious, your highness," Heejoo's cries subside as she speaks up, wiping away her tears. "Y/N can't be your wife."
"And why not?" you counter, crossing your arms over your chest, staring at the group of people. You notice Minghao and Hyunwoo strolling into the room, making their way towards where you and Seokmin are sitting.
"Because you're an embarrassment," Heecheon answers without missing a beat. "What man would want a brazen woman like you? One who has no manners and no sense of propriety."
"Heecheon," your father warns.
"What? It's true, Father. She's an embarrassment. Who would want her? She's been cast aside by high society, and no man in their right mind would want her," Heecheon spat.
"Are you saying his highness is not in his right mind?" Hyunwoo challenges, raising an eyebrow.
"What–no! I didn't mean–"
"It's okay, Sir Hyunwoo, I understand where he is coming from," Seokmin intervens, raising his hand to stop Hyunwoo. "But please rest assured, I am completely sane and I want nothing else but to marry your sister."
"Then I ask, your highness, why her?" Heecheon asks.
"Why not?" Minghao counters. "If the Crown Prince chose her, then it is not for us to question. He has a reason, and if that's not good enough for you, then that's on you."
"Pardon, Your Grace," Lady Ji looks at Minghao, "But this is a family matter. This does not concern the North."
"Doesn't it? If I recall, both Hyunwoo and Y/N are my family members. Am I wrong here, Hyunwoo?" Minghao asks, looking at your brother.
"No, your grace," Hyunwoo shakes his head, smiling. "You're not wrong."
"Lady Ji, you say it's a family matter and that it does not concern me but both Hyunwoo and Y/N are my maternal cousins. They're family and therefore, this concerns me, the Grand Duke," Minghao smiled at the stunned look on Lady Ji's face. "Did you not know?"
"There's...there's no way." Lady Ji shakes her head.
"But it's the truth. The three of us are related through blood. Which means I can interfere with matters concerning them," Minghao says.
"This is ridiculous!" Heecheon shouts. "He can't just barge in here and take over!"
"Watch your tongue, Heecheon," you say sharply, glaring at him. "Show some respect to the Grand Duke or it'll be your head."
"Y/N is correct. You should show more respect, Heecheon," your father heaves a sigh. "I apologize for my wife and children, your grace. Your highness. But I hope you can understand where we are coming from. Heejoo is my daughter and I would like her to marry well."
"So you're saying that Dame Y/N isn't your daughter?" Seokmin scoffs. "Unbelievable."
"Of course she's my daughter," your father starts but is cut off when Seokmin raises a hand.
"But you seem to treat her as if she's not," Seokmin raises an eyebrow.
"Your highness, surely you've heard the rumors," your stepmother cuts in, stepping forward. "Y/N isn't well-liked by others and the people call her a villainess. I'm sure you can understand why."
"A villainess," Seokmin repeats, testing the words out. "Interesting. A villainess, huh?"
"I'm glad you agree, your highness. My daughter, Heejoo, would have made a far better wife than Y/N. She is very obedient and a proper lady. She will run your household well and would bring prestige to the royal family," Lady Ji lists off.
"And what does Dame Y/N lack that would make her unsuitable?" Seokmin asks. "Would she not bring prestige to the royal family? She is an accomplished mage and is one of the military officers of the Grand Duke's army. She has been a big help in protecting the empire."
"Well, that is–"
"I don't see a problem in wanting to marry a woman who loves her kingdom and would sacrifice her life to protect it," Seokmin continues, cutting off whatever excuse your stepmother has. "Dame Y/N is well versed in the affairs of the empire and can hold her own."
"Thank you, your highness," you nod, smiling at him.
"I don't know how the rumor about her being a villainess came to be, but I have never met a more loyal woman," Seokmin praises.
You look over at him and notice him looking back at you. Was he actually praising you or was it just something to look good in front of your family?
"The Crown Prince is correct. She is a loyal woman," Minghao nods. "And she will make a fine wife."
"But–"
"Enough!" your father's booming voice startles everyone. "If the Crown Prince wants to marry Y/N, then he may."
"Father," Heejoo whines, her eyes starting to fill with tears. "Father, please. It's not fair. Why does Y/N get to be happy when I can't?"
"It is what it is, Heejoo," your father sighs. "We should celebrate the good news. Your sister is getting married to the Crown Prince."
"Father–" Heejoo starts.
"This discussion is over, Heejoo," he cuts her off, his voice firm and cold. "If the Crown Prince wants to marry your sister, then let him. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have work to do."
Your father turns and leaves the room, slamming the doors behind him. Your stepmother and Heecheon turn and glare at you before leaving, a sniffling Heejoo following close behind.
"Well, that was eventful," Minghao muses, looking at you and Hyunwoo.
"Welcome to my family, your highness," you joke.
Seokmin shook his head. "That's not how I imagined things to go. You didn't tell me your family was like this."
You shrug. "Would it have changed anything?"
"No."
"That's what I thought."
Hyunwoo shakes his head at your attitude. "Don't be a brat, Y/N."
"I can't help it," you reply. "They're too easy to annoy."
Minghao snorts. "And that's why the nobility think you're a villainess."
"Please," you scoff, rolling your eyes, "As if I care what they think about me."
"Maybe you should," Seokmin comments.
"Why? They have made up their minds about me," you shrug. "The common folk love me, and the soldiers admire me. And I have the Grand Duke's support, so who cares about high society? I don't."
"I can't believe I'm marrying someone like you," Seokmin sighs.
"Oh you'll be fine," you tease. "Who knows? We might even end up being happy."
"Or miserable."
"Now that's the spirit."
The royal wedding was a huge affair. Everyone wanted to be there and it was a grand celebration. There were thousands of flowers, expensive fabrics, and music that would make the goddess cry.
You would have loved to have skipped the whole thing, but unfortunately, you were the bride and that meant you were going to have to stand in front of all these people and get married.
"I hate this," you sigh, tugging at the lace sleeves of your wedding dress.
"Hate what?" Hyunwoo asks, fixing his collar.
"All of this," you gesture towards the room. "All of the pomp and pageantry. I didn't even want a big wedding."
"But we have to do it," Hyunwoo replies, fixing his jacket. "For appearances sake."
"Ugh," you groan. "I know. Still doesn't mean I have to like it."
"You'll be the crown princess soon," Hyunwoo reminds you. "Try to behave and don't be too much of a pain in the ass."
"No promises," you reply, walking away.
The wedding ceremony was held in the royal palace's grand hall and you were surprised to see the sheer number of people attending the ceremony. Nobles, mages, and soldiers lined the walls, watching as you made your way down the aisle, the long train of your wedding dress trailing behind you.
When you reached the end of the aisle, the priest started the ceremony, reciting the prayers and blessings. The next few moments went by in a blur and the next thing you knew, you were being crowned the Crown Princess and were being led back down the aisle, this time hand in hand with Seokmin.
As soon as the two of you reach the doors, Seokmin lets out a relieved sigh. He loosens his tie and removes his jacket, tossing it onto the nearby chair. "Well, that's done."
"What? Don't like weddings?" You tease, "Or don't like me?"
"I don't mind you or the wedding. It's the whole process of having to be the center of attention," he answers.
"The radiant and adored crown prince doesn't like being in the spotlight? I find that hard to believe," you say.
"I'm not radiant and adored," Seokmin rolls his eyes, "People love me because they think I'm the answer to all their problems."
You walk up to him, standing beside him. "You're right. They do use you."
"What about you? What do you want?" He looks down at you, studying your face.
"Me?" You tilt your head, humming in thought. "I want Heejoo to grovel."
"I'm serious," he furrows his eyebrows.
"So am I," you counter. "If I have the power to make Heejoo beg for mercy, then I'll use it."
"You don't want anything else?" Seokmin raises an eyebrow, curious.
"I don't," you answer honestly.
"Not even wealth? Title? Or power?"
"What for?" you scoff. "I'm already rich and a member of the Grand Duke's family. What more can I ask for? And the power I have as a military officer is enough for me."
"That's...quite refreshing," Seokmin admits, a hint of a smile on his lips. "I can't say that's what I was expecting."
You laugh and Seokmin can't help but like the way it sounds. "Oh? Do tell, your highness. What did you expect?"
"Someone who is just like the others, looking to gain something from this marriage," Seokmin mutters, looking out the window.
"People are complicated," you sigh as you approach him and fix his attire, "Even when they appear to be the epitome of kindness and grace, they still have hidden motives. When my mother passed away when I was ten and my father married Lady Ji, I thought things would be better. She was kind and caring the first few years but...after having Heecheon and Heejoo, her true colors showed."
Seokmin stays quiet, listening intently as he studies you.
"I lived eight years in the spotlight as the belle of society... just so I could get some sliver of affection from her. And all those years, I was just a nuisance, a burden. No matter how many achievements and accomplishments I made, it was never enough for her." You stepped away from him, taking a deep breath. "But then...when the Northern territories were at their worst, when we were facing war... I felt needed and appreciated. And I realized that I didn't need my father and his new family. I just wanted to help my people. I'm the happiest when the people are happy."
"You're nothing like people say," Seokmin mutters, a small smile on his face.
"Oh no. I am. I am a meanie," you chuckle. "I'm just a little nicer and softer on the inside than the outside."
Seokmin lets out a laugh and shakes his head. "You're definitely not what I expected."
"Good," you wink at him. "I'd rather not be like all the other women."
"Well, I'm glad," Seokmin hums. "Maybe this marriage won't be so bad."
"I can't promise I'll be the best wife, though."
"Why not?"
"Because," you lean forward and pat his cheek, a mischievous grin on your lips. "You're still the radiant and adored crown prince. And I'm the villainess married to the radiant and adored crown prince. The two of us together is the recipe for disaster."
Seokmin draws you close, his arm wrapping around your waist. "Maybe. Maybe not. Who knows?"
Married life with Seokmin wasn't as bad as you thought it would be. In fact, it was surprisingly pleasant. The two of you had fallen into a comfortable routine, one that you found yourself enjoying. He would handle the political meetings and you would deal with the northern territories' affairs. You were a team, a formidable one at that.
The only downside was the endless social obligations, which you despised. Seokmin found your disdain amusing, often teasing you about it. The two of you had developed an easy camaraderie, a friendship built on mutual respect and understanding. He never pushed for more, and for that, you were grateful. You were both content with the arrangement, at least for now.
You've shared kisses. Lingering glances and the brush of lips against skin. There have been stolen touches here and there. A playful squeeze of a thigh. Or the squeeze of an arm. But other than that, nothing had really progressed into more.
Sometimes, late at night when Seokmin was away for business or you were sleeping on your side, your dreams had become a little more vivid, a little more heated, your desires slipping through the cracks of your facade and escaping to the night. You yearn for his touch, your body aching with a deep hunger that you had yet to sate. And it was becoming harder to ignore the way your skin tingled whenever he brushed past, or the way your heart skipped a beat whenever he smiled at you.
What were these feelings and why did you feel this way towards Seokmin?
One day, you flop onto a chaise lounge in your shared sitting room, exhuasted from social obligations. "I swear, if one more simpering lady asks me about the floral arrangements for the upcoming summer ball, I'm going to magically set her fan on fire."
Seokmin looks up from the stack of reports he was reviewing, a genuine smile touching his lips. "And that, my dear wife, is why you are now in charge of all event planning. My apologies to the simpering ladies, but their suffering is a small price to pay for my peace of mind."
"I am not your event planner," you grumble, but without any real heat. "I do not… do… flower arrangements." The words were said with the same distaste one might use for 'chamberpot cleaning'. "I strategize battle formations and negotiate trade routes for vital resources. I do not care if the roses clash with the ladies' gowns."
"That's precisely why you're perfect for the job," he chuckles, setting his papers aside. "You will terrify them all into submitting their preferences on a single, concise scroll. You'll be the most efficient event planner in the kingdom's history. A terrifying, magnificent tyrant of tulle and table settings."
"Flattery will get you nowhere, husband," you shot back, though you couldn't suppress a smile at the image. "How I would love to talk to the visiting delegation from Inspirit instead. Their leader is a fascinating man, quite knowledgeable in ancient runes. I'd rather discuss magical theory than seating charts."
"Jeonghan can handle the diplomats. Besides," Seokmin leans forward, his expression shifting subtly from amused to serious, "I have another task for you. One that requires your particular… expertise."
Your interest was piqued. You sat up, swinging your legs over the side of the chaise. "Oh? Does it involve setting things on fire? Because I'm now highly motivated."
"No, no arson," he moves across the room, stopping in front of you. "What better way than to put your villainy to good use than bearing me a child?"
"You–" You start coughing. "What?"
He laughs. "I've been hounded by Jeonghan and the council about this. I can understand my brother wanting nieces and nephews in the palace but the council...ugh," he groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. "The old snobs won't give me a single moment of peace as they suggest that I take their daughters as concubines."
"How is this an expertise of mine?" you inquire.
"Well," Seokmin stands, taking your hand and pulling you up to him, his arms loosely encircling your waist. His scent of cardamom and fresh green tea fills the air around him, soothing you, "would it not be better for us to have children? Unless you want me to take in a concubine? Your father has been begging me to take Heejoo as one and–"
"Don't you dare finish that sentence," you glare at him. "The idea of Heejoo even touching you makes me want to run her over."
Seokmin presses a light kiss to the top of your head, the act surprisingly intimate and tender. "I assure you that there will be no mistresses or concubines," his lips brush against your hair as his fingers deftly play with the buttons at the small of your back.
"The last thing I want is a harem filled with your children," you huff.
His fingers slide under the silk, caressing the bare skin underneath. Your spine stiffens before relaxing, pressing into him, softening under the gentle touches. "Then what do you want?" He purrs, his breath warm and sweet against the shell of your ear. "I won't force you. If you truly don't wish to have children, I won't hold it against you."
"Truly?" You pull back to meet his gaze, your eyes searching for sincerity.
"Truly," his expression is somber, his gaze steady as he looks down at you, a stray strand of dark hair hanging in his eyes.
You reach up and gently tuck the strand behind his ear, studying his face. "You surprise me," you murmur.
"Surprises can be good," Seokmin brushes his thumb over your lower lip. Your pulse quickens, butterflies fluttering in your stomach as he stares intently. "May I surprise you, my villainess?"
"I…Yes..." It's just one kiss, you think, what harm could come from that? You wonder briefly if his lips are as soft and supple as they seem...if he tastes like green tea and lemon cakes, your favorite dessert.
Seokmin cradles the back of your head, bringing you closer, his mouth seeking yours. He claims you and you let him, opening up to him like a flower to the sun. Your senses fill with him and only him, with the sweetness of his taste and the dizzying heat of his touch, and in that moment, the two of you share something honest and precious.
"Just so you know..." you pull back slightly, breaking the kiss, your eyes fluttering open, "I've never done this before..." Your words come out soft, barely a whisper, your cheeks burning with embarrassment at the admission.
"Oh?" Seokmin cocks an eyebrow, his smile warm and gentle. "The most feared woman in the kingdom and yet the thing that scares her the most is this."
"Do you intend to mock me or simply make fun of me?" You narrow your eyes at him. "Because I can leave."
Seokmin laughs, picking you up and carrying you towards the bedroom. "Mock you? How? I don't think you could get any more perfect, my villainess." He lays you down, climbing over you, his expression soft. "To tell you the truth, I haven't shared my bed with anyone before."
You scoff, "As if anyone could resist you."
He leans in, trailing feather-light kisses across your forehead, down the slope of your nose, before placing the sweetest kiss against your lips. "Just like the sun, I may radiate warmth and beauty, but I'm always alone."
You study the expression on his face, looking for hints of dishonesty, but all you see is acceptance and...hope.
"People want my warmth and beauty but they never see me...for me," he confesses, his voice barely above a whisper, the sound thick with emotion, "They don't realize how lonely it can get being the center of attention." His fingers run along the skin of your cheek, soft and gentle. "You and I are alike in that way, so different from the others. One adored and the other hated. People who either admire or fear."
You sigh, covering his hand with yours and leaning into his palm. "A strange pair, the both of us."
Seokmin nods in agreement.
You hesitate before speaking. You've never been the one to pour your heart and feelings for someone else, especially to someone you've not known for too long. "I'll...try my hardest, Seokmin. I'm not perfect."
"Who is?" Seokmin counters, peppering kisses along your jawline. "Perfection is such a boring concept."
"I will be terrible at running this palace," you're scrambling, digging your nails into his shoulders as he bites your collar bone, "All the balls and meetings. I can't."
"Nonsense," Seokmin's voice is low and raspy, his lips hovering over the hollow of your throat, "I need my villainous wife to put those in line."
"Right," you breathe, tangling your fingers in his hair, arching into his mouth, "Right. I'll...scare them. That's...that's my expertise, after all."
He pulls back, flashing a smile so beautiful and pure that it knocks the air out of you. "The most vicious of villainess, ready to inflict terror upon the court."
You let out a laugh, cupping his cheeks. "My prince...you are such an idiot."
Seokmin pulls the pins and ribbons from your hair and they tumble down around you, his fingers getting caught as he rakes through the locks, stroking your hair. You bite your lip and gasp when his mouth moves down to the column of your neck, planting open-mouthed kisses along the tender flesh, a slow burning heat igniting within you as he nips the skin and laves his tongue across the marks.
You cling to him desperately, your hands shaking as they fumble to undo his jacket, the satin soft beneath your palms. You're drowning in sensations, your head spinning, and your heartbeat thrumming wildly in your ears. Seokmin helps you along, pulling off the constricting fabric, his shirt quickly following.
Your mouth goes dry and you forget how to breathe when you admire his exposed upper body, the sleek lines of his chest and stomach, the defined muscles under his bronze skin.
He's beautiful, breathtaking, and you're mesmerized, your hand reaching out to trace over the curve of his shoulders, down the elegant arch of his neck.
"You're positive that you never had other women touch you?" you ask skeptically.
"Just you," he answers with a smile, "You, my dearest wife."
You pause. "...what if I'm terrible in bed?"
Seokmin stops kissing your shoulder, his dark brown eyes flicking up to meet yours, the corners of his mouth quirking upward, dimpling his cheeks. His amusement is evident, causing a pink blush to rise and spread over your face. "Then we can be horrible together."
"So comforting," you mutter, a twinge of nervousness fluttering in the pit of your stomach. "I... don't even know where to begin..."
"Then we can explore it all, together," he removes the dress and unlaces your corset, helping you out of the layers of fabric. He sucks in a sharp breath, his pupils dilating as your body is revealed to him.
"Ummm...don't just stare. You'll make me nervous," you squirm and try to hide yourself from him, but he catches your arms and keeps them still.
"It's beautiful...you're beautiful," he marvels, his eyes soft and adoring. Seokmin studies you closely, as if he were trying to commit the sight to memory, to carry it in his heart forever. His gaze sweeps over you reverently, full of tender adoration and it causes your insides to feel gooey.
Seokmin kisses the inside of your wrist, trailing soft, ticklish caresses down your arm, eliciting a breathless gasp of pleasure. His movements are unhurried, allowing you both the opportunity to explore one another.
You arch into him when Seokmin takes one of the hardened peaks of your breast into his mouth, your fingers running through the soft silky strands of his hair, cradling his head to you, urging him to continue.
"Have mercy," he whispers, nuzzling the valley between your breasts, before switching to the other, "Your responses are...mesmerizing." Seokmin trails his fingers up the underside of your thighs, slowly parting your legs and shifting them over his broad shoulders.
"W-What are you doing?" you squeaked, trying to squeeze your legs shut, your toes curling against the supple skin of his bare back.
Seokmin grins devilishly. He blows against your clit, delighting in the way your hips buck towards him, before dragging his tongue down along the slit. "Tasting you. Trying to figure out which part will make you call my name."
You don't have time to process what that means before his mouth is latched onto you, his tongue delving past your folds, tracing intricate patterns and licks that make your knees shake. He uses his thumb to play with your clit while he thrusts his tongue into you, his fingers moving to spread your inner lips so he can lick you clean, tasting the essence of you.
You couldn't remember what your own name is as you writhe beneath him. Seokmin hums against you, the vibrations setting your nerves ablaze, his nose bumping against your clit. You buck into him, clutching him for dear life as his mouth works to bring you pleasure beyond your wildest dreams, every touch electrifying.
There's nothing else but Seokmin. There's no need for any other thoughts, no obligations. The warmth of his breath and the slickness of his tongue, the way he takes his sweet, agonizing time lavishing attention on you, heats the fire that's burning low in your belly, flames licking upwards, scorching and bright, threatening to burst.
You call his name when you come, sobbing out broken syllables into the evening air, your entire body trembling. His strong arms hold you upright, holding you tightly as you shudder in his embrace, riding out the waves of ecstasy and delight.
When you return to reality, Seokmin is gazing up at you, a lazy smile stretching his swollen mouth, his chin and cheeks glistening. He brings up his thumb, swiping the wetness before sucking on the digit. The action causes your stomach to twist in delightful anticipation, your thighs squeezing together as another rush of arousal spikes through you.
You think you should feel dirty and embarrassed after climaxing against his mouth, but it doesn't seem to faze him in the slightest, only serving to encourage him more.
"How was I?" he asks, trailing sloppy, open-mouthed kisses over your hips. "Not too bad of a first try, right?"
He looks so absurdly pleased with himself, and you can't help the laughter that bubbles out. You pull his face towards yours and taste yourself on his lips. "You are unbelievable," you giggle, wiping the last remnants of your juices from his face.
"So I did good," Seokmin says as he slides up your body, his heated skin rubbing against yours in the most tantalizing way, until his face is level with yours. You cup his cheeks, bringing him closer, sealing his mouth over yours. You moan into him at the flavor of the two of you combined and Seokmin groans, biting your lower lip, slipping his tongue into your mouth, the velvet appendage dancing with yours in a slow, sensual waltz. He reaches down, dipping his fingers into the wetness seeping from your center, making sure you're ready. "Y/N," he whispers your name softly, "Is this really your first time?"
"Why does this concern you?" you grumble.
He presses a kiss to your brow. "It does...because I want you to enjoy it as well," he murmurs.
"Despite what others say about me," you draw little shapes on his shoulders, "I've never lain with any man, not in the way you mean."
He chuckles, nipping the sensitive skin below your ear. "Glad to be your first."
Before you can say anything, Seokmin drops down and covers one of your breasts with his palm, pinching the nipple between his fingers, the sensation shooting a bolt of heat to your core. You gasp, covering your face as the overwhelming sensations of the day's activities continue.
"Y/N," Seokmin stops teasing the swell of your breasts. Your hands slip away, a soft cry escaping your lips, and his forehead drops to yours, eyes searching. "Would you rather I take you from behind? To see each other is not as bad, but..." he runs his hands up and down the expanse of your back, his erection rubbing against the skin of your lower abdomen. "If you're more comfortable then... that way would be best."
You shake your head. "No. This is fine, please," you mumble, gripping his shoulders and hiding in the curve of his neck. "Please."
"Let me know if I hurt you," he whispers before lifting and spreading your thighs. He runs the tip along the slit, nudging the opening. "I'll stop whenever you want."
"Go...just go," you squeak out.
Slowly, he presses himself into you. "Oh, goddess," his eyes slam shut, a harsh groan tearing from his throat, his fingers digging into the skin of your ass, his expression twisted with pained pleasure, "you're so tight, you feel so fucking good."
You gasp at the stinging stretch and the almost-too-much pressure of his intrusion. His eyes shoot open at your pained hiss and he freezes immediately, stroking his hands over your skin. "Do you-"
"Don't you dare stop," you order him. Your hands grip his forearms, steadying yourself. You grit your teeth, bracing for the pain as he buries himself in to the hilt, fighting the urge to curse. Seokmin burrows his face against the side of your head, his breath fanning over you as he waits for your body to adjust to him.
"Ah, Y/N... fuck..." Seokmin moans your name softly, pressing hot, fervent kisses across the column of your neck.
"Give...give me a second," you pant, biting your lip hard and wincing as he rubs soothing circles into the soft skin.
"Just breathe...shh," he soothes, murmuring calming words against your lips, capturing your mouth. He does his best to keep you relaxed as the initial pain slowly melts into a burning ache that's not entirely unpleasant. He nudges his nose against yours. "Are you okay?"
"Y-Yes..." you breathe out slowly, dropping your forehead on his chest.
Your walls are twitching deliciously around him, clenching tightly. It's difficult for him not to give into the urge and thrust into your tight warmth. He runs his hand over your face, pulling you away from his chest and captures your lips in a lingering, sensual kiss. The coil of heat twists inside of you again and you give an experimental shift of your hips, the stinging not as painful as it was seconds ago.
Seokmin peppers kisses along the valley between your breasts and neck, whispering soothing words, waiting for you to adjust, to relax around him before beginning to move.
"You can move now," you tell him, cupping his face, "Sl-Slowly."
You bite the inside of your cheek as he pulls back, gripping his arms, the stinging ache flaring briefly before melting into a heated pulse as he thrusts forward, pushing back in. His hand skims down the side of your waist, resting on your hip, anchoring you to him as he slowly rocks himself into you. "Is it better?" he rasps out, nuzzling the sensitive hollow just below your ear, "Or do I need to stop?"
"K-Keep going," your hands slide up along the smooth ridges and plains of his chest. He exhales heavily, burying himself fully, and your fingers grasp at his hair, pulling the locks with each of his slow thrusts, his strokes gentle and mindful as he sets the pace.
"You're beautiful," he whispers, "...so beautiful." You whimper, tipping your head back and he takes advantage of the position, the slope of your neck open and exposed to him, his lips moving over the skin, branding it with marks that claim. Your nails scrape along the curve of his biceps, down his toned biceps. Seokmin's warm hands splay on your back, his fingers reaching around and grabbing the full swell of your ass.
He hitches your thigh higher against his waist, grinding into you, brushing against an exceptionally sensitive area. Every roll of his hips has him brushing up against a sensitive spot that has you arching into him. Your fingers trace over the sharp angle of his jaw and the edge of his elegant brow, before he draws you into a heated kiss that leaves you both breathless and craving more.
Everything feels new and exciting and Seokmin is content to help you explore this unknown territory, his hands encouraging and loving and patient. With every gasp, moan, and touch, you can feel something stirring within, growing stronger, taking root deep in your soul.
He begins to pick up the pace, his hips meeting yours in a delicious friction, drawing a chorus of breathless groans. The sensations overwhelm you, his sweat-slicked skin gliding against yours, the heat and scent of his body cocooning you in warmth and security and desire.
There's nothing else but thoughts of him. Nothing but Seokmin. How good it feels, how you need more, how the sensations have your stomach quivering, how you'll let yourself drown in his touch.
You've forgotten how to breathe properly as he draws your name over and over again between sighs and kisses, and with the reverence and ardor with which he worships you. Your legs wrap around his waist and he surges forward, causing you to call his name breathlessly, crying out from the over-sensitized nerve endings and the tightening heat coiling low.
"Let go," he breathes raggedly into your ear, and with a snap of his hips he drives his length to the hilt.
And just like that, you unravel, his name on your lips as white-hot heat burns through you. Seokmin stiffens and surges forward with a broken moan, shuddering, his fingers digging into your hips as he chases the high and finally joins you.
For a few moments the two of you stay in the same position, regaining your breath. A layer of sweat glistens over your skin and Seokmin uses his fingers to gently rub your arms. When you look at his face, the sight causes you to swallow thickly. He's beaming, eyes aglow as he gazes upon you.
His eyes are so warm, his smile so brilliant and bright and blinding that it nearly steals your breath. Your chest throbs, aching fiercely, the odd sensation overwhelming, almost too much.
This is ridiculous. Absurd. Impossible. There's no way you've fallen this hard for this stupid, sun-lit man. Not after one night. And yet, with Seokmin touching you, looking at you with those beautiful eyes, his hair disheveled and framing the angles of his handsome face, you know that your heart has already been lost.
"Can..." you chew on the inside of your cheek as he tucks some of the unruly strands behind your ear, his brown eyes warm and steady and completely focused on you. "Can we do that again?"
Seokmin lets out a husky laugh that sends shivers racing up and down your spine. "My dearest wife," he croons, wrapping his arms around you, pecking you sweetly, "all you have to do is say the word."
The palace was bustling as preparations for the summer ball were underway. Servants, workers and military men scrambled through the halls as you made your way, tugging Seokmin alongside you.
It's been three months since you first lain together and both have enjoyed the intimacies that are now shared between each other. Your feelings have begun to grow and with it, a little living being inside of you. You haven't told him yet about the impending bundle of joy, waiting for the perfect time.
However, your good mood has dropped to a completely sour one. When you found out that Heejoo would assist you as a lady-in-waiting, you wanted nothing more than to roast her in a flame spell. But because your father and stepmother begged the king for it, there wasn't anything you could say.
"What a day," you grumble, tying a ribbon on the flower garlands for the ball. "If Heejoo undermines me one more time, I'll throw her from the second floor balcony. Or roast her. Whichever is the first one to appear in my mind."
Your husband chuckles. "Did something happen?" he inquires as the both of you continue making your way towards the main hall.
"Other than Heejoo telling the maids to switch out the flowers and linens that I had been picking all morning? No, nothing at all," you roll your eyes as you reply sarcastically.
Seokmin glances over at you. He offers you a sympathetic pat on the hand.
"Tell me. If this place was lit on fire, how long do you think it would take them to burn? A few minutes? An hour, tops?" you muttered.
"No arson," Seokmin laughs as he helps you settle down onto the garden chairs for your afternoon tea.
You laugh. "Fire spells are useful." You wiggle your eyebrows as he joins you.
The both of you start to work on the plans for the upcoming events, making changes and comments on the events that would be taking place. You hold back a wince. There had been a bout of morning sickness lately and Seokmin noticed you massaging your stomach earlier.
"Are you hurt?" He reaches over to your hands, cupping them with his. "Y/N?" His voice drops and there's no hiding from him now. He looks so concerned as his eyes narrow into slits, his gaze scouring your body for the source of pain. He's looking at you in a way that warms you from the inside out, his soft voice, full of concern.
It almost hurts to realize just how much this man actually loves you. How much you love him back. It makes you want to do everything and anything you can to make sure this wonderful man in front of you doesn't ever experience sadness in his life. To protect him from everything, his and yours, to ensure that he could smile like that for the rest of your lives.
"My prince," you started, "I need to tell you something very important."
"I'm all ears," he replied, burying his face against the crook of your neck, his large hands holding you close to his warm body.
"You'll have to start being more gentle with me in bed," you whisper, taking one of his hands and guiding it to your stomach, letting it linger.
"Why?" his voice was laced with concern as his head shot up and his brows pulled together, "Am I doing something wrong? Did I hurt you? Did I-"
You press a finger to his lips, shushing his panicked mumbling. "You haven't hurt me, and you didn't do anything wrong. And as for why you should be gentle..." You press his palm firmly against the slight bump on your abdomen.
"...Oh," Seokmin pauses and blinks, realization dawning on him, the tips of his ears pink. He opens his mouth, closes it, swallows hard, and then opens it once more. "OH."
A burst of laughter bubbles from your chest and you find yourself nodding, kissing his chin. "Mhmm...so be a little softer with me, alright?"
"Are you absolutely positive?" Seokmin asked softly, his hand splaying protectively over your belly, his lips ghosting against your hair, "It isn't a mistake?"
"Definitely no mistake," you confirm, "You can ask the palace staff. I've been having horrible morning sickness." You look down, blushing a light pink. "And with the way we've been going at it lately...it would be difficult for it to be any one else's."
He laughs, a sound as lovely as wind chimes, melodic and sweet, "I...uh, guess we do get quite...rambunctious at night."
You tuck your head into the junction of his neck and shoulder, hiding the burning embarrassment as you recall just how many times a day he's been coming to you, eager and wanting.
Not that you didn't welcome him with open arms, his appetite insatiable, his lips worshipping your body and soul.
"Let's announce it at the Summer Ball," he says suddenly, sounding happier than you've ever heard him before. He stands abruptly, hands cupping your flushed cheeks, eyes warm and bright. "It'll be a great celebration."
Your heart melts at the excitement swirling in his brown eyes.
You grin and allow your prince to scoop you in his arms and spin the both of you around in gleeful celebration, squealing with delight. The announcement of an heir, especially a future king or queen, was a joyful event and one to be celebrated.
But in your joy, neither one of you noticed that someone had witnessed your private moment, hiding behind one of the many bushes dotting the beautiful landscape.
You're as big as a whale and you are now in your ninth month of pregnancy. The baby would be arriving at any moment so you've had to stop attending to all the state affairs, letting Seokmin handle them instead. While you were grateful that your husband had been so attentive to you and the growing child in your womb, you found yourself getting bored and restless. You hated being cooped up in your bedroom, unable to do anything else but read. The only good thing about it was that you were able to use your magic to help alleviate some of your aches and pains.
"You're getting bigger," Seokmin notes, pressing a kiss to your swollen stomach.
"I'm going to explode," you groan, your feet up on a small ottoman as he rubs your ankles for you. "I can't believe I'm this huge. I look like a balloon."
"It's a good thing," he grins, "Means that the baby is coming soon. You'll be able to see our child sson."
"Our child. It still feels weird to say that," you giggle, "Who knew the most feared woman in the kingdom would end up as a mother?" You turn to look at him. "Seokmin?"
"Hmmm?" he hums, his eyes closed.
"I love you," you smile softly at him as you speak, your heart full to bursting. You know that you can't keep it a secret for much longer and you want him to know the truth.
The words hit him like a lightning bolt. He goes completely still, his entire body turning rigid, before his eyes flutter open, a stunned expression on his face. "You...You love me?" he stutters, "Did you mean that?"
"Of course, I meant it. What? Were you expecting me to say that I hate you?" you chuckle as you lean forward to kiss him. You pull back slightly, looking into his brown eyes. "I love you, Seokmin."
He beams brightly and you realize that you've never seen him so happy. "I love you too," he whispers against your lips. "I love you so much."
You sigh happily, content with his love, your heart singing with joy at his admission. You have no clue as to how much time has passed with the two of you sitting there and trading sweet kisses and gentle caresses.
"Do you think our child is a boy or girl?" you wonder as you settle comfortably in his embrace.
"Hmmm...As long as our baby is healthy, I don't mind having a little prince or princess," he remarks.
"I have no clue on how to care for a child...what if I am terrible at raising one?" you worriedly mumble as you pick at the embroidery on your dress. "What if I don't make a very good mother?"
"Hey now," Seokmin shifts around, laying flat and guiding you to rest your cheek on his chest. "I'll be beside you every step of the way."
"Don't you find that frightening," you worriedly admit, "the thought of us having a child, being parents, what if our child learns their bad ways from me? Like setting things on fire?" Your words give him pause for a few moments before a light, warm laughter emanates from the deep planes of his chest and out of his lips. "It's not funny! Stop laughing, Seokmin!" You shove him lightly, trying to be firm despite how happy the sound makes you.
His arms tighten around you and he pulls you closer. "You'll be a wonderful mother," Seokmin reassures you as his lips kiss the top of your head. "Because the woman that I love with all my heart would never hurt our child or let anything bad happen to them."
You sniffled. "O-Oh yeah? How are you so sure?" you laugh with a choked voice, your eyes growing wet at his sweet declaration. He always knows what to say and how to make you feel better, and how can a villainess not fall madly in love with such a wonderful person?
"Because the woman I know is kind, understanding and compassionate, patient and hardworking, passionate and fierce."
You reach down to thread his fingers through his own. His hand is warm and big and perfectly fitted to yours, the same warmth, and love emanating through you and spreading from the tips of your fingers.
Seokmin draws slow circles onto your shoulders, his other hand keeping your head against his steady heartbeat. "Everything will work out. No matter what happens, I will be with you," he murmurs softly and you burrow even closer to him, hiding your tears away from view. "And I know I am very happy about meeting my future princess or prince."
"Please stop being so perfect," you mutter.
Seokmin gives a rumbling laugh as you nuzzle against him, sighing softly, and his body curls protectively around yours. His hand runs slowly over your back, up and down the length of your spine, as his soft voice floats around you, and you find your muscles slowly relaxing.
His words fade away into the background, and all you can do is close your eyes as a sweet sleepiness drifts over you, settling deeply into your very core.
Seokmin is working late tonight and you're sitting in your shared rooms, reading reports from Hyunwoo. You rub your round belly absentmindedly, humming to your unborn child when you hear a knock on the door.
"Come in," you call out, your eyes never leaving the words on the paper.
You hear the soft click of the door, the sound of shoes, and a woman's footsteps as she enters. "Your highness," Heejoo curtsies to you.
"Oh," you sigh, "what do you want?" You're tired and your feet are killing you. There's nothing you want more than a hot bath and to sleep. But first, you want this person who is making your life difficult to leave.
"Please forgive me for disturbing your rest," she begins, "but I brought tea and snacks for you." Heejoo gestures to the tray that she had brought with her. "I know the pregnancy has been quite a chore for you and I just wanted to help."
You study her for a few moments, your instincts telling you that something was off, but your tiredness clouded your judgment. You decide to dismiss the feelings and sigh. "Alright." You motion towards her to bring it over.
The corner of her lips curve up, an uncharacteristically malicious expression marring her pretty face. You never catch it since you're pouring over another report. Heejoo puts the tray on your table and pours tea into the cup that sits there, using an herb to infuse its fragrance and a sugar cube to add its sweetness before she mixes it in, her motions a perfect picture of politeness. "My congratulations on the upcoming arrival. The whole family is excited for the newest addition."
"You seem rather chipper," you raise an eyebrow at her as you raise the cup to your lips. The taste was different from the usual tea that your maids would make. There was a strange, bitter flavor to it. You set the cup down, raising an eyebrow. "Something's off."
Heejoo's smile widens. "Oh, it's just a special tea that I made for you."
"Is that so?" You rub your tummy, feeling your child move and kick a little. You then begin to massage the ache. "Thank you. You're dismissed." You wave at her, the aching starting to grow.
Heejoo's frame trembles with hidden mirth at the sight of you drinking the tea without question. "You're quite welcome, sister." She pauses at the threshold and looks over at you, the vicious smirk lingering. "He should have been mine."
"What?" you manage to cough out.
Her smirk grows bigger as she approaches you once more. Her steps are elegant and precise and you suddenly feel nauseous. "Pity the villainess only learns her lesson right when her happily ever after is snatched from under her," she cooes at you, her voice high-pitched as she mockingly pats you on the cheek, her brown eyes filled with hatred. "Well, soon you won't have to worry anymore because you won't be around to know."
Realization sets in, the pain in your abdomen becoming unbearable, your heartbeat accelerates and your vision swirls. "Y-you," you hunch over, crying from the pain and trying to gather your energy.
Heejoo stands straight and clasps her hands together, sighing contentedly, "I'm glad that you were stupid enough to drink it. I will rid this kingdom of both you and your child." She flicks her hair, letting it fall into waves over her slender shoulder, and smiles gleefully at you.
Tears burn the back of your eyes and the pain in your chest swells. "Why are you doing this?" You grunt from pain as you lean against the settee, clutching at the spot over where your heart beats furiously.
"I was supposed to be his bride!" Heejoo screams as her perfectly crafted image comes crashing down. "It was supposed to be me!" she continues, her hand twirling her hair as a manic smile appears, the colors draining from her. "This was supposed to be my happy ending but no, you got in the way when you survived that assassination attempt! You were never meant to be the heroine. How dare you have the gall to take everything from me?!"
You let out a sigh of amusement. "Oh Heejoo..." You shake your head and stand, forcing yourself up, holding your round belly. "YOU took everything from me," you breathe out shakily, the pain unbearable. You close your eyes and breathe out. "The moment your mother married my father," your voice rises and falls sharply. You pant and wipe your hand over your brow. "The moment you and Heecheon were born," your breathing grows deeper and harder. "Everything was handed to you," your knees start to buckle from the lack of oxygen and pressure from the tea. "I'm just taking it all back."
Heejoo cries out in outrage. "Shut up! Everything was supposed to be MINE!" she snaps. "You should have died that night. And yet, here you are. Still alive." Her fists are clenched so hard, her knuckles start to turn white. "That child." A snarl appears on her face as she points at your tummy. "I will not let you have the one thing that should have been mine."
"Don't you dare harm this child!" you roar as you stumble forward, catching yourself with a coffee table. The table toppled and sent the porcelain that sat on its surface flying.
"You can't hurt me," she grins wildly. "Not while you're on death's door." Heejoo puts her finger to her chin, looking thoughtful, her brown eyes twinkling malevolently. "His highness will be so sad," she mocks, "losing a baby and his beloved wife."
Hate. It's the only thing you feel as you listen to her empty self righteous speech. Hate and despair, not just because of the agony the poison had wrought in your body, but because you'll never see your child or your husband again.
Seokmin...he didn't deserve this, you think as your knees buckle and you slump to the ground, trying to drag your body forward, trying to make your limbs move, trying to access your magic. But all you can feel is that sweet numbness coming over your body, seeping slowly and completely into your very core.
"My dearest sister," she spits out and glares, pulling a dagger from her skirts, "it's time for you to die."
She raises her dagger but she never gets the chance to strike you.
Seokmin, who had entered the room to check on you, rushed over to you as the guards surrounded Heejoo. They grabbed her immediately, not that she didn't go willingly. It was useless to fight a losing battle. The guards dragged her out, ignoring her screeching as they locked her up. "Take her to the dungeons," he orders, his eyes never leaving you. He turns to you, taking you in his arms. "Are you alright? Did she hurt you?"
"Seokmin," you breathe out, holding onto him as he picks you up. "I'm...I'm sorry. I was so tired and I...I should have known better than to trust her."
"Shh," he hushes you, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head, "don't blame yourself." He lays you down on the bed and summons the maids to get a healer. Your body aches from Heejoo's attack and you're still dizzy, feeling the remnants of the tea.
"Your highness," one of the maids calls out, "we need to get the baby out of her." The maids begin to take off your clothes and the healer begins to examine you.
"It's time?" you ask, panic rising in you.
The healer nods. "We need to get the child out now. The poison will be deadly for the child."
Seokmin takes your hand, his other hand rubbing your belly soothingly. "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere." He kisses you gently, whispering words of reassurance.
"You must be strong," the healer says, "the baby must come out."
"Seokmin," you gasp, your fingers squeezing his hand so tight that you're sure it'll bruise. "I'm scared."
"I thought I'll never see the day where my strong wife will admit to being scared." He cups your chin with his free hand, tilting your face up. He pecks you on the lips. "I'm afraid too," he murmurs, resting his forehead against yours, eyes screwed shut and eyebrows furrowed in concentration. He exhales loudly. "This is the hardest thing I ever had to do. I'm terrified to lose the one good thing that happened to me."
Tears stream down your face and you feel the reassuring caress of his hand on the side of your face, his thumb tracing your cheekbone and wiping away the moisture. "Do you...do you think our baby will be alright? Even after what happened?"
He lifts your entangled fingers and places them against the left side of his chest, your palm splaying over his heart. "Our hearts beat the same. And as long as it beats, our baby will be ok." You lean over, nuzzling the side of his face. He catches the tear that threatens to fall off your cheekbone. "And so will you, my love."
"Your highness, it's time," the healer speaks, "it is best for the child to come out now."
Seokmin presses another kiss to your lips, gentle, fleeting. "I'm not going anywhere, okay? Focus on the healer and you can squeeze the life out of me."
With Seokmin's encouragement whispered in your ear, you manage to deliver your baby, weak from poison and exhausted beyond measure. After the baby was delivered, the healers worked on clearing any traces of poison in both you and your baby. Seokmin stayed by your side the whole time, whispering encouragement and apologies, keeping you awake. Once the healers have declared you in the clear, he curls around your frame, spooning you, drawing you closer to him until you could feel his warmth against the whole of your skin.
"Sleep," he sighs against the crook of your neck.
And sleep you did.
You wake up to the sound of soft baby cooing and Seokmin's low murmurings.
"Hello there, my little prince," you hear him say softly as you blink your eyes open.
"Seokmin?" you call out groggily. "Is the baby...is it…"
Seokmin turns to look at you, a bright smile on his face. "Our baby is safe," he informs you, showing you the little bundle that he was cradling in his arms.
You gaze down at the tiny baby, tears forming in your eyes as you see the small child. You reach out, stroking a finger along the chubby cheek. "Hi, there," you whisper, a happy smile spreading across your face, "I'm so happy you're alright." You look up at Seokmin. "What happened to Heejoo? Is she…?"
"She's in prison," he nods, "she'll be there for a long time."
"How is my father and the rest of the family taking it?" you sigh, snuggling closer to your baby. You were surprised at the strong urge to protect your child.
"There's an open investigation against them. There are cases of embellizing funds, tax fraud and abuse of power." He explains as he gets comfortable next to you. "Your family, apart from Hyunwoo, are under house-arrest pending their hearings."
"Hyunwoo is okay?" you ask of your older brother.
"Yes," Seokmin affirms, "He's the only one that hasn't been charged with anything since he's one of the Grand Duke's men. If your father is stripped of his title, then it will go to Hyunwoo since the eldest of a direct line is always the heir."
"But...where do I stand?" you ask worriedly.
"My wife is worried about her reputation," he teases. You hit his shoulder and he yelps out. "You have nothing to worry about. You're one of the Grand Duke's people, the crown princess and most of all, my wife." He places a light kiss to your cheek, smiling against your warm flesh.
"I'm the wife of a fool," you smile affectionately at him, "but at the same time, a strong, powerful man." You kiss him, letting your emotions convey how you felt. When you part from him, you smile and cup his cheek with a gentle palm, thumb running along the apple of it. "Seokmin, I..."
You were saved from uttering your feelings when a loud cry escaped the babe's mouth. "Oh, I guess the little prince is hungry," he grins softly. Seokmin places the child against your chest. "Our child is absolutely perfect and so are you."
The babe nuzzles close to your breast and you lift the garment to let the infant suckle, the soft noises comforting. Seokmin runs his hands over the baby's soft head. "I love you," he murmurs against the side of your head, "I love you so much."
The both of you gaze tenderly upon the small infant, his body relaxed as your smaller frame tenses up before Seokmin squeezes you in a warm embrace. He draws you as close to him, careful not to crush the child nestled against you, his touch gentle and comforting.
"I never thought," Seokmin swallows deeply, "that I can ever love you more than I already have, but the thought of losing you and our child scared me more than anything in the world." He squeezes you closer to him, almost as if he was making sure that the two of you are in fact safe. "I can never love another woman," Seokmin admits, his voice catching as he finally utters his fears, the pressure from his position and his heart. "If that woman isn't you."
You squeeze his hands in return, bringing them up to your face to kiss the knuckles. "You are also the first and only man I will love," you inform him, eyes studying every detail of his beautiful face, a hand reaching up to tangle in his locks. "And I love you so much." You pause as Seokmin blinks slowly before returning your affection, his soft lips meeting yours.
It's a soft kiss, comforting, a simple and intimate gesture of your devotion to one another. As your mouths move in tandem, his hand cups the side of your cheek and brings your head closer to him, making you almost lean into his embrace, into his warm, loving presence.
Pulling away, his breathing is heavy and his eyes remain locked onto yours, gazing at you lovingly and with a new-found fervor. The pad of his thumb strokes your cheekbone. He stares at you and your own mouth hangs open, your breath falling from your lips in deep inhales and exhales as he stares at you. You lean closer into his hand and his eyes are liquid amber, radiating with desire and affection. He lifts the small hand of the little bundle into the air and the child clutches at his father's larger hand.
Seokmin gives the back of the babe's hand a sweet kiss, his eyes locked onto you, and you can almost hear the words that hover in the air. You hope to see more of this loving and adoring father as your little family grows.
"I'm the villainess and you're the perfect crown prince," you tell him after some time, "and yet, here we are with a happy ending. For me, for you and most importantly, for our child."
Seokmin leans into your frame, hugging you, the three of you pressed up against one another. "Yes," he agrees softly. "This is the start of the beginning for us." He snuggles his face into the side of your neck, nipping at the exposed skin with his lips. "Let's make more babies. Lots of them," he mumbles against the crook of your shoulder.
You can only chuckle, patting the top of his head. "One at a time, husband," you whisper teasingly, "One at a time."
summary: 8 months after the world fell a chance encounter across the clearing flipped everything you’ve come to know upside down. for the second time since the end.
wc: 29k (oops)
tags: apocalyptic! au, zombie! au, angst, violence, blood and gore, smut, fluff, ot13, slight wonwoo x reader, vernon focus, love triangle for like 0.2 seconds, multiple sex scenes, kms joke like twice, mentions of sexual violence and torture, vomit, mentions of death, gunshot wounds, jeonghan & soonyoung are menaces
explicit tags: fingering, handjobs, oral (f & m receiving), dry humping, p in v sex, dirty talk, praise, choking, spanking, hair pulling, semi-public sex, creampie (dont), spitting, munch vernon as god intended, switch dynamics between mc & vernon, slight breeding kink whoops these two are nastyyy
18+ mdni!!! there is a lot of mature content in this anyone under 18 will be blocked!
a/n: this is a long one oof hello friends! my first long fic here as im new to writing in my adult age so it feels a bit unreal.. after new_ tour, seeing one of my ult biases revived this idea ive been cooking since october bc girl where’s the vernon content.. he takes a sec to appear but i feel the plot and world building is important here sorry it’s all worth it in the end ps: there’s really no descriptive characteristics of the mc other than being fem & having long/thick hair.
this was proofread however if there’s grammatical errors i apologize.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
There was nothing you despised more than a supply run leading into the night. Daytime was the obvious, leaving as soon as the sun broke but arriving back at base by the last glimpses of light.
The rough branch of a pine snapped against your cheekbone, a hiss leaving your mouth from the flash of pain that shot through there. No time to check. The searing heat and warm dribble that hit your neck signaled the cut drew blood, yet the only thing you could focus on was the fierce burn of your legs and calves.
How did a routine route go south like this?
The strong grip of Chan’s hand around your wrist was the only thing helping you keep up with his pace. You both knew you couldn’t keep up this distance for much longer and had to find shelter soon. A haunting groan louder than you’ve ever experienced before signaled behind the two of you; a clear sign the herd was right on your tails.
“Chan we have to find somewhere, anywhere to take high ground or we’re not making-“
“Yes we are.” His voice coming out sharp, like a promise. “There was an abandoned house up the road from here if we push for another minute or so.” The last thing you wanted to do was keep running for any longer. Your chest heaved, calves tight as panic settled into your system.
You trusted Chan with your life, your best friend since childhood, and yet there was nothing you wanted more than to book it to the tallest tree and wait out the herd at the highest peak. Walkers were stupid, they could overturn a house in seconds but a tree would never cross their mind. They couldn’t climb up nor had half the sense to do so, which was a clear advantage to you. Climbing trees and hiding in high peaks have been the main reason you and Chan were still here today. It made the most sense to you, always opting to go up instead of fight your way out. However, you knew both of your legs were spent at the moment; a climb would be more costly than beneficial now.
“Up there!” His raspy voice called your name as the shape of a home, clearly left in the early days, came into view.
You risked a glance back at the crowd not too far behind the two of you— far enough back to give yourself a chance to get in and board up. His grip remained tight on you as you reached the open clearing in front of the house. Your eyes wild and scanning the surrounding area noticed movement from behind the house— a second smaller group was circling around the abandoned home.
“Chan we gotta pray there’s a basement!”
“What?! Why?” He glanced briefly back at you before the same movement ahead caught his attention.
“Fuck, fuck we’re so fucked!”
Your footsteps thundered up the steps as he threw open the front door, pulling you in behind as he slammed it shut with panicked force.
“We don’t have much time, we gotta block this door somehow!” He ran towards the sofa, starting to pull the heavy furniture to create some sort of barricade.
“Check the back door quick!”
You ran straight down the hall towards the door in the kitchen when the sight made your stomach drop.
The glass in the window was broken out long ago, nothing to protect you from a walker pushing its slimy body through.
“Fuck, Chan the glass is gone!” Your voice desperate as you searched for a possible safe space when your eyes landed upon a hidden door tucked underneath the stairs. You could hear Chan rushing around the front of the house, blocking the windows and doors with as much furniture as possible with the little time you had. Knife drawn, you reach for the doorknob ready to take anything out that would appear. A shaky breath later and you threw the door open, finding nothing but brooms and mops covered in layers of dust. A mouse ran out startling you, but no walkers.
“Hey forget the back door, I find a spot we could be ok in!” Fear settled in the back of your mind over the thought that neither of you had a chance to sweep the whole house. A walker could come barreling down the steps and neither of you would be prepared. You rushed back towards the front to see the couch and dining room table shoved against the door, Chan making quick work of creating any barricade, as he moved a bookcase over a window. Damn he moves fast.
“C’mon we don’t have anymore time.” You grab at him, pulling him towards the cupboard. A huff of a laugh escapes him once he see the hiding spot throwing you a side glance. Knowing between his broad frame and the already cramped space, it would be a tight squeeze. “I don’t care, get in.” You shoved him towards the entrance just as the defying howl of the herd reached the front of the house. A look of fear crossed both your faces as you scrambled into the spot. Chan pulled the door closed just when a pounding started on the front door. The cupboard was stuffy, air hot and sticky; not nearly enough space for two people, but you clung to your friend as your life depended on it.
You were completely surrounded, the echo of groans from walkers filling the whole house. You had no idea if they had found a way in yet or if the herd was just so large their presence filled the entire home. You were shaking, gripping onto Chan as both of you tried to keep your breaths steady. His hand drew circles into your back in an attempt to keep you calm throughout the worst of it. Your mind couldn’t help and drift to D-Day and how you and Chan were in a similar situation, walkers surrounding you, and yet your friend’s actions kept you grounded on what you thought was the last day of your life.
You and Chan went out to eat every Friday night to catch up on whatever went down that week. You had decided on a cozy italian spot with the best handmade pasta in Seoul, with plans to go meet up at Joshua’s place after. A monthly gathering you had with close friends.
The first signs of the fall started when the tv, typically playing a drama in the background, suddenly shifted to an emergency edition of the news. Chan, mid bite, slowly raised an eyebrow upon reading the headline.
“Woah.. Reports of violent attacks amongst families and friends across the nation? I wonder if zombies are taking over?” A loud laugh from him, sarcasm dripping from his voice as you rolled your eyes, used to his antics.
“Yeah right and Wonwoo and I are finally together.” You joked, your crush on your close friend not a secret as Chan always made fun of you over it.
“Ha! What alternate universe have we fallen into Y/N? He’s not gonna fuck you if you keep side eyeing him!” You glared at him, fake irritated as he doubled over laughing.
“You’re so funny Channie, how would you feel if I told Yunjin what you thought about her?” You smirked, reaching for your phone, an empty threat yet you saw your best friend’s mouth drop comedically, a hand sliding across the table towards you.
“Don’t even joke lad you know you wouldn’t..”
“Hmm ok sure but you know she’s my other bestie right? I could call her up right now-“ His sigh of exaggerated annoyance cut you off as you fell into a string of giggles.
“If you want me to kill myself in front of you and change the trajectory of your life just say that.”
“You’re so fucking dramatic I’m not gonna do shit.” You laughed, his mouth opening to speak when he suddenly jumped, eyes going wide. “What the fu-“ You turned slowly as your back faced the door, to take in the same scene. Your blood went cold as you watched a bloodied woman scream, her body against the glass door being violently crushed, her attacker gnawing on her neck as everyone in the restaurant gasped and screamed. The woman went slump, her attacker pushing past her body and into the shop with slow staggered movements. You and Chan were seated near the back, tucked in a booth as you watched the man suddenly move lighting fast towards a little boy and his father. The restaurant erupted into chaos as the family was torn apart. You were glued to your seat as you watched the first woman and the little boy suddenly shift, bones popping, bodies contorting in awful ways as they stood up and turned on others watching in horror.
“Y/N we gotta move. Now.” Chan was suddenly up pulling your arm as your brain couldn’t keep up with the sight in front of you. The front door was a stampede of people, jumping, pushing past one another to avoid being attacked next. You watched as one by one people were turned, now on your feet pushing Chan in the direction of the back and kitchen.
“Holy shit..” He mumbled as the adrenaline finally kicked in, the two of you running through the kitchen. The employees looked confused as you hurled down the line, before those freshly turned burst through the doors, throwing themselves on whoever was nearest.
“Go!” Chan rushed you along as you hit the back door, the wind swinging it open as the two of you rushed out, slamming the door behind you. Once you took in the surroundings of the alley you heard more screams, the kind that sent a chill down your spine, and the sounds of sirens, growls, and panic.
You heard your friend shout your name before a force knocked you flat on your stomach. A stench so awful you could feel your stomach churn hit your nose as you felt a hand go to your hair and yank your neck up. You screamed, kicking and flailing limbs in an attempt to be freed before you heard a loud CRACK! The pressure on top of you disappearing. Chan was quick to pull you on your feet, small splatters of dark blood freckled on his shirt. “Did you get bit? Please tell me you didn’t get bit.” The panic in his voice heavy as he searched your neck frantically, pulling your collar back in desperation. You shook your head, clearly shaken as you finally take a look at your attacker. An elderly woman lay covered in a pool of black blood from where Chan hit her, bite marks visible on her forearm with black branches running through her bloodstream sprouting from the mark.
“We need to get out of the city right now. Head to Wonwoo’s and take off towards the countryside.” Chan’s head was on a swivel as he couldn’t risk either of you getting caught off guard again, dragging you along the shadows as the city fell into pure chaos all around you.
“Do you think… you think he’s okay? What if they already got to him-“ The grip on you tightened as Chan shook his head not entertaining the idea.
“No. No. He’s safe, He’ll know what to do. We make it there and get the fuck out of here.”
“We’re stuck here.. for god knows how long..” His voice no louder than a whisper against the shell of your ear, brought you back to present after you had lost track of time. Not risking speaking any louder than necessary you gave a quick nod, unsure if he even caught the action in the darkness. Herds typically took around an hour to pass by, sometimes as long as a full day depending on the size. Hoping some kind of luck was on your side, you hoped the herd would just wander past the house, continuing its journey up north.
“It’s felt like ages.. I don’t think they’re in the house but the herd must be huge. This house has been shaking for at least an hour.” He continued to whisper as the home made an aching sound as if on queue. The sheer force of the crowd made the ground shake, though it felt less powerful than when it first started. Having been through a herd passing once before, you could tell the presence was letting up, the shaking growing less defiant. Time seemed to move slow in that closet, your limbs aching from being cramped in a tight space and the run a few hours prior. You thought about the place you’ve called your home, your base, for the past 4 months and your heart yearned to make it back.
The more time spent in hiding brought thoughts to the forefront of your mind. A hospital you pre-scouted had ended up housing thousands of walkers underneath. How had you two completely missed that? Were the walkers dormant until the right chance? No, they didn’t think that smart, something you did set them off but in the haze of the situation you couldn’t remember what did it.
“Your thoughts are too loud Stormy. Stop thinking about it.” Your nickname from middle school making an appearance; stormy because you would be a charged up ball of emotion, raging one second and calm the next. Once again Chan pulled you from your thoughts. In true best friend fashion, he could tell whenever you were overthinking or beating yourself up over something.
“I know sorry. But Chan, you can’t help and wonder how we missed that the first time?” You shifted slightly to try and glance at his face. In the darkness you couldn’t make anything out other than the light flicker of his eyes, his jawline flexing as he processed what occurred earlier.
“Yeah.. we barely made it out of there..” His voice grew faint as your eyes shifted down, recounting the events.
“Yes but… we made it and we’re getting out of here soon. I shouldn’t have brought it up right now anyways.” You mumbled, mind shifting elsewhere to prevent overthinking.
“Hey.. The sound?” Chan’s voice trailed off as you both stood silent as possible, ears straining to search for any noise outside the door. The eerie groan of the herd had subsided, leaving only an echo of silence.
“It’s quiet. I don’t like how quiet it is.” You spoke, hand gripping the handle of your knife tightly.
“Let’s wait a few more minutes to be safe.”
After what felt like ages, he decided to crack the door open with one hand, the other wrapped tightly around his blade. Upon a brief scan he allowed the door to fully open and a silent gasp escaped from you. The front door was wide open, all the furniture moved around as the herd plowed straight through the valley around the house. The glass remaining on the windows was blown out, a foul stench lingering in the air. If you hadn’t found the secret cupboard you doubt the two of you would be alive right now. You glance at Chan, adams apple bobbing as you know he was thinking the same thing. A chill runs up your spine from the uncertainty of remaining walkers lingering within the home. In a silent form of communication, Chan points towards the back door through the kitchen, also wide open, however less of an exposing exit than leaving through the front door. He takes up the front, gesturing for you to follow closely behind. The two of you exit on high alert, scanning the field around the house and the outskirts of the forest for any walkers. The herd left a path of destruction, all the grass in the valley flattened and black from the sheer force and amount that came through. You squinted in the distance and could see the herd farther north, an eerie dark blob slowly moving. Both of you make a break for the edge of the forest, opting to move along the edge in case you needed to run into or away from the greenery.
Chan’s sense of direction was better than yours as the herd and darkness had left you feeling disoriented. You walked side by side back in the direction of your home base, determined to make it back.
The remaining few miles were walked in silence, having to stop twice to kill two different walkers along the way—stragglers from the main herd. The area started feeling familiar once again when you and Chan approached the small lineup of shops around your base. All stores that were rummaged in the early days, long before you ever made it there. A familiar building came into your line of vision and you let out a sigh of relief. An abandoned dermatologist clinic surrounded by other clinics and stores, something not as suspicious and susceptible to looting. Upon reaching the front door, you jumped back as it flew open, two sets of eyes staring back wide at you and Chan.
Wonwoo and Jeonghan armed with guns looked at the two of you like they’ve seen a ghost as you and Chan blinked back.
Jeonghan was the first to break the silence, a small smirk appearing on his face. “Finally, had me thinking we’d have to send a search party out.”
“What search party, it’s just you and I.” Wonwoo deadpanned next to him. Jeonghan laughed, lowering his gun and stepping aside to let the two of you in. “Exactly Wonwoo.. but don’t worry your pretty little head!” He patted said man on the top of his head, beaming like they weren’t about to mourn the potential loss of their only other friends and allies left alive.
Doors bolted and shielded once again, Wonwoo stepped back taking in your form, a small frown on his face as you and Chan dropped your packs on the floor.
“What even happened? We were expecting you back by sunset.” You shifted your gaze towards him momentarily before pouring the contents of your bag onto the floor.
“I don’t.. I don’t even know really. We scavenged the buildings we marked on the map successfully, managed to find some good stuff, but once we got to the hospital I should’ve known something could’ve went wrong..” You trailed off feeling 3 sets of eyes on you before Chan cleared his throat and continued on.
“We grabbed some pain medicine, threading needles, gauze, alcohol wipes but before we could get to the real pharmacy it was like a low rumble started.. I think they were keeping the dead in a secluded area.. it just turned out to be awful Wonwoo.” Chan sighed, running a hand through his hair. “We barely made it out before hundreds, maybe even thousands started pouring out. A whole herd followed us for so long. We held it out in a house a few miles out from here.”
You stared at the contents from your run spread on the floor and started separating by similarities. You knew Jeonghan was looking, probably concerned for you as you grew silent, but he watched silently and listened to Chan talk about the run.
“Glad you made it back okay. We were worried but you’re tough. Knew you’d come back to us,” Jeonghan’s spoke softly behind you as he rested a hand on your shoulder.
“And you brought back some great stuff. Can’t wait to tear into that spam.” The smirk in his voice always was evident and it never failed to draw a twin reaction from you.
Wonwoo fell silent, helping Chan sort through his own goods, when he spoke again his voice almost made you jump.
“Next run is me. Jeonghan is still recovering so you can stay with him Y/N.” His eyes don’t meet yours and you feel a tug at your gut. Next to you Chan whines about not even getting asked if he wants to sit the next run out.
“Like did I not just almost die too or…” The sound of a flick on his forehead makes you snort and you see the twitch of Wonwoo’s lips as he fights a smile off.
Your situation with Wonwoo the past few months has been.. complicated.. at the least. Not long after the fall while the four of you were living on the run, never staying anywhere longer than a week, he was the one to always watch over you. Chan started feeling protective, swearing it was his ‘bestie duty’ to make sure you were okay and they almost got into it after Wonwoo insisted Chan stay back for a run instead. Not long after your group had discovered the clinic to settle down in, you all shared an unopened bottle of wine Jeonghan had found. You and Wonwoo had crossed a line in your friendship you never expected to happen later that night. You struggled blocking the memory of it out your mind for days. No matter how hard you tried, you could never forget the feeling of his face buried between your legs and the way you sunk down onto his cock perfectly. Your relationship developed into a huge question mark, the constant need to take care of each other, and getting tangled up in each other every night even had Chan and Jeonghan teasing the two of you. The end of the world makes people do some stupid shit..
After the turn of events for the day, your group decided another run wouldn’t be necessary for at least three weeks as the food and water found was enough to stretch for a while. Jeonghan tended to the cut on your cheek, tongue tisking upon seeing the damage, mumbling something about always cleaning you up with a smirk on his face. You’d never admit it out loud to them but having three men attend to you constantly stroked your ego the slightest.
The next few weeks went by slowly, you and Jeonghan checking on your small garden you started behind the clinic, carefully fenced in to keep animals and walkers away. The humble garden only consisted of tomatoes, (to your despise as Chan tells you to grow up and get adult tastebuds) and strawberries. It was you and Jeonghan’s little project and something to keep you sane in the fallen world. Even Wonwoo would attempt to help, keeping the garden well kept but that was the extent as Jeonghan swore he’d kill every one of the plants. The garden, your few books, quick but careful strolls close by, and very unserious conversations kept you semi occupied, though you yearned for more. The ache for your old life, to see your family and other friends one more time always crept up on you when you got too still for too long. One particular night got too much to bear, a lump forming in your throat when your thoughts drifted to your mother and your younger sister whom you got a chance to say goodbye to.
Sneaking off to the emergency exit in one of the back rooms was your solitude. There was a ladder and a latch that led to the roof of the clinic that you’d climb up onto whenever the thoughts got too loud or you needed alone time. Sometimes Chan or Jeonghan would join you but never Wonwoo. You imagine he respects your alone time and knows that’s your ‘secret’ spot.
The sound of the latch lifting caused you to jump, your eyes shifting from the stars above you to a pair of eyes behind glasses and dark hair poking their head up at you—Wonwoo’s first appearance at the roof sanctuary.
“Hey.”
“Wassup.”
He started to climb up, softly closing the latch and crawling over to lay on his back facing the sky next to you.
“I see why you like it up here so much.”
You hum an agreement, eyes back at the blanket of stars though your chest felt heavy with grief.
“You know.. I’m not the best with words,” You fight a smile from flickering across your lips, “but I noticed you weren’t okay today. What’s bothering you?” One thing about him, he truly kept an eye out for you and you appreciated him for that. You sigh and keep your eyes trained above you, knowing the tears would start pooling if you looked at him.
“My family.. This is so hard Won..” You take a shaky breath and feel his hand rest on top of yours. “I miss my mom, her laugh. My dad and his silly jokes. My baby sister who had so much joy.. I miss my friends.. I love you guys so much and you all mean the world to me, but I yearn for the people in my life before as well.” He remains silent next to you, not indicating he was even there other than his silent breaths. “I’m sure in a few years if I’m still alive it’ll get easier. I just have these nights a lot because the end is still so recent.”
“I understand that feeling as much as you.” His deeper voice cuts through the air, “I miss my parents and brother a lot. Not knowing what could’ve happened to them kills me everyday.”
“This grief, you’re feeling the emotions and working through it. It shows you’re only human Y/N. You’re keeping your family’s memory alive and that is what’s important now.” His words hit you in your gut, the lump that was in your throat before making a reappearance. “Our current world doesn’t allow for us to properly heal, but you’re doing your best..” His voice trails off like he was suddenly unsure and you finally shift your eyes towards him.
His face was hard, like he was working to keep his emotions in check. His gaze was directed on the constellations above you, but you couldn’t miss the single tear that started to slide down his cheek. With how quick the world collapsed and everyone turned, you realized nobody within your group had the chance to truly feel the loss of their loved ones. The ones you held out hope for, yet knew the likelihood of their survival was slim after this long.
“You’re allowed to grieve too Won.” Your voice came out soft as you reached for his face, swiping the tear away. He leaned into your embrace, taking a shaky breath. You had never seen him this worked up or even cry before and it made your heart feel like it was breaking. Before he could respond, a noise towards the ground made both of you go silent.
Still on your backs and hidden from anyone’s line of sight, Wonwoo put a finger over his lips in a hushing motion before slowly turning over, still keeping low. You followed his actions, wanting to risk a quick peek at the cause of the disruption.
In the inky darkness, you could make out three shadows inching closer to your hiding spot. They moved with too much agility to have been walkers. You and Wonwoo watched quietly as the three shadows seemed to be checking different buildings nearby, two of the people going in and another standing guard outside. Your heart pounded in your chest, hoping they would skip the clinic entirely. From your hiding spot you were certain they couldn’t see you and Wonwoo as you and Chan tested the vantage point before.
“We should see where they end up.” You feel Wonwoo’s breath by your ear as you cut a glance to him, already looking at you from his peripheral. You give a tiny nod and turn your focus back towards the shadows closing in. They were close enough now you could make out their features.
A tall slender man with hair down to the nape of his neck had his gun drawn before entering the convenience store directly across from the clinic, a spot your group has ransacked more times than you can remember. A second shape, this one tall but broader with short hair, followed swiftly behind the first man. Their third member— a short but well built man with long dark hair, stood on high alert outside the store as the other two did a sweep. You watched the one outside scanning the area nearby when his eyes shifted up towards your roof.
“Shit.” You were already lying as low as possible and wanted to sink even further, questioning if the visibility afar was well enough to make out the shape of you two.
The man didn’t seem to notice, turning around as he heard his partners exiting the building and they slinked off to the next one. The two of you watched as they cleared more buildings, getting about a block up before stopping at the veterinarian clinic, seeming to have found their shelter for the night. Wonwoo wanted to watch longer as you sat there for another 30 minutes before you determined that likely was the groups shelter for the night.
“Let’s go back now. Report what we saw to Chan and Jeonghan.” You tugged on his sleeve, finally drawing his attention away from the building. You descended down back into the clinic, making sure the latch was locked before Jeonghan appeared in front of you.
“Were you up there fucking on the roof or what? What took you so long!” You smacked his arm as his signature wicked smile flashed his face. Wonwoo felt his ears get hot but his expressionless face wouldn’t have shown he was affected by the comment.
“No you freak, we spotted a trio lurking around nearby.” The three of you entered into the front lobby where Chan was standing, gaze turned towards the window.
“Yeah.. I saw them get close. Thankfully they didn’t even check over here but they’re too close for my comfort.” He grumbled, hand gripping the handle of his knife at his hip.
You wondered if the figures would pass by come the first break of sun or if they’d try to set up their own camp nearby. None of you had seen anyone else in the area the few months you had been here, and you’d like to keep it that way. The thought of strangers being just a few shops up sent a chill down your spine. In the current world, walkers were manageable. They’re slow and stupid, easy to take out one on one. The true evil were the humans. The fall of society makes people do unimaginable things, and nothing ran your blood cold quicker than the thought of a group of strange men surrounding you. It had been a little over two weeks since your last run, your groups resources and food started to dwindle down. You knew you’d be able to last another week max before having to venture out again, but Chan never liked getting down to the last bit. Always thinking about if you had to up and hit the road suddenly. If that group decided to set up base here, you couldn’t hide in the clinic forever.
Knowing you wouldn’t be able to get a second of sleep tonight, you offered to take second watch, posted up next to Chan having a heated discussion on which song would revive you from the dead.
“Okay but timeless by The Weeknd? Cmon you know that first note would have your body jolting awake..” You argued as he stood his ground on Promiscuous by Nelly Furtado.
Times like this were when you really missed the ease of pulling out your phone and listening to music. Your phone died within the first 3 days of the fall and you yearned for some music. If anyone ever stumbled upon a walkman or old ipod nano you had called first dibs on it.
The two of you rambled on until a big yawn made you shove him up out his chair demanding him to go get rest.
“Whatever you say mom…” He grinned before disappearing off into the closest room to sleep.
Sitting in one of the chairs nearby, Jeonghan played with a rubix cube, the same one he’s solved four times over, to keep him occupied.
“You know your shift isn’t up for another 3 hours Han. You can get some rest I’ll be okay.” He hummed an acknowledgment, eyes locked on his cube.
“Wanted to keep you company it’s cool.”
“Where’s Won?” He looked up in thought for a second before going back to the cube.
“Probably on the roof. He said he wanted all bases covered now that somebody’s in the area.”
You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose. “So does nobody other than Chan know how to sleep when it’s not their watch?” Jeonghan huffed a laugh behind you, clearly amused by how concerned you sound.
The night went by slowly, Jeonghan falling asleep in the chair shortly after and you threw a blanket overtop of him. Wonwoo came down as well, smiling softly at his friend knocked out, and leaving a ghost of a kiss on your temple before returning to his designated room. You shook Jeonghan softly when it was his turn, a yawn and stretch escaping him as you swapped spots.
“Nuh uh Stormy, go get some real sleep.” His watchful eye turned towards you and before you could protest he shooed you away. You found yourself in Chan’s room, snuggling up next him as he shifted in his sleep, immediately wrapping an arm around you.
You slept for felt like 30 seconds before Chan was shaking you awake frantically.
“Y/N get up.” The haze of sleep made you slow to get up, barely registering Chan’s panicked tone.
“That group is getting involved in something, some other people showed up.” The sound of gunfire rung in the background as you shot up off the roll on the floor, running out after Chan towards the lobby.
Wonwoo and Jeonghan were already out there on both sides of the door watching carefully, the only two guns the group had in their hands in preparation. You and Chan made your way towards the window behind the reception desk, the blinds closed but peeking out a single shutter to catch a glimpse of the carnage outside. From here you watched the flash of a muzzle and shots ring out as four men dressed in all black hung from a militarized SUV. They were only 3 doors down from your base, firing in the direction of the veterinary clinic you knew the three men from last night took refuge at.
“Maybe a rivalry?” Jeonghan wondered out loud, his voice so soft spoken it almost was missed.
“Could be possible that group was trying to leave and these new guys pulled up..” Chan carried on next to you, his face drawn in confusion as shouts and gunfire continued to ring out.
“Whatever it is, they better keep their asses away from here.” Wonwoo spit bitterly, eyes trained at the sight unfolding in front of him. A scream rang out and you watched two of the men crumple to the ground, the other side hitting their mark. The sound of glass breaking and the whizz of a bullet through the window closest to Jeonghan had Chan pushing the two of you below the desk, Jeonghan and Wonwoo dropping quickly, keeping low and as close to the wall as possible in fear of more stray bullets.
“Hannie were you hit?!” You called out, and weak ‘no’ came from him. Peering around the side of the desk you could see the bullet hit just above the chairs you liked to lounge in. Anyone sitting in the chair directly below it would’ve been killed.
The gunfire outside came to a halt, a sudden eerie silence lingering. From the chaos alone, you’d be surprised if no walkers stumbled into the area. Risking a look you stay crouched and slowly lift one of the shutters to Chan’s dismay, his hand tugging on your sleeve as a way to stop you. The men in all black are picking up the bodies of their fallen companions, dragging them into the SUV, speeding off in the opposite direction. The sound of the car skirting off has everyone standing once again, wild looks across the four faces and a question hanging in the air— what next?
“Look.” Chan tilts his chin towards the window again as you all watch the 3 men from last night shuffling towards the clinic.
The two taller ones have the shorter one between them, supporting him as they close in on your base.
Your eyes wander to the broken window from the bullet, the top panel blown out with raggly shards remaining of the lower part. Even if you acted like nobody was in here, they could break out the rest of the glass and climb in.
“Are they actually coming in here?” Wonwoo huffed in disbelief, his grip tight on the gun as your group watched them reach the front of the building.
A hush fell over the room so silent you swore you could hear the pound of your heartbeat.
“Please, can you help us? We don’t want to harm you at all.” A voice called on the opposite side of the door.
You remained silent, eyes connecting with Jeonghan as you watched the wheels turn in his head. You gave him a slow shake— a plead to remain silent.
“Please, our friend is injured we just want to patch him up and go on our way.” The same voice pleaded, this time laced with desperation.
“We saw two of you on the roof last night we know you’re there,” You feel your stomach drop at the revelation, so confident you and Wonwoo were well hidden in the shadows. “We will disarm we don’t want to hurt you please just help us.” A different voice called out this time, a little huskier than the other.
You glanced at everyone in the room, different faces but the same thought formulating— how to get out of this situation and keep the group safe.
“How do we know you’re not about to just kill us?” Wonwoo’s voice is monotone as ever as he’s the first to respond back. Your stomach feels like a pit as every fiber in you screams this is a terrible idea. But what other choice do you have? They could very well break in now that one of the windows were blown out. They saw you and Wonwoo on the roof, knowing there were at least two people inside. Your options were limited to fighting your way out and killing them, or taking a chance and helping them. If you were in their shoes, you’d want to receive help for one of your boys even if it meant the uncomforted situation of being disarmed with strangers.
You hear a groan from outside, the wounded man in pain as you and Chan share a look.
“What if we let them in, help get their friend healed up, and kick them out.. send them right on their way?” You ask, weighing your options.
“We could, but now our base is compromised. Are we gonna take a chance with letting these randoms in?” Chan replied back, catching everyone in the room’s eye.
“Yes, but our base is compromised now either way. They saw Y/N and Wonwoo on the roof, they know we’re staying here. What’s the harm in letting them help their friend and they go?” Jeonghan reasoned, the main point being that the base was now known by others. No matter what they did, they had a risk of being found now. “We might have to relocate now anyways. That attack earlier definitely drew attention of anyone that could be in the area. Walkers even.”
“Walkers are the least of our concerns right now, people know our location. What if those other guys come back?” Wonwoo spoke up, voicing a concern that crept in your thoughts as well.
“Those guys could be hunting this group-” you start before one of the men knocked rapidly on the door.
“Hey um.. there’s a group of walkers coming by soon. Can you just let us in, our friend is in pain man.”
You gnaw on your lip, Chan’s eyes look around, Wonwoo shakes his head in a ‘we’ll regret this’ way, and Jeonghan makes the move to unbolt the front door.
Guns pointed at the 3, the door opens and you see the pool of blood that has accumulated from the minute they were standing there. They stagger in, the one in the middle with his eyes closed, chewing his lip from pain as the door flies shut after them.
“Guns, knives, all weapons on the ground now.” Wonwoo demands, holding his ground; gun pointed at them as the two taller men drop the glock’s, the injured one dropping an automatic weapon.
“Where can we take him?” The one with long hair speaks up after tossing two knives out of his cargo pockets.
“Bring him here.” You motion for them to follow you to one of them examination rooms.
Nobody in your group was trained in the medical field, as all of you went to school for tech or communications . However with the limited knowledge on medicine between the four of you, old nursing school and anatomy books you found plus Jeonghan’s ability to sew; you were able to treat any injuries the group has faced so far.
“Do any of you have medical background? The one with the short clipped blonde hair spoke, looking around at the group.
“No, we’ve gotten by though.” Chan leans against the wall as the two men lift their friend onto the examination chair with a groan in agony from him.
“Back in our group we have a doctor but we don’t know anything beyond the basics.. Whatever you can do to help please..” The blonde one looked directly at you, his gaze sharp enough to cause you to shift.
“Where’s the wound?” You ask, washing your hands after Jeonghan finished up. Wonwoo and Chan had the guns. No longer pointed at them, but still on high alert.
“He got hit in the side. I don’t think it pierced real deep but he’s in a lot of pain.” The long haired one spoke in a soft tone.
“Hey, your ear is bleeding.” Jeonghan pointed towards the blonde one who reached up to his right ear, unfazed by the blood. He waved his hand in dismissal, focused on his friend foremost.
“Don’t worry about me, focus on Jihoon.”
You look to the injured man— Jihoon; and rolled up his shirt. The bullet wound was small, the work of stray fragments and you could tell it didn’t go clean through. You had studied the anatomy book front and back multiple times over in the isolation of the base, knowing nothing major was hit thankfully. Your biggest concern was the risk of infection, which could set in easily with such limited supplies.
Your pain medication was limited to over the counter pain medicine to Jihoon’s dispair. You knew the 3 tylenol you made him swallow would barely do anything to help the pain. You and Jeonghan work together to extract the bullet fragments, stop the bleeding, clean up the wound and cauterize it. You stepped out the way to let Jeonghan sew him up and turn towards the blonde who you learned was named Soonyoung; to clean up and bandage his ear. He offered a soft smile as you worked, tuning back into the conversation in the room.
“How did those guys find you?”
“We were sent out on a scouting mission. Plan was to retrieve some supplies for the group and search for a backup base,” The long haired one—Minghao, continued on. “We came across a house that was fully stocked. I mean pantry full of goods, medicine, batteries, gasoline, you name it.”
“Turns out it wasn’t abandoned..” Soonyoung cut in, making a face when the alcohol pad connected with his ear. “This group of at least 15 guys rolled up. They had cars and everything. We were barely able to escape and ended up killing a few of them.”
“They chased us for miles. We took different routes, but since they had cars they caught up to us with ease.”
“We managed to shake them off for a while by hiding out in the forest. That’s when we made the escape over here and found the veterinarian place.” Minghao continued on, eyes set on Jihoon who was out cold. The pain had knocked him unconscious. “They must’ve never lost our trail because we were heading out this morning when their car showed up.”
“Worst timing ever,” Soonyoung sighed, “What makes things worse was that wasn’t even all of their crew. They swore there was 30, 40 people in their group.”
The revelation caused your group to look up at each other. This large group of men with firepower, seemingly endless supplies, and vehicles were holding a grudge on this crew, determined to find them for taking their goods. Goods you couldn’t help and wonder how they acquired. With that much sway and amount of men, they had to have overtaken many other groups to get what they wanted.
“Wait.. they followed you for miles just cause you stole some cans? These fuckers are crazy..” Chan shook his head in disbelief.
“What if they come back? They know you couldn’t have gotten far especially if someone was injured.” You mumbled, the sudden fear of your home base being attacked crept up in your mind.
“We’ll leave as soon as Jihoon is up. We don’t want to risk your safety-“
“The moment those guys showed up was the moment our safety was compromised.” Soonyoung was abruptly cutoff by Wonwoo who stood with his arms folded over his chest, the whole situation clearly unsettling him.
“How did you guys even see us on the roof?” You questioned, remembering how Jihoon cast his gaze towards the roof briefly, but never showed any signs of discovery.
“He said there was a flash up there, a reflection of jewelry or glasses or something..” Your hand absentmindedly reached for your necklace; your birthstone and a ring your mother gave you for your 18th birthday years ago.
“Wonwoo your blindness has sold you once again.” Jeonghan laughed as said man gave a glare to his friend.
“You mentioned a backup shelter,” Chan turned towards Minghao and Soonyoung. “What’s wrong with your current one? How far is it?” Something shifted with the question as Minghao went stiff. Just as you were cautious about your home you’re sure these men were cautious with theirs.
“We started out as a smaller group, about 6 of us.. on the run for a while before we settled at a base for about 2 months. We were overrun by walkers one night, a stampede out of nowhere and lost a few people..” Soonyoung’s eyes shifted to the floor as he recounted the story. “To this day we think somebody drew them towards our house. We stumbled upon this apartment complex after traveling for days. They accepted us with open arms and we’ve been there since.”
“However we think the leaders of the community are dicks and a small group of us are trying to break off.” Minghao added, face expressionless as you raised a brow at his comment.
“Nothing worse than a bunch of dickheads on a power trip during the end of the world.” Jeonghan tisked causing a smirk on Soonyoung’s lips.
“We’re making our escape as soon as we get back. A power structure during times like this doesn’t sit right with me. It’s alright to have someone who can take the lead but not when you’re punished for protecting your own..” A sad look crosses his face as he looks at Jihoon, eyebrows knitted as he laid on the chair.
“I hope things work out for you all.” Wonwoo commented softly, the monotone voice gone as the guys shared more details with your group.
“You guys should come with us!”
“Soonyoung.”
“No I’m serious, those other guys are going to come back. I’m sure of it. If we all leave together in the morning we could get out before the full crew rolls up.” His proclamation shocked you to the point you almost couldn’t trust what he was saying. You’ve never seen anyone offer a thing to your group since the end. Everyone is selfish now, and often rightfully so; it can be do or die in this world.
“I don’t know man..” Chan scratched at his ear with uncertainty written all over this face.
“Yeah Soonyoung, don’t you think you’re thinking a little rash..?” Minghao side eyed his comrade, clearly thrown off by the sudden invitation.
“No Hao, I don’t think it is. We need to build our numbers up again. I’m tired of living on the edge.” They stared at each other, a silent communication occurring in front of you.
“Thank you, for the offer. I think we’re gonna stick to our own for now.” Wonwoo’s words had a sting to them, the four of you remembering the early days when you weren’t just four, but a group of eight. The closer you get to more people, the more likely someone will be gone in the blink of an eye. It was a way to keep yourselves detached.
“You sure you don’t wanna sleep on it?” Soonyoung’s smirk was evident in his voice.
“I think.. we have to discuss this again a little later.” Jeonghan stated with a curt nod.
You left the three newcomers in the examination room as you, Chan, Wonwoo and Jeonghan stepped into a different room. You felt the atmosphere shift, the unease was oozing off Wonwoo who you could tell was itching to voice his concerns.
“I don’t need to remind you all what happened the last time we were apart of a larger group,” he immediately started, arms folded over his chest in an almost defensive manner. “Larger packs tend to draw the attention of walkers and those of the living more so.”
“From what I understand, they have others in their circle as well. Us alone makes seven and I can’t even fathom traveling in a group larger than ten.” Chan nods along to your words, clearly against up and going with individuals you met a few hours ago.
“I mean what if it’s a setup? They said they belonged to a larger community.. What if they try to lure us back to a cult or something?”
“That’s a valid possibility now. So many cults have popped up since the fall.” Wonwoo once again driving his point home.
“We should let them stay the night or until their friend gets up and is mobile. That Minghao guy clearly looks uncomfortable here.” Jeonghan whispered the last bit, eyes turning back towards the room the other men were taking refuge in.
“Agreed. I can’t help but wonder if those guys who attacked them are steaking out the place.” You always found yourself voicing the worst possible outcome but somebody had to be realistic..
“It’s all I could think about since the attack. How our base could be compromised now the moment they leave.” Chan sighs rubbing the crease of his forehead. “We could stay here a while and try to find a new spot. We need a supply run in the coming week anyways.” The last supply run almost ended up with you and Chan flattened by a herd of walkers now your group might be looking to relocate as well. You feel the uncertainty creep in, anxiety always coming to kick your ass when a warm hand lands on your bicep; Wonwoo trying to provide a small comfort in your overthinking, over worrying state. You offer him a small smile that he returns, a warmth spreading in you only he can provide.
“We’ve been here for 4 months too.. I’m scared if we get too complacent, another Jess and Hyunwon situation will happen.” You feel bad mentioning your long gone friends but your point still stands: never be comfortable in a fallen world.
“It won’t.” Chan’s stare was intense. Your newfound family couldn’t be torn apart again.
The rest of the day went by slow, You or Jeonghan checking on Jihoon, who had came around by mid-day, pain still evident but responsive and subdued a bit on pain meds. Chan and Soonyoung were hunched over a map in deep conversation, Wonwoo and Minghao standing on guard by the door, Minghao leaving to check on his friend often. Over the small portable stovetop you were lucky enough to find a month ago, a dinner of corn and 2 strips of canned grilled chicken were cooking, ready to be divided 7 ways. Soonyoung was quite the yapper, always talking about a crazy story of a failed raid or the weird situations he used to get in back when the world was normal. You feel a pang in your chest over the fact you managed to find what seemed to be genuine people in this new dark world; and yet your group still is deciding not to stick around with them. Jihoon was up and walking after your meal despite your efforts to keep him seated.
“Just a scratch, I’ve had worse.”
By the first streak of light, the three men were packing up, ready to hit the road again as Soonyoung said they had a half days journey back to their current base.
“Thank you for your gratitude. We cannot thank you enough for helping us.” Minghao gave a slight bow to express his gratefulness.
“Times like these I wish we still had phones. Where if guys ever ran into trouble you’d always know where to find a shelter with us.” Soonyoung sighed, pulling something from his bag before passing it towards you. A pack of matches, round of ammunition and a can of sweet potato were a parting gift and thank you for saving his friend’s life.
“Soonyoung I..”
“Don’t worry about it, for real.” The smile on his face so genuine you wanted to cry despite barely knowing this man.
“We wish you the best out there. Thank you.” Jihoon finished, the dip of his head being his form of gratitude before the group slipped out the door into the rising embers of sunlight.
“Maybe we should’ve went with them after all..” Jeonghan scratched at his head as you watched their shadows disappear down the road.
“It’s for the best. I’m gonna go freshen up.” Wonwoo spoke up, turning towards the bathroom with your makeshift shower system. A hole cut through the wall with a water bucket dangling that collected rain water served as your shower. Over the months your group stayed here the more you worked to improve it and make it your own. You couldn’t up and leave all this behind, your garden and the routine everyone has fallen into.
A few days after the men left, you and Jeonghan ventured out to a nearby clearing in the forest. Typically you could find small nuts or even berries in the foliage which was the goal today. Chan and Wonwoo were planning to do a run in the next few days, but you wanted to be stocked up all around. With the potential threat of the militant group looming, you didn’t want your group out longer than necessary.
Jeonghan was occupied plucking nuts off a tree, humming softly while you kept a watchful eye on the area around you two. A movement across the clearing catches your eye when you see a tall lean man with dark brown hair step out, a flash of surprise crossing his face as you make eye contact.
“Hannie.” He hums in acknowledgment, turning his head a bit before he fully stands seeing the man having a stare down with you.
The man’s expression was blank, eyes wandering like a silent question of who’s gonna move first. After what felt like an eternity, the guy steps back into the forest line before disappearing, the sound of his footsteps taking off the only indication he had fled. You let out a breath you don’t notice you were holding; Jeonghan grabbing you and nearly dragging you back towards the base.
“I swear to god if he’s apart of those lunatics..” He mumbled, your outing cut short as you trudged back to your home curtly.
“He was by himself though, I don’t think they’d send a solo out and he seemed genuinely shocked when he saw us..” You recount the surprise on his face like he wasn’t expecting anyone in the valley.
You approach your base, about to decent down the hill directly across the shops when you hear the sound of an engine.
Jeonghan stops dead in his tracks, you turn towards him wide eyed. It had been only 3 days since the guys left, Soonyoung swearing that it wouldn’t take long for group to make their rounds again.
“Fuck Hannie.. I don’t see the car yet maybe if we run now we can make it back-“
“No, look.” Two blacked out SUV’s rolled past, a giant red ‘S’ drawn on the side of the cars. You were crouched down out of the line of vision as they drove just past your base; stopping closer to the veterinarian clinic Soonyoung’s crew was hiding out in.
“Flank em! Make sure those fuckers are gone!”
Carefully backing up behind the tree line, your mind raced as you tried to come up with a route to get to your base and safely get in— or get Chan and Wonwoo out. Going through the front would be too obvious, and you locked the rooftop latch last time. The only viable option was the back but even getting down the hill and across the center without any of the militarized group spotting you would be difficult.
“Sorry to interrupt but I can help you guys.” An unknown voice pulls you back, you and Jeonghan drawing your knives at the new appearance that seemed to sneak up on you.
“Who the fuck are you?” Your voice heavy with venom as you finally see the man from the clearing up close. His hazel eyes darting from Jeonghan back to you, hands up in surrender. “You work for them?”
“Absolutely not. I know how they operate though.” Mystery man spoke flatly, nothing trustworthy behind his tone.
“Bullshit. I don’t believe a word out your mouth. Why are you watching us?” Jeonghan barked back, ears tuning in the chaos of the group searching nearby buildings.
“Look, I’m friends with Soonyoung, he sent me out to keep an eye on you and report back if the Serpents showed up eventually.” The revelation shocked both of you, more uncertainty running through the air.
“The Serpents? That’s what they’re called?”
“Yeah, it’s a lot to explain now but they’re a cult. Won’t stop until their targets are killed or conform.” It bothered you how much he knew about them, but considering he knew Soonyoung, you wondered how helpful this man could be. “I know your friends are still in your base and I’m sure you wanna get them out.”
“Clearly. Why are you helping us?” The man sighed, hands still raised.
“I get it you don’t trust me, I wouldn’t either. Soonyoung wanted you guys to come with him and feared the Serpents would get to you before he could make his way back. I’m not joking when I say they won’t stop until you’re dead or one of them.” A sound of glass shattering caused you to turn your head, three of the serpents group heading into the clinic about 6 doors down from your base. Anxiety settled in your gut knowing Chan and Wonwoo were inside most likely planning for an ambush.
“Fine, help us get our friends out and we’ll give you a chance. If you’re lying I’ll slit your throat,” you threatened, the man remaining stoic. “You never said your name either.”
“Vernon.” His gaze felt sharp as you made eye contact. “I have a plan. It’s probably batshit crazy but if you don’t fuck up we can make it out of here.” The man—Vernon quirked a singular eyebrow up presenting a challenge to you. You and Jeonghan share a brief look before nodding in agreement.
“Fuck it, let’s do it.” Vernon’s lip twitches, fighting off a smirk as he signals for everyone to crouch down.
“Good, they’ll be happy to see me. I’ll be a distraction while you two sneak in through the back and get your friends out. You’ll have about 2 minutes tops to get what you need, grab them and escape.” Vernon swiftly signaled with his hands where to go without being spotted.
“Afterwards how will we find you?” Jeonghan questioned as Vernon looked up and deadpanned.
“Oh you couldn’t miss me.”
“Okay…”
“In the instance things go south, meet back here on the other side of the clearing,” he points towards the berry bush you originally spotted him at. “If any of them follow, you know what to do.” You went over the last details of your hastily arranged plans and watched as Vernon pulled a black mask over his head, disappearing down the hill.
The plan was in motion.
The chaos halted as you hear somebody speaking and a hearty laugh comes from the left of your spot. You and Jeonghan move quick, rushing down the hill and zigzagging behind alleyways. When you’re directly across from the base, you risk a glance towards the direction of the Serpents and see Vernon in the middle, his mask off now. A crazed smile was on his lips, like the situation was amusing as he was surround by nearly 15 men. The two of you run as quietly as possible till you reach the back of your base, climbing over the fence with ease. The back door was locked and you tapped on the glass hurriedly.
The door opens just a crack as Wonwoo peaks his head out, eyes wide with relief seeing you and Jeonghan in front of him. You rush in as you run through the rooms grabbing any essentials you can.
“We got less than a minute to get out of here, a friend of Soonyoung is distracting them right now but we gotta get out quick.” You quickly explain, Chan throwing you a crazy look as he starts throwing stuff into his pack.
“Soonyoung? What do you mea-“
“Not enough time to explain, just know shits about to get crazy if we’re not out of here immediately!” Jeonghan called from another room, slinging his pack back on his shoulder as everyone threw as much necessities into their bags hastily.
“We need to move now c’mon!” You grab Chan by the elbow, pushing him towards the back door with Wonwoo close behind. Jeonghan was already outside, cramming tomatoes and strawberries into an old can. Your heart ached knowing how hard he worked on this garden, yearning for a sense of familiarity in the foul world you lived in.
“Hannie-“ You started, reaching for him and he nodded quickly.
“I know. I couldn’t leave all of them. Let’s go now.” Climbing over the fence one by one, Wonwoo helped boost you over. You knew your time had to be up as Wonwoo’s boots hit the pavement, everyone on edge.
It was easy getting two people by without being noticed but four? You prayed Vernon’s distraction would hold for long enough to at least get to the other side of the buildings. You take the front, peering around the building to see the Serpents pointing guns at Vernon. One of them you presumed was the leader, standing close to him. You catch his eye briefly as his face remained hard as stone and expressionless. He blinks hard once, a way of signaling for your group to go. You wave your friends on, before booking it across the square. You’re certain the sound of four sets of feet caught someone’s attention as you hear a loud ‘hey!’ when you rush through the alleyways back towards the hill. You just about reach the tree line when you hear Chan huff out a laugh.
“Holy shit what is he doing?” You turn your head briefly in the direction of Vernon and the Serpents when you see him throw something, the group shouting and hollering frantically as Vernon took off with stellar speed back towards the hill. Gunshots rung out for a brief second following his departure.
“Oh my god is he insane-“ The sound of an explosion shook the area around you, the ground vibrating. You fall with a grunt only to be pulled back up by Jeonghan, leading you towards the tree line.
“Move, move, move!” Chan shouts behind you as he sees the flames engulf the cars, however some of the Serpents were left unscathed; already moving through alleyways towards the hill. Vernon comes barreling through the trees, hair in every direction and eyes wild as he makes contact with your group.
“Are you nuts??? You didn’t tell us the plan involved a fucking grenade??!!” He smirked lopsidedly at you, the voice in the back of your mind saying that’s hot before you pushed the thought away.
“Would’ve ruined the grandiose plan. Now let’s move it, that didn’t kill all of them and boy are they pissed!” He took off across the valley as your group followed close behind him, entering the lush forest.
“You can’t hide from us forever Vernon, We’ll find you and fucking slaughter everyone you know!!” You hear a furious voice roar from behind you, his threat sending a chill down your spine. Your group keeps pushing through the forest, the chill winter air making it hard to suck in proper breaths.
You hate forests now. If you have to run through another forest fighting for your life again you will burn the whole thing down. You risk a look behind you, not seeing or hearing anyone following. Wonwoo and Chan took the rear and Jeonghan trudged along next to you, Vernon taking the head. You had no idea where he was leading you but you hoped it would be far from the Serpents reach. After what felt like forever of running, jumping over roots and weaving from distant growls of walkers, Vernon stops and leans against a tree. His chest was heaving as he signaled for everyone to take a break.
“I think… we should have lost them… by now..” He took in deep breaths, barely getting his sentence out. You leaned your head on Jeonghan’s shoulder; the two of you sitting on a downed tree. Chan and Wonwoo squatted next to Vernon, attempting to catch their breaths.
“I gotta say, you got some balls man. Where the fuck did you even get a grenade from?” Chan laughed turning to your new ally, the ghost of a smile on Vernon’s face.
“Jihoon took some… gifts if you will.. before we left our old compound.” He shrugged like it was nothing.
“Thanks for doing that back there, you gave us an actual chance. Thought Chan and I would have to fight for our lives for a second.” Wonwoo gave his gratitude before taking a large gulp of water passed from Chan.
“No problem. Not exactly the craziest thing I’ve done in the past few months but it was worth it..”
“Do you mind me asking,” You started, his attention now fully on you. “You told me and Jeonghan that you knew the Serpents. The way that one guy reacted… Did you use to be one of them?” He shifted uncomfortably, eyes lowering to the ground as he took a second to mull over his thoughts.
“No.” He stayed silent for a few moments. You were seconds from apologizing for asking before he continued.
“Minghao and I were taken captive by them a few months ago. Burned down the first community we stayed in. We didn’t conform so they tried to break us.” He took a shaky breath, still avoiding eye contact with anyone as you could tell he was recounting the past.
“A lot happened and we were able to escape. This was me getting my revenge.” He finally looked back up at you, hazel eyes holding an emotion you couldn’t place.
“Shit, I’m sorry man that sounds awful..” Chan cut through the silence after a few moments. Vernon shook his head.
“It’s cool, we should get moving now. I don’t like being in these woods for long. Too many walkers.” He pushed off the tree, dusting himself off from imaginary lint as everyone put their waters away, stretching and getting ready to move again.
“Our base isn’t far from here but we should remain silent the rest of the way.” With that he turned and headed straight, the four of you trailing behind him.
Your mind wandered to his past, what he had to possibly endure under the wrath of The Serpents in captivity. The ultimatum of join a cult or die sounded like a nightmare nobody should endure after the fall of society. You wanted to ask how him and Minghao escaped but you pressed enough for today. You just met and didn’t want to overwhelm him as he seemed a bit closed off typically.
At some point the sky started to change color, hues of orange and pink above signaling the hours of sunlight was coming to an end. Vernon veered off to the right, approaching the tree line and walking out from the forest. You followed closely behind, stepping out and seeing a large steel fence that once was a gated community. He approached the front of the gate and the steel bars slid open. Tilting your head you could see someone perched in a makeshift watchtower at the top of the wall connected to the gate. They watched carefully as your group came in, the gate slamming with a thud.
Vernon remained quiet, walking past rows of houses in various conditions. Some looked torn apart in the wake of the fall, others seemed to be left untouched, and some were fortified, probably where his crew stayed currently. He lead you towards a clubhouse in the middle of the community, the door flying open as a familiar blonde haired man beamed at the approaching group.
“Vernonie! Glad you made it back. And you brought along some friends, perfect!” Soonyoung stepped out, smiling widely at you.
“Long time no see..” You rolled your eyes at his antics, allowing him to scoop you into a hug. “I told you guys to be careful, those sickos would make their way back there. Vernon, man, he’s our best scout. I knew he would keep a proper eye on everyone and get you here safely.” He greeted the other guys with various daps and handshakes.
“Come in, there’s some people I need to introduce you to.”
Entering the main doors you see a group of men around a large table engaged in conversation that comes to a halt seeing the new arrivals. The sight of a familiar face almost sends you into a coma, his jaw dropped in shock.
“This can’t be real.. Joshua??” You approach him as he gets up and throws his arms around you, your friends wearing various shades of shock on their faces behind you.
“How did you- how did…” You couldn’t finish your sentence as tears welded up. One of your closest friends you thought died months ago suddenly was in front of you. In your arms, rubbing a soothing hand on the top of your head.
“I could ask you guys the same thing. Me and Seokmin barely made it out of the city. We waited a while before fleeing, along the way we met Soonyoung and his guys.” He pulled away from you, soft smile on his face. He reached out to wipe the tear from your cheek as you released him, watching him hug your friends one by one. Soonyoung watched with a calm smile on his face. Vernon against the corner, arms crossed as he watched the interaction unfold.
“Seokmin is here too?” Wonwoo smiled in disbelief as Joshua nodded.
“That’s the doctor we told you about.” Soonyoung cut in and you couldn’t help but smile wider.
“Glad he’s putting his degree to use still. Some of us have no knowledge in this world now.” You joked, a few chuckles from your techie friends.
“How’d you guys get by for so long? I would’ve never expected all of you to walk through the door.”
“Damn Jeonghan, he said you should’ve been first to go.” Chan teased as Joshua laughed. The man in question glaring at his friend.
“Like you would’ve made it this far without me. Remember the factory three months ago when-“
“Ayyy okay that’s enough.” Chan shushed his friend, a giggle coming from you that made Vernon look towards you. You felt hyperaware of his gaze every time and avoided looking his way.
“Well I’m glad to reunite you guys, very wholesome stuff. Let me introduce everyone here. You guys already know Jihoon,” he pointed towards said man who offered a curt nod. “This is Seungcheol. He’s kind of like the leader of our group.” Seungcheol, a man with a bulging biceps, broad shoulders and thick eyebrows gave a closed lip smile, still assessing your group.
“Welcome, Soonyoung hasn’t shut up about you all since he ran into you. Glad to finally put some faces to these names.” He had a sort of aura around him that screamed leader, someone who knew how to hold control over a room. You nodded in acknowledgment, some of the others giving a curt bow.
“This is Junhui, but we call him Jun. He’s one of our other doctors. Big fan of spicy and sour food watch out for this guy when he cooks.” The man with long black hair and soft eyes smiled sheepishly, waving at everyone. You couldn’t help but think he was adorable.
“You already know Joshua, for us he’s a bit of everything but you’ll find him in the kitchen a lot.” You couldn’t help but snort, earning the man in question’s attention.
“Some things don’t change.” He smiled back, eyebrows raising in a ‘you got me’ manner.
“Vernon is like I said earlier, one of our scouts and spies. He prefers solo missions but I’ll send one of you out to keep him in check now.” Vernon, face stoic as ever, showed no reaction to the situation. His eyes wandered the room yet they kept falling on you. It made you feel hot, turning away from him and suddenly interested in the painting above Jihoon’s head.
“Currently on watch at the gate is Minghao, he’s also flexible and does anything.”
“Seokmin and Yuri should be coming any minute-“ Soonyoung jolted at the sound of a clipboard dropping. You turn to see your old friend staring like a deer in headlights. His hand was over his mouth, eyes moving from face to face before he embraced whoever was closest to him— Wonwoo.
“Am I dreaming? I’ve got to be dreaming..” He mumbled into Wonwoo’s shoulder, pulling away in disbelief. The girl who was next to him, tall, doe eyes and long shiny black hair, stepped in with a soft smile. She waved before announcing she was Yuri, one of the other doctors along with Seokmin and Jun. She approached you and gave you a hug, shocking you.
“You have no idea how glad I am to see another woman.” You both laughed, an instant connection forming as women do in male dominated areas. She moved over towards Seungcheol, kissing his forehead and took a seat next to him as the ring on her finger finally clicked in your head. She was his wife.
After Seokmin hugged everyone and calmed down— aka stopped crying; Soonyoung explained the system they were running as they had only been living here three days now. You learned Soonyoung and Jihoon were second in command to Seungcheol, after that there were no ranks to prevent tensions. There was a home designated as the mess hall, where everyone gathered to eat and mingle. One for medical purposes, where the team of doctors have set up their work. Another home was being converted to a wellness and training center, to keep everyone fit and on their toes in case of hand to hand combat. The clubhouse was where meetings were held. There were eight homes remaining, the first four out of use as they got damaged in the past and were arguably too close to the gate for the groups liking. Seungcheol and Yuri occupied one, Seokmin, Joshua, Minghao and Vernon in another, Soonyoung, Jihoon and Jun in the last. You, Jeonghan, Chan and Wonwoo agreed to share a home for the time being as that was what you were accustomed to. Everyone had roles and would be able to swap however they felt as long as daily tasks were done. Considering where everyone came from before, nobody wanted a strict system. Order was important but ruining trust and friendships over leadership and commands was the last thing anyone wanted.
As everyone disbursed for the evening, you felt yourself drawn towards Vernon again. He remained quiet the whole time since arriving back, yet you were so intrigued by him. You watched him walk off towards his house with Seokmin, making a mental note to check on him later. The four of you make your way into an empty house, Yuri promising to come by with candles, blankets and any extra clothes they had. The house was cozy, a modern but older homey design. The living room had a fireplace and large sectional couch perfect for your group. You couldn’t remember the last time you even sat on something relatively comfortable. The chairs and benches at the dermatologist clinic were extremely uncomfortable after an hour or two. The kitchen seemed fully stocked with silverware, pots and dishes. You made your way upstairs to check out the bedrooms. The upper level had three rooms and a bathroom, decorated bare with a queen size bed, desk and chair, a dresser, and a lamp in the corner. Footsteps thundered up the stairs and you poked your head out the room you occupied, catching Chan in the hallway scanning the rooms.
“Nice, only thing is there’s three rooms and four of us.”
“Thanks for pointing out the obvious.”
“Yeah it’s my job to do so.” He shrugs playfully, earning a scoff from you. “But for real, you take one of the rooms and the rest of us will figure it out.”
“Now I can’t help but feel bad… someone’s gotta share.”
“Stormy, with how much you like to cuddle I doubt you’ll be alone every night. Don’t worry, I’ll kick Wonwoo off the bed if I have to.” You and Chan laugh, leaning onto each other.
“Who’s kicking Wonwoo?” Said man appeared behind Chan, eyebrow quirked up and the two of you share a look, busting into laughter again.
“Good luck Won, that’s your new roommate.” You watch his eye twitch in the slightest. If anyone loved Chan more than you it was Wonwoo, but he had to act like his younger friend was the bane of his existence.
“How come Jeonghan gets his own room can we do rock paper scissors or something..?”
“Because,” Jeonghan started as he joined your group at the top of the stairs. “If I share a room with Chan I will end up strangling him.”
“Okay…. Then Chan gets a room to himself and we share.”
“Well we can’t have the youngest getting all the good privileges now.” Jeonghan smirked playfully, Wonwoo no longer hiding his exasperation as his face contoured earning a laugh from everyone.
“Aww Wonu just kick him out when you want your alone time, he already planned on kicking you off the bed!” He turned towards the younger friend who scratched his neck sheepishly.
“I’m just playing brotha..”
“If I wake up on the floor you’re never sleeping in a bed again.”
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
Yuri came shortly after everyone settled in their rooms and started getting comfortable. She had a small wagon she pulled behind her with supplies, Seungcheol at her side carrying blankets in his arms.
“Hellooo! I come barring gifts!” You help her take some stuff out, Wonwoo grabbing blankets from Seungcheol with a nod; the two engaging in easy conversation after.
“Hey Yuri,” she looked up anticipating your question as you went through a small stack of clothes together. “Would you happen to have any books to spare? It could be on literally anything I wouldn’t care. I had to leave some of mine behind when we fled our base.”
“Of course, I’ll see what we have around. If anything Vernon may be hoarding a few, I’ll ask him to bring some over after dinner.” You couldn’t help the tingle in your chest at the mention of his name.
“Ahh okay, thank you!” She smiled softly at you, handing a pack of matches for the candles before she pulled Seungcheol out of his conversation with Wonwoo and Jeonghan.
“Dinner is at 8 tonight, sorry later than usual, Joshua and Minghao made kimchi jjigae, it’s to dieee for!” Yuri blew you a kiss and waved goodbye to the others, Seungcheol saying his own goodbyes following closely behind her with the wagon.
“How did they even get kimchi? Or like anything that goes into it and enough for all of us?” Chan’s head appeared from the couch, his hair tussled and eyes bleary from his brief nap.
“Of course kimchi jjigae would wake his ass up..” You tisk, Wonwoo and Jeonghan laughing as Chan absentmindedly checked his watch deciding he needed 15 more minutes of sleep, flopping back down.
Just before 8, the four of you walk two houses down to the dining hall, Joshua and Seokmin already waving for you guys to join them. They already set bowls, spoons and chopsticks out, the steaming pot of jjigae still on the stove. There were two big tables everyone was gathered around, the only ones missing being Jun and Soonyoung.
“Soonie already ate, he’s taking watch right now and Jun well.. he’s always late to dinner. Yuri is about to drag him here by his ears honestly.” Seokmin shook his head in amusement. Everyone got up eventually to get their bowls, thanking Joshua and Minghao for working so hard on the yummy meal. Jun walked in 5 minutes later, avoiding Yuri like the plague as she glared at him. You laughed in amusement at the scene in front of you before turning your attention back to the conversation.
“See we’ve been fermenting our own kimchi for weeks now. Like there’s a few jars still left over actually. We stumbled upon some napa growing when on a walk. Found an old jar of gochujang and fish sauce that might be expired now.. but we made do. I’m glad it turned out so well actually.” Joshua rambled on about his creation currently. You were in heaven. After months of canned food this was pretty much the best meal you’ve had in nearly a year. You had to stop yourself from making noise every bite, it was just too good. You asked Joshua for seconds and he encouraged it, happy you loved his meal.
“Please, get thirds. We’ve been making this once a week lately.” You got up instantly, Chan laughing obnoxiously loud at you as you flip him off. You enter the kitchen giddy for seconds as you see somebody already grabbing another bowl as well. You offer a small smile to Vernon, who returns it back.
“I’m sure this is the first real meal you’ve had in a while hmm?” He finishes, passing you the ladle. Your fingers brush briefly and you fight to ignore the tingle there.
“After 8 months of splitting cold cans 4 ways, nothing could top this. I need this every day now please don’t show me a can of beans ever again.” He laughs, a sound you had not heard yet but decided it was so cute you would love to hear again.
“For sure. Yuri told me you wanted some books? I have a few I’m not currently reading I could let you borrow.” You decided you scooped enough without being greedy and nodded, looking up at him. The lighting highlighted his face in a way that showed how handsome he was. You hoped you weren’t staring too hard.
“Yeah um.. that would be nice, I appreciate it.” You watch his eyes scan you like he’s still trying to figure you out.
“Alright, I’ll stop by after dinner.” Just as you opened your mouth to speak, Wonwoo appeared in the doorway; looking between the two of you briefly before turning towards the jjigae getting another fill. You couldn’t place the look on his face but it wasn’t a very pleasant one.
“Thanks Vernon.” You smile, turning away and head back to your seat feeling two sets of eyes on your back. You join the conversation just in time to see Jeonghan hunched over Joshua’s shoulder, Seokmin and Chan laughing so loud they were being the most obnoxious group in existence. You missed seeing your friends loud and happy like this, you could never not laugh around these guys. The rest of the evening is spent catching up with the two, everyone recounting old memories or sharing insane moments that has been faced since the fall.
“I’m sorry Wonwoo did what..?” Seokmin looked back and forth in shock.
“Pushed me out a 3 story window.” Jeonghan deadpanned as Joshua couldn’t help the laughter spilling from him.
“Why are you trying to kill your friends?”
“Listen… I didn’t know he was standing next to the opening. I just wanted to move him behind me out of the way from walkers and he kinda just… slipped?” You busted out laughing despite hearing this the moment they came back to base with Jeonghan hobbling against Wonwoo for support.
“God I really don’t know how all of you are still alive this is crazy. At this point you’re all trying to kill each other.” Seungcheol, who was seated next to Seokmin, tuned into your conversation at some point laughing his ass off with everyone. Slowly everyone started filing out the house, returning back to their homes or other duties. Chan, Jun and Jihoon had to wash dishes and clean the kitchen, Seokmin went to the tower to swap with Soonyoung, and everyone else went about their business. You said goodnight to Joshua, giving him a big hug before you, Wonwoo and Jeonghan headed back to your house. There was a bundle of firewood on the front porch, probably from Seungcheol who spent the early evening chopping wood. Wonwoo carried it inside as he bickered with Jeonghan over who’s better at starting fires, you shaking your head in amusement as you followed behind.
You heard someone call your name, turning to see Vernon approaching from across the street. He held three books up, all different genres as you smiled up at him.
“You have no idea how much this means to me. I would go insane without reading.”
“Really? I’m more of a movie person but.. had to change my perspective in these times.”
“I was always a bit of both a movie and book person. We only have one choice now though so I really would lose it.” A tiny smile appeared on his face, handing you the books and telling you to keep them.
“If I ever want them again I know where to find you.” He left with a quick goodnight and a lingering fire from his fingers. You felt crazy, like a woman starved as if you couldn’t crawl up next to Wonwoo and have him handle your frustrations for the night. You pushed the thought away, turning the books over ready to crack one open in the comfort of your bed.
Over the next few weeks, your community started to find its groove. Everyone had a system and set jobs, everyone took turns on watch or cooking (except Vernon and Wonwoo who were ordered away at all times). Once a week two or three people were sent out to do recon, or to do supply runs. More often than not, Vernon was one of them sent out as he was the main scout for the group. You grew close to Jun who you’ve come to admire after a late night card game. He shared the leap of faith he took leaving behind China for Korea and the two of you chatted all night, a friendship formed over the candlelight and a forgotten game of blackjack.
You had been working on strength training, sparring with Chan or Soonyoung. Sometimes Yuri would take you on as a way to keep herself busy as well, the guys crowding around to watch the two women spar each other, placing their bets. You were getting a little better than her even though she was smaller than you, her steps were slower. Jihoon still recovering from his bullet wound promised he would take you on once he healed fully; but stayed and watched, throwing you tips often. You entered the fitness area early one morning, expecting to have the place to yourself. Instead you were met with the sight of Vernon in a black tank and sweats doing stretches on the mat. He looked back at the sound of someone entering the studio and gave a curt nod.
“Wasn’t expecting anyone here so early, thought I would beat even the gym bros.” You snicker at his comment, setting down your water bottle to join him stretching on the floor.
“Seems we had the same idea.” You were suddenly aware of the simple black leggings and pastel yellow sports bra you opted to wear as he flicked his gaze towards you momentarily.
“You in the mood to spar?” You asked, rolling your neck making sure to loosen your muscles as well as you could.
“Sure. Should I take it easy on you?”
“You think I’m some kind of joke Vernon?” You joke sarcastically, readjusting yourself for when he might strike.
“Apologies m’lady, don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He chuckles before you feel the shift in the air. His face goes blank, giving you nothing in preparation for his moves. He’s moving suddenly with a speed you didn’t know he could reach and you barely sidestep in time.
You watch him carefully, rushing his left side ready to strike as he grabs your arm and twists you, bringing you flush against his back. You feel the heat from him and the outline of his body, making your head feel fuzzy.
“Yield.” His breath hits your ear almost making you forget where you were.
“You wish.” You slide your leg around his in a way that folds him, giving you room to escape his grip.
“That was good, keep coming like that. Imagine I’m a big scary creepy man.”
“That’s not hard to imagine.” His face contours in amusement as you move in to strike again, trying to catch him off guard but he sees your moves before you even make them.
Swiping his foot around yours, you feel your balance get thrown off and end up flat on your back, Vernon standing directly over you.
“Yield now?”
“Fuck you.” You huff in frustration, taking his extended hand letting him pull you back on your feet.
“Let’s do knives this time, I want to feel like it’s real.” You suggest, grabbing two of the blunt edge blades purposefully used for training.
“Hell yeah this is what i’m talking about.” He nods, feeling it would be an easy take down. He’s never seen you use a knife, having no idea you’ve taken guys bigger than Seungcheol down with a knife in their throat. You smirk and readjust your hat, twirling the weapon and gaining a good grip.
“You want me to go easy?” You ask this time, trying not to appear smug. He takes it as a challenge, giving a shake of his head. “Alright..”
The way you moved with a knife was like another person, Vernon barely deflecting your first strike, bringing your foot to his side throwing off his balance but not taking him down yet.
“Shit.. this is a different Y/N.”
He predicts your next step, the dull blade connecting with your right rib, a groan escaping you. You throw yourself at him, twisting yourself in a way that sends him straight down. You’re straddling him, knife angled at his neck, both of your breaths coming out heavy and staggered.
“Yield Vernon.” You feel him try to push up, to flip you off, but you plant yourself hard on his waist, the blunt knife digging into his neck, a soft groan leaving his lips in frustration. You push back the thought of being in such a compromising situation with a man you were extremely attracted to. His big innocent eyes looking up at you through his lashes didn’t help your situation, sucking in a breath at the sight of him under you.
He calls your name out softly, a warmth filling your stomach from the sound. “I Yield.” He throws his head back on the ground and you lower the knife.
Your pussy definitely was jumping at the sight below you— but you collect yourself, pushing off from him. You bring a hand out, helping him get up and end up taking a step back from his proximity.
“Good session Chwe.”
“Yeah, you’re not bad yourself.” You bump your shoulder into him as you reach for your water, deciding you needed to get the fuck out of there before you did something heinous. You hadn’t done anything with Wonwoo since before leaving the previous base almost 2 months ago. You were frustrated and could not stand the sight of him in your control like that. You need a cold shower immediately.
“See you next time!” You wink at him, speed walking out to protect your integrity.
Vernon sighs deeply, leaning his head against the wall nearby and closes his eyes. He prays you couldn’t feel the way his dick started twitching underneath you.
“You good dawg?” He opens his eyes to see Soonyoung and Chan, coming to get their early morning workout in.
“Yeah, I need a shower.”
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
It was your turn to keep watch, knowing the party sent out was expected to return today. Minghao, Vernon, and Wonwoo went out yesterday. They were checking things out further up north, as nearby areas had been cleared already. You kept your eye towards the forest, the road, the lake on the other side. A familiar sight breaks through the tree-line, the three men making an appearance. Your heartbeat can calm a bit more knowing they made it back okay. You wave at the group, Wonwoo and Minghao waving back while Vernon motions for you to come down. You open the hotwired gate for them, letting them come back before closing it again. Descending the ladder from the hideout, your boots hit the ground as you ask how the search went.
“Typical, nasty ass walkers tried eating Hao,” The Minghao in question looked at Vernon unamused, while you bite back a laugh. “We did find some goodies though.” He pulls something out of his jacket pocket— an ipod nano.
You gasp loudly, reaching for it begging to see what songs are on there.
“Patience, I’ll show you later.” You missed music so much you didn’t notice how Wonwoo looked back and forth from you and Vernon. An uneasy feeling settled in his stomach he tried to ignore but moments like this made it hard. He had never defined your relationship together and ever since your group came to the community, he felt the rift in your relationship. Minghao, ever the vigilant man, noticed the conflict in Wonwoo, making a mental note to talk to him eventually. You promised to talk to them later, scrambling back up the ladder to the watch tower, eager as ever to finish your shift.
As soon as you see Jeonghan approaching to relieve you of your duty, you practically fly down the ladder.
“You gotta pee or something? Why are you rushing?”
“None of your business Yoon Jeonghan!”
You knew Vernon had a few hiding spots, so when you found him sitting at the dock hidden near the back of the community, his hair blowing from the wind, you weren’t surprised. He heard your footsteps on the dock, turning a bit to watch you approach.
“The last two hours went by awfully slow because of you Vernon. Now please show me the goods.” He smiled goofily at you, pulling out the wired headphones buried in his pocket along with the ipod.
“It’s on 72 percent so we have to conserve this as much as possible.” He hands you an earbud, the other making way to his ear as you scroll through the downloaded library.
“This person had taste clearly.” You were in awe as you saw familiar titles— don’t look back in anger, pyramids, kingston, stateside, robbers and many of your favorites popped up.
“Which one first?” Vernon inquired, his gaze falling upon you, analyzing the way your stray hairs fell out of your braids as you scrolled slowly.
The soft intro to ‘keep on loving you’ by cigarettes after sex began to play as you closed your eyes.
“This used to be my favorite song.” You swayed to the chords, a hum of acknowledgment signaling Vernon was listening. With your eyes closed he could look at you shamelessly, noting the birthmark on your cheek, the way your skin looked perfectly tanned in the light, the faint scent of your soap.
‘and i’m gonna keep on loving you, cause it’s the only thing i wanna do’
The pit that grew in his stomach as he looked at you hearing those lyrics was something Vernon had to push down.
He couldn’t acknowledge that just yet.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
Five months had passed since you joined your new group, a little over a year since the world fell. The seasons shifted and the early summer air was warm but comfortable on your skin.
You were tending to the garden when footsteps approached you. You looked up to see Seokmin squatting next to you, admiring the growing fruits and vegetables.
“How cool is it to say we’re growing our own korean pear right now. You guys do an amazing job at the garden.” If you were ever short of praise, Seokmin was your guy to shower you in it. His awe was always genuine and something you admired about him.
“Thanks Minnie, I just help mostly. This is Jeonghan, Jun and Yuri’s work really.” he waves a dismissive hand swearing you had a green thumb as well.
“Chan sent me over to tell you to bring him some strawberries.” He looked at you sheepishly. “Anyways I’m off to do some work, please check on me later.” Seokmin practically pleaded, eyes growing wide as saucers as you promised your dear friend you’d help him with his inventory. He patted the top of your head affectionately before disappearing. You gathered a few berries in the bowl you had close by, muttering about Chan’s lazy ass.
You found him at the picnic table by the dock sitting with Jihoon, Jeonghan and Vernon.
“Ah just who I wanted to see! Stormy my bestest friend who I love so dearly thank you so-“
“Lee Chan if you don’t shut up I will turn right around and make eye contact with you while I eat these.” You deadpan, Jihoon and Jeonghan laughing at your antics, Vernon just shaking his head with a small smile.
“You guys are taking up so much space I can’t even sit” You frown seeing the boys occupy the whole table.
“So you just called me fat okay.”
“Chan you can die.”
“Just sit on my lap there’s plenty of room.” Vernon spoke with a flirty tone, patting his thigh for full effect. The flirting between the two of you ramped up recently, which you contributed to Vernon being a playful person. Him and Chan say they’re gonna make out once a week so you fear he just wants to flirt with his friends.
“No it’s okay I was gonna go read anyways and I promised to help Seokmin, You guys enjoy!” You flick Chan’s forehead as you walk away, not noticing a certain person’s eyes trained on you. You looked pretty today, a long white skirt on, pale blue tank top with your hair down. Vernon felt like he was going to combust if he didn’t tell you that you looked pretty every day. However he faught those inner demons, opting to nonchalantly flirt or not say anything.
That night after dinner you were walking back to your house holding hands with Jeonghan who definitely had a little more wine than he should’ve, when you heard Vernon call out your name.
“Nonieee!!”
“Hi Jeonghan.” He pouted at this.
“Where’s my cute nickname. You get Nonie what about me?” You and Vernon share a look, holding back your laughter as he helps you bring your friend in to the couch.
“Okay fine, sorry about that Hannie.” He seemed satisfied with the response, sinking into the couch and cuddling one of the cushions mumbling some nonsense. You both laugh at him, he was so cute when he got drunk.
“I was gonna ask earlier, do you want to go to the dock?” Vernon bounced on his heels, a plan formulating already in his mind.
“Mmm sure! Let me tell Wonwoo to not lock me out.” You peak your head upstairs in his room, a book in his hand as you beg him not to be a stickler and leave the door unlocked until you get back. He eyed you funny like he was planning on saying something smart, but promised not to lock you out.
You meet Vernon back downstairs, grabbing his hand and dragging him out the door. Your hand stays in his all the way to the dock, waving at Seungcheol and Yuri on their front porch.
You sit at the edge of dock and opt to take your shoes off, toes brushing against the cool water as you gaze out in the distance.
“Hey, y/n.” You turn to Vernon in anticipation. “I have a silly idea. You can say no if you want.” You raise your eyebrows, curious what had him acting shy like this.
“Okay.. go ahead.”
“Let’s get in. I promise I won’t look at you or anything.” You bite your lip, stopping yourself from saying he could look whenever he wanted. Instead you stand up, making eye contact with him as you pull your shirt over your head. His eyes widen slightly, fighting to keep his line of vision only on your face. His face goes pink as he turns around to give you privacy while you strip down to nothing, wading into the cool water.
“C’mon Nonie it feels so good right now.” It was your turn to watch as he threw his shirt off, trying to appear modest as you avert your gaze before the pulled his jeans and boxers down. The splash of him following you in made you feel buzzy. He met you in the middle, pushing his hair out of his face. He looked stunning under the moonlight; the urge to reach out and touch his face winning as you bring a hand to his strong jawline.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
He brings his hand out for you to hold onto, being at a comfortable height with the water. The water was almost to your neck before you clung to him.
“Would right now be a good time to tell you that you look beautiful?” You stroke his face once more, his eyes fluttering shut. Leaning into your touch, he grabbed your hand off his face, turning it over to leave kisses all over the back.
“No, my big plan was to tell you first but you beat me to it.” You giggle and pull yourself closer to him, wrapping your arms around his neck.
“You and your big plans.. Okay now tell me more.”
You watch his gaze fall upon your lips, slowly dragging back up to you eyes. You suck in a breath, suddenly aware of how warm his skin was against yours and his grip on your waist.
“My next part of the plan… was to do this.” His lips were on yours before you knew it, lips soft and moving slowly against yours. It was careful, like he wanted to test the waters.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, your eyes fluttering open. “Was that okay?”
“Vernon-“
“Hansol.” You felt your throat get tight at the revelation of his first name. You knew what it was, everyone did. Nobody called him it ever, he simply was just Vernon. For him to want you to use his real name, you felt the gravity of the situation hit you at once.
“Okay, Hansol. Please kiss me again.” You pulled him back down by the back of his neck, a hunger in this kiss that replaced the sweetness and uncertainty of the first.
His hold on your hips tightened as the kiss deepened, the feel of him against you was feverish. His hands slid down to grab your ass, sliding down to your thighs to lift you up. You wrap your legs around him, his now hard cock rubbing against you. You slide your hand down his chest to his sensitive tip, running a finger along the slit. He groans into your mouth, a hand coming down to squeeze your breast. You break away for a second of air, a string of spit connecting the two of you before you dive back into his lips. Slowly stimulating his tip, you play with the beads of precum that leak out, wrapping your hand around the base to jerk him fully. Vernon pulls away from your mouth, eyes closed and soft moans filling the night air. His hand plays with your nipple before sliding in between your body, finding your sensitive spot.
You throw your head back with a shaky moan as he runs a long finger along your slit, sliding it past your pussy lips with ease.
“Shit you’re so wet already.” He hisses, slipping a second finger in to stretch you out.
“Oh.. More please.” You moan out, nails digging into his back as he curls his fingers up just right, hitting the spot you needed him the most. The water splashes around you softly from the movement of his hand, and from you unable to control yourself from bouncing on his fingers.
“Fuck, so desperate for my fingers,” He nibbled on your earlobe, fingers working you well as his thumb moved to roll over your clit. You slowed your movements on his cock, hand slowly moving over the head as you were overwhelmed with pleasure, shaky breaths in the air as you felt a familiar feeling bubble in your core.
“I’m close Hansol,” He continued to suck on your neck, fingers moving ruthlessly in your cunt, the drag of his thumb over your clit pushing you closer to release.
You lift his head up and slide two fingers in his mouth. His wide, glossy eyes glowed at you as he began to suck. The sight was enough to send you over the edge as you spasm on his fingers, his name on your tongue as you cum around his hand. You feel him rut his hips up desperately, his cock still in your hands as he rubs against your thigh. A groan escapes him, white ropes shooting out from him as he chases his own high.
He rubs slow circles on your clit as you come down from your orgasm, body twitching from overstimulation. You swat his hand away with a whine making him chuckle at you. His fingers pull out of you and he makes a show of sucking on each one, holding eye contact so intense you have to tuck your head into his chest from embarrassment.
“Oh you’re one nasty freak I see..” You pull back from his chest to see his signature playful smile.
“Don’t act like you don’t like it now. Putting your fingers all in my mouth like that.” He teases back as you playfully smack his shoulder. Your legs were still wrapped around him and you drop down, on tippy toes to touch the ground.
“I feel bad, I didn’t give you proper attention did you even cum?” Your hand lingers on his chest as he keeps one arm around your waist to help you stay afloat.
He nodded sheepishly, cheeks dusting the slightest pink. “I.. uh.. that was really hot it didn’t take much for me this time..”
“Mmm.. noted.”
“Don’t shame me.” You laugh softly at him, the playfulness never ending with the two of you. You grab his hand and make your way back towards the rocky shoreline before you stare at your clothes laid out on the dock.
“We didn’t think this through.. we should’ve grabbed towels!” You glance back at Vernon who already pulled his boxers back on. He shrugged and slipped the white tee back over his head and motioned towards your own clothes.
“Just don’t put your underwear on. Your skirt is long you’ll be fine.” You huff and slip your clothes back on, the blue tank top soaking through around your boobs.
“Look now I have boob spots.” His eyes drop to the two dark spots and busts out laughing.
“C’mon it’s dark who’s gonna see you?”
“Umm.. Seungcheol and Yuri were sitting on their porch.” Your hands were on your hips while Vernon fought a smile off his lips. You were so adorable.
“Well just run past them like we did here.” He stepped closer, tilting your chin up to him as a he planted a soft kiss on your lips.
“Alright let’s get you home.”
Seungcheol and Yuri were still sitting out on their porch, a cup of tea in Yuri’s hand now as she eyed you suspiciously.
“Got a little hot huh?” She smirked as you puckered your lips, Vernon not even hiding the goofy smile on his face.
“The water called to us! Goodnight!” He called back, taking you and running away as Seungcheol tisked.
“Baby how much you wanna bet they’ll be together by August.”
“Oh you’re so lucky we don’t have money anymore.. I say give it two weeks.”
Vernon dropped you off at your front door with a wave and a promise to see you in the morning. You bit your lip as you watched him walk away, your heart racing from the rush of tonight.
Going inside, you lock up and check on Jeonghan crashed on the couch.
“Out like a baby.” You mumbled to yourself, tossing a blanket over him and putting a small glass of water next to him. You turned to head up the stairs only to see Wonwoo in the kitchen, glasses off and sipping a large glass of water.
“Had fun?” He asks simply, eyes drifting to your wet clothes as his face changes to a look of amusement. You suddenly felt ashamed, like you didn’t want him to see you like this. Knowing you had pushed your feelings for him to back of your mind lately.
“Went for a swim. It was nice.” You nodded, avoiding his gaze which he noticed. You’ve been friends for so long he knew when you were hiding something.
“Without bathing suits?” You glance up at him and shrug, trying to act nonchalant.
“Yeah why not, we only live once. A walker could eat me tomorrow.” He chuckled, finishing his glass and placing it in the sink.
“Make sure you shower and change quickly. So you don’t catch a cold. Goodnight Stormy.” His gaze flicked down towards your collarbone before he headed back up the stairs.
You entered the bathroom shortly after, the fatigue of the day hitting and the desire for a warm shower on your mind. You stopped dead in your tracks at the sight of yourself in the mirror. Vernon had marked you the fuck up. Your collarbone had 3 distinct spots blooming from where he was sucking on earlier. Your stomach dropped to your ass knowing Wonwoo saw them, an uneasy feeling setting in.
Great, now you couldn’t wear tank tops for the next week.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
Ever since your night at the dock with Vernon, the dynamics of your relationship changed drastically. Stolen glances across the kitchen table, kisses behind one of the abandoned houses, a ghost of a touch in passing. Everyone knew something was up with you two, but nobody wanted to question it. Joshua with his watchful eye always smirked and went ‘there goes your boy’ whenever Vernon was nearby, always getting on your nerves.
At some point you began to question the line of your relationship with him. A parallel of your situation with Wonwoo. Two undefined relationships that had you torn on how to feel. With Wonwoo, you kept things up as your decade long crush made it easy to accept any attention from him as something you wanted. While with Hansol, the feeling was different. You had no official title other than him being ‘your person’ yet the path of where you could end up seemed to wind differently than Wonwoo’s. Like there was a promise for something more when the time was right. You knew a conversation needed to be had with Wonwoo, the vibe between you two felt off ever since the night at the lake when he saw your hickeys. Despite your past together, he still was one of your closest friends. You would do anything to keep him close to you regardless.
“Hey Won,” you approached him one morning, settled on a chair in the kitchen. A cup of tea nestled on the small table in front of him as he took his eyes off his book. He watched you sit down across from him and met his eyes carefully. “I been wanting to talk to you for a while now.”
“What’s up?” He sat back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. You took a shaky breath, ‘now or never girl,’ you thought.
“Things between us have felt.. off.. lately. I wanted to clear some things up because I miss you Won.” He watched intently. “I liked you for years. Not sure how obvious it was, but I only had eyes for you. When the world fell and we made our way to each other, I thought it was fate. After the first time we had sex, I thought you finally would be mine.” He shifted, mind wandering back to that first time.
“The way we became after that was so confusing. I didn’t know if you loved me, if I was being used as your escapism or what… but the uncertainty of our relationship made me anxious. I think.. because you never gave me reassurance, or told me how you truly felt, I didn’t feel like you wanted me. Yeah you care about me as your friend, and we were fucking but.. I yearned for something more.” His eyes shifted downward.
“Something that I started to find with Han- ah, Vernon.” He looked back up at this, listening to the information you were giving him finally. “I feel reassured with him, the things I was looking for in you-“ You got choked up on your words, forcing the lump in your throat down. “The things I looked for in you, he’s shown me already. I’m scared because I think I like him. Like really like him and I don’t want there to be any tension between us Wonwoo.” You choked out the last bit, feeling a tear roll down your cheek. You heard his chair scraping the ground before you felt his arms come around you. The tears came nonstop as Wonwoo rubbed small circles in your back. When you calmed down a bit, wiping your face, he took a seat next to you this time. His hand lingered on the table next to yours like he wanted to hold your hand but went against it inevitably.
“Y/N, I’m so sorry. I wish I could’ve been better at voicing my emotions and I feel.. awful.. for not doing so.” He sighed, rubbing the crease of his forehead. “I should’ve been aware you were more emotionally invested in me than what I thought. I had a feeling you liked me for a while, but I just figured the guys were teasing. After the fall I don’t think I was emotionally available to even be in a relationship. Our way of life we’ve always known was just flipped on its ass, our families and friends were presumed dead in my eyes. It was… a lot to handle at once..”
“I never meant for you to feel like an escape mechanism for me, I genuinely care about you and wanted nothing more than to protect you. I understand why you started liking Vernon, he’s forward with what he wants. I kept everything to myself because I wasn’t ready. I’m sorry I wasn’t the man you wanted me to be Stormy. I’m not in an okay place to love you the way you deserve and I can’t promise when I will be.” The hand on the table twitched. You reached for it, grabbing his hand to reassure him to keep pushing.
“I’m sorry this is hard for me to share..”
“It’s okay, I’m listening. Take your time.”
“I love you. It’s taken me a while to realize it but I do. I think it’s platonic love though.” Your stomach flips once again as he sends you through a rollercoaster of emotions in seconds. “I love you in the way Chan does; an unconditional one because I would do anything for you. Give Vernon a chance. I see the way he looks at you, that look… it’s romantic love.”
Your conversation with Wonwoo leaves you with a weight lifted from your shoulders, as the tension between the two of you dissolved. You sat and had a cup of tea with him, chatting about plans for the week for a while before he had to get ready for his watch shift.
“And Stormy?” You turned to him as he looked on from the bottom step. “If he ever fucks up, just know I’m always here.” He winks before disappearing upstairs. He was such a troll when he wanted to be. Though with your history, you sensed there was a bit of truth in there. Wonwoo was an enigma, truly.
When Chan came down, hair looking a mess he greeted you good morning. You huffed a laugh, reaching out to smooth his hair down.
“Wonwoo told me you guys talked. Thank god cus the tension between you two was awful. I was hoping you’d just fuck and it would all go away.” He hunched over a bowl of cereal, his half awake brain spewing anything out that mouth of his.
“Chan…”
“Sorry, not funny my bad. Anyways, Vernon’s a cool guy. I like him a lot, he gets me.” Chan nodded as if giving his approval on your potential partner.
“Is this you giving your bestie blessing or something..?” You side eyed him funnily.
“Yeah, he asked the other day about some of your favorite things. Stuff that you wouldn’t tell him directly you know,” he slurped the powered milk out of the bowl, absolutely demolished now. “Think he’s planning something but you heard nothing. I repeat, nothing, from me.” He points his spoon at you as you pinky promise not to share anything you heard.
Jeonghan comes through the front door suddenly with a long blade in his hand, chest heaving.
“Get out here quick, there’s a bunch of straggler walkers hanging around the gate. Somebody’s got to be on cleanup crew.” He disappears with that. You and Chan share a look of annoyance as you get up and prepare to knock some zombie heads off.
You were already dressed for the day in green cargos and a black tee so you head out, grabbing your cap to keep the sun out your face.
“Good morning sunshine!” You see Soonyoung and Jun leaving their house directly across the street at the same time as you, Soonyoung hopping over with a long handled dagger. He made dramatic effect of swinging it with the noise of a dying walker and you roll your eyes.
“Nothing like starting the day with some zombie guts all over you right?” Jun bumped his hip with yours as you walked between the two towards the gate. You spotted Seungcheol, Minghao, Jihoon, Jeonghan, and Joshua already on the other side hacking down walkers as everyone else headed towards the gate. Vernon was in the watch tower, eyes scanning the scene around him making sure everything ran smoothly. You reached the gate, asking where you were needed when Seokmin appeared from the house closest to the left of the gate. Extra weapons and supplies were stored there at the moment for easy access for the cleanup.
“Some of us need to keep an eye on the lake. I saw a walker on the other side of the fence but if they get in the water…” He trailed off, everyone knowing what it would mean to have walkers within the community. You learned the hard way walking too close to the edge of a river on a past run that some walkers stayed in bodies of water. If Vernon and Joshua hadn’t jumped in and pulled you out, you would’ve been a goner.
You, Seokmin, Soonyoung, Chan and Yuri opt to watch by the dock, the others working on getting rid of the walkers lingering around the fence. Wonwoo came and swapped with Vernon in the watch tower, and he joined the others in the cleanup; working more as a runner with Jun to bring things from the base to outside and vise versa.
The sun was hot today, your group walking along the edge of the water, occasionally having to stab a stray walker that makes its way towards the fence along the edge of the lake. You all discussed ways to build a fence with a gate in the middle of the actual lake, to keep walkers out but allowing an escape just in case. The other team finished just before sunset, bodies covered in sweat and all kinds of grime from slicing up walkers all day long. They were clearly exhausted and desperately wanted to shower. You felt bad that you didn’t have to do as much physical labor as them, handing everyone water and checking on them throughout the day. Joshua, covered in walker guts, threatened to hug you as you ran away demanding him to stay back.
You, Seokmin and Yuri decided to make dinner tonight. Cooking for 13 people was hard, but there was always a way to scrape something together. The garden produced fresh napa lettuce, which meant kimchi was constantly on the menu, making it easier to add something else with it. The three of you worked to plate everything— small portions of instant rice, kimchi, and spam on the menu. Dinner was calm tonight. Most of the guys were tired from the day of hard labor so conversations were softer today, not as chaotic as usual. You were settled between Chan and Jun, with Vernon and Seokmin directly across from you. As everyone finishes up and starts heading out, those on dish duty staying behind, you hear Vernon call your name.
“Hey, wait for me to finish this? I got something I want to show you.” You nodded, knowing he wouldn’t take long as you washed most things earlier when cooking. He speed ran through what was left, not taking complaints from Soonyoung who flipped him off as he finished before him.
“Wait here for like.. two minutes I’ll be right back.” He rushed out the door as you waited patiently. You amused him when he ran back in, tapping your watch with a suck of your teeth.
“You’re a minute late Hansol.” He grinned, taking your hand and leading you out the dining hall.
“Sorry babe, I promise it was worth it.” You felt warm at the petname, the first time he had used one on you. He brought you to the front of one of the houses not in use. You raise an eyebrow before he encouraged you to open the door.
Your jaw dropped upon walking in, turning back to Vernon as he smiled shyly back at you. In the living room mini plastic candles were lit, illuminating the space. The floor was littered with fake rose petals, two glasses of wine sat on the table in front of the couch. In the middle of the table was the ipod you shared and a pack of cards.
“I know.. It’s nothing too crazy. God I wish I could put a movie on.. but this was the best I could do.” You turned to him, tears welling in your eyes, as you threw your arms around him. He stiffened for a second, not expecting it, before hugging you back tightly.
“This means the world to me Sol. Truly, I don’t think you could’ve done better considering the circumstances.” He felt a relief wash over him at your praise.
“How’d you even find all of this stuff?” You plopped on the couch, Vernon following suit. Taking the blanket off the couch, he pulled it over both of your laps.
“I go on runs every other week, it’s stuff I’ve accumulated over a few months. Anything for my queen or what not..” He teased, reaching over to turn the ipod on. You couldn’t help the giddiness you felt, you didn’t remember the last time anyone did something so thoughtful for you.
“Damn, we’re at 51 percent.. gotta turn it off before the end of the night.” You were able to preserve the battery by limiting yourselves to 1-2 songs max per day. Tonight felt special though, you knew the ipod would be playing for a while.
You talked all night about everything on your mind, something you loved about how easy going Vernon was. Vernon hummed to most of the songs that played, revealing that he used to be a producer. He made a face when you told him you worked in tech, swearing it was for the money mostly. You downed the glasses of wine, feeling a small buzz considering how rare alcohol was now.
“You think if we take the rest of the bottle Yuri will actually kill us?” His eyes get comedically big at your proposal, nodding dramatically.
“Uhh absolutely. You know she takes inventory every morning. It took me bribing her with two days of dish duty to even get these 2 glasses!”
“Ugh fine, next time we find a bottle we’re keeping it for ourselves.” You snuggle closer into his arms as the vibrations from his laugh are felt.
“Thank you for tonight. You’ve absolutely demolished the apocalypse standards for dating.” You bite your tongue, praying he doesn’t mention your use of the word dating.
“Pfftt, just say the word and I’ll search the whole earth for whatever you want. No corny shit.”
“Yeah no corny shit, whatever bro.”
“Can I call you bro but like.. romantically?” You shift to him, his eyes already turned down at you. “Bro in the way that I kind of really like you a lot but you know.. bro?” You sit up fully and turn to him, an amused expression across your face.
“Was that your way of confessing your feelings for me?”
“Um.. Sort of?” He scratched the back of his neck, a nervous habit he tended to do that you had picked up on. “Well.. Okay I wanted to confess better but it kind of slipped out just now. I like you a lot, and I know I can be a bit aloof sometimes but you make me so attentive to everything… you.. and I’ve known that I wanted to be with you since the moment I saw you across the valley,” He took a shaky breath, catching himself rambling. You catch his hand, reassuring him that he was fine.
“Hansol, I’ve liked you for a while now.” His head shot up hearing your confession, a smile slowly spreading. “I’m so scared to like someone this much considering how we live but… I want to try. I want to be with you.. If that’s okay.”
“Hell yeah, let’s do it.” Your grin matches his own, the excitement of taking a leap of faith with each other.
“I’m about to go band for band with Seungcheol like oh yeah? Well my girl she’s hot as fuck-“ You throw your head back in laughter.
“You’re so annoying.”
“Right.. you love it though.” He pokes your side, gaze leveling yours with an intensity that suddenly shifts the feel in the room.
You pepper kisses along his cheeks before he grabs you and connects your lips with his, his hand sliding to the back of your neck to hold you there. You melt into the kiss, your hand falling on Vernon’s lean thigh.
He pulls you onto his lap, his half-hard on starting to poke you. He breaks away, leaving feathery kisses down your neck as you grind your hips into his. His now hard length catches against your clit through your sweats in just the right way, a quiet moan spilling from you.
“No marks this time, I couldn’t wear tanks for like a week Sol.” He hums against your neck, sending a chill through you as he rocks his hips up against your core dangerously.
“Mmm.. why not? You don’t want the others to know you’re mine?” His cock rubs against you in time with his words, sending waves straight to your core.
You move your hips in tandem with his own, his labored breaths fanning against your neck. The feeling was addictive, but not enough to ease that ache in you.
“Please, I need you.” You whined, slowing your hips in an attempt to get his hands where you wanted them. His massive hands slide back to your ass, gripping the flesh there generously.
“Tell me how you want me babe.” His eyes peer up to yours, innocent like, in a way you want to ruin him. You climb off him and slide down to your knees, running your hands up and down his thighs. Your hand barely brushes against his dick and you feel it twitch in anticipation.
“Let me repay the favor from last time.” You tug on his sweats, ushering him to lift his hips to help bring them down.
“You really don’t have to..”
“Please, I want to.” You give another tug before he complies, pants coming down to his ankles as his thick length snaps against his stomach. Your mouth waters at the sight, not seeing much of it last time. You grab him at the base, spitting on the tip for extra lubricant, gliding your hand up and down his length. He looks down at you, eyes hooded, mouth slightly parted as you work the dribbles of precum down his cock before looking up at him. A wicked smile crosses your face as you bend down, taking the tip in your mouth. His body shudders and a choked moan slips from him while you bob your head down on his cock, tongue swirling around the head.
“F-fuck..” He mumbles as you continue, pools of drool forming at the base, the sound of your slurping and Vernon’s groans filling the room. He was loud, a moaning mess as he rested a hand on your head. Not pushing or guiding, just resting. You lick along the underside of the tip, before taking him as far in your mouth as you could. The action had Vernon squirming, his head against the back of the couch, hips fighting from thrusting into your throat uncontrollably.
“I’m gonna cum if you keep doing that,” His eyes flutter open briefly as you look up, mouth full and he nearly busts at the sight of your fucked out look. His hips jerk up unintentionally, moaning as he hits the back of your throat. You gag, pulling up a bit as he apologizes before you sink back further, right hand moving to play with his balls.
His grip on your hair tightens and you tap his leg, signaling that he could use your mouth how he wanted.
“Can I- I’m gonna-“ You hum in acknowledgment, letting him angle his hips how he wanted, thrusting into your mouth. The sounds were lewd as he gripped your hair, fucking your throat with precision as you choked on his cock. Your pussy clamped around nothing, so turned on you knew your panties were soaked. The long groan above you and the erratic thrusts let you know he was about to come.
“Where do you want me?” He huffed out as you pulled off his cock, tongue out to catch his seed. He stroked himself twice before his hot cum shot onto your tongue with a deep groan, a few ropes landing on your cheeks. He slumped against the couch, tip red as he watched you wipe the extras off your face, sucking his cum off your finger. His softening dick already jumped at the scene in front of him.
“Fuck, you’re crazy.. god that was crazy.” You crawled back onto him, kissing him roughly, sliding your tongue in his mouth to get a taste of himself. His hand found its way into your sweats, fingers brushing against your soaking wet core through your panties.
“So wet for me, what am I gonna do with you?” You grinded against his fingers, desperate for friction. He chuckled, reaching for the hem of your shirt to peel it off. He marveled in the sight of you, reaching to unclasp your bra, breasts spilling out as he threw it in the direction of your shirt.
Wasting no time, his mouth latched onto your left boob, sucking on the sensitive bud there as you threw your head back in pleasure. His finger slid into your panties, knuckles brushing against your clit as you rock into his hand.
He lifted you off his lap, laying you on the couch to swap positions with you. Vernon made quick work of your sweats and panties, leaving you fully bare for him.
“So beautiful.” He pulled you towards the edge of the couch, spreading your thighs for him with a low whistle. Kisses trailed up your thigh as he lead to the center, licking a slow strip up to your clit.
“Sol,” You groaned, hips bucking in need of more. His large palm rested upon your hip bone in attempt to hold you down.
He sucked on your clit meticulously, a string of curses and moans spilling from you as he ate you out. His tongue slid in and out of your pussy, slick sounds filling the room.
You felt him hum into your cunt, the vibration going straight to your belly, the pressure there building.
Two of his fingers slid into your hole, curling up into your spongy spot, his tongue making figure eight’s on your clit. You carded your fingers through his hair, keeping him as close to your pussy as possible, his hums showing he was enjoying himself.
The sounds of your pussy sucking in his fingers, his tongue lapping against your clit and your filthy moans pushed you right to the edge; babbling nonsense as you squeezed his fingers hard.
“That’s it pretty, come for me, right on my face,” his eyes glowed looking up at you, face buried deep inside your cunt and the rhythm he found brought your orgasm onto you like a tidal wave. You clench around his fingers as your juices flowed out onto his face, a high pitched groan seeping out from you.
You came down from your high, Vernon still between your thighs giving kitten licks to your swollen clit. You had to yank him up by his hair, a shit eating grin on his face knowing he was enjoying this too much.
“You taste too good, I wanna stay down here.” He sucked on his fingers, savoring your taste as you caught your breath. You leaned down, hands frantically pulling at his shirt, your eyes landing on his thick fully erect cock. You wanted him inside of you bad.
“Take this off now, if I don’t fuck you I’m actually going to die.” He laughed at your antics, swiftly pulling the plain tee off as you directed him to lay flat on the big couch. You swung your leg over him, his dick twitching at full attention.
“This is all I’ve thought about since the night in the lake.” You admitted, sliding your folds along his length, your pussy dripping all over the base of his dick as he groaned from the feeling.
“I’ve thought about this since way before that.” He glances at you a bit timidly, a tinge of pink appearing across his face. You kiss his warm cheeks as you line up his cock with your entrance. Pushing in, both of you whine from just the tip. You sink all the way down on his length, bottoming out with a sigh.
“God you’re so tight.” He throws his head back, waiting for you to move, cock twitching inside of you. You start to bounce, holding onto his shoulders for support as you fuck yourself on his thick length .
You moan out his name, his cock stretching you fully. Your pussy grips tightly around him, his hips meeting yours with every thrust as Vernon’s hands roamed your body. He settled on your ass, gliding you up and down his length, smacking it every once in a while. You stare down at his fucked out face, sliding your hand down to squeeze at his neck gently. A lopsided grin spreads on his lips from the pressure as he slammed his cock up into you. Your hips faltering as you come down, pussy making filthy noises with every connection.
Your legs begin to give out a bit, putting your body weight on him as you bounce slowly, your head buried in his neck, moaning shakily.
“Let’s switch.” He offers, and you nod, sliding off his cock with a squelch. He repositions you, lying face down with your ass up towards him. You wiggle your ass in anticipation earning a rough slap across one of the cheeks, a moan slipping from you.
“You’re a little nasty aren’t you, I knew you’d like that.” He spoke close to your ear sending another slap to the same spot, your body jerking back feeling his dick poke against you.
His hand presses against the small of your back, making you arch perfectly back for him as he slides his cock back and forth between your puffy lips, wetness gathering as you get riled up. He lines up with your cunt again, pushing in easily. Vernon fucks into you with a rough pace, hips snapping against your ass harshly. You moan louder than before, gripping the couch from the new angle making you feel every inch as he pounded you from behind.
You whine as you try to meet his thrusts, a white ring forming at the base as you cream around him.
“Pussy sucking me in so good, fuck you’re perfect y/n.” He moans your name, balls slapping against your clit with every hard thrust. He had one hand gripping your hair, gliding you back onto his cock with the extra leverage. You feel tears forming, Hansol fucking you so good you were seeing stars. Your pussy squelched loudly, the combined wetness leaking down his cock with the slap of skin on skin was prominent in the room as you chanted his name over and over.
“Look at yourself babe.” You feel his grip on your neck pull you forward, lightly squeezing the sides as the mirror directly across from the couch showed how fucked out you looked. Hansol’s hand was around your neck, your head against his shoulder as his cock slipped in and out of you deliciously. His free hand came around to rub circles on your clit, your pussy instantly squeezing him.
“I- I’m close,” You moaned, the eye contact through the mirror so intense, you felt your second orgasm inch its way up. He let go of your neck, pushing you back down to ram his hips at a brutal speed, rubbing your sensitive bud as you chase both of your releases.
“Hansol.. I-“ you barely get your words out as your orgasm hits you hard, screaming his name while you clamp down on him. His hips stagger, your orgasm sending him over the edge. His breaths come out heavy as with a final thrust he’s pulling out coming all along your back and ass, groaning lowly.
You feel like jelly, your whole body spent as you both catch your breaths after the most intense sex you’ve ever had.
“Holy shit, fuck I’ve never came so hard before.” Vernon mumbles into your shoulder, legs shaking from the after waves of his orgasm.
“Sol, you’re one freaky motherfucker.” Your voice came out harsher than you expected, an airy laugh following. He chuckles behind you, hearing him get off the couch for a moment before coming back with a wet rag.
“It’s cause you drive me insane you know that right?” You hum an acknowledgement, lazy smile on your face as the cool rag cleans you up, fatigue settling in your bones. “Let’s go clean up.” He gently pulls you off the couch as you wobble up the stairs to the bathroom.
The warm water feels amazing against your skin as Vernon helps scrub you down, working in silence. You help him as well, turning him around to lather him up when the sight across his skin makes you stop. You feel him go stiff as you scan the marks along his back, different sized scars amongst various stages of healing. You kiss his back gently, taking your time to clean him up. You don’t ask how he got them, already knowing it had something to do with his time in captivity under the Serpents.
“See why I had to get some revenge now?” He chuckles dryly, turning to meet your gaze. You wrap your arms around him, silent as the warm water cascades over you. You couldn’t find the right words in the moment, offering your comfort instead.
You finish up your shower, drying each other off and changing into fresh clothes before settling into one of the bedrooms. You sit on the bed as Vernon carefully braided your hair, swearing he would do good because of his sister. The part was uneven and some pieces stuck out but you could never complain, his determination was endearing.
“I go out on a run tomorrow morning. Me, Joshua and Jun need to find this medicine for Yuri. Her illness is flaring back up again.” You remember her mentioning her chronic disease that made her immune system weak, something that’s been hard to regulate without medication. She always had an inhaler nearby and never went on runs for that reason, the risk was too high for her.
“When are you heading out?” He finished your hair, crawling next to you in bed slowly dragging his finger along your forearm.
“Early. Probably around 6. We’re preparing for a two day’s journey. All the other pharmacies nearby have been wiped out.” An uneasy feeling grew in your stomach, the thought of them being so far out.
“You’ll be gone for four days total?” You turn to look behind you as he nodded.
“I’ve been gone longer..”
"That was before we..” You trailed off, not knowing how to word what you were exactly.
“Before we were dating?” The small smile on his face showing his amusement at how quick you were unsure despite your confession earlier. “Don’t worry I’ll be extra careful. Gotta come back to my pretty girl.” You felt your face get warm. He knew how to be smooth when he wanted to.
You found yourself struggling to sleep that night, your mind racing despite Vernon laying beside you, a leg tangled within yours.
You worried that with a run so far out, there would be a run in with dangerous people, the Serpents threat still on your mind from the day you escaped the old base.
Vernon began to stir as the sun started to rise, his body’s alarm clock waking him up. You barely slept, bleary eyes shifting to look at him in the first rays of sunlight.
“Morning,” his voice deep and rough with sleep as he kissed your forehead and sat up with a stretch. You felt like a puppy as you followed him around, gathering belongings from the night before. He opened the front door coming face to face with Joshua, fist raised in preparation to knock.
“Yo, had to make sure you didn’t forget we’re heading out. Sure you two had a good night.” He smirked, looking between the two of you as Vernon pushed past Joshua.
“Yeah yeah whatever, I gotta grab my bag.” You watched him head into his house momentarily and you pushed Joshua playfully.
“You guys be careful okay? Please. I know it’s a long journey.” He threw an arm around you, reassuring they would be fine. Vernon reappeared just as Jun and Soonyoung, preparing for his watch shift, left their respective homes. They met you and Joshua at the steps, the three ready to head out. Vernon came towards you, pulling you into a tight hug.
“Come back to me in one piece.” He chuckled into your hair, pulling away to stare down at you.
“I promise. Don’t worry Jun and Joshua are responsible, they’ll keep me in check.” You rolled your eyes as he tilted his head down, kissing you briefly. Your eyes went wide, not expecting him to kiss you publicly with your friends right behind.
“Alright lover boy let’s get going.” Jun chuckled, the smug look on Vernon’s face showing he didn’t care. He descended down the steps, the three of them headed towards the gate waving goodbye to you and Soonyoung. You watched with an ache as the gate slid closed behind them, their figures getting smaller as they disappeared into the woods.
“Soooo..” You glanced at Soonyoung, the shit eating grin on his face undeniable. You knew he was about to piss you off. “Sounds like somebody had fun last night.” You blink, not acknowledging what he was implying.
“What are you talking about.”
“Coming back from my shift last night. Was he in there fucking murdering you? All I heard was ‘oh my god Hansol uhhhhh!’” Your jaw dropped, swatting at him as he laughed evilly.
“Kwon Soonyoung!” You began to chase him around, his laughter contagious as Jihoon appeared, finished with his watch shift. He was clearly amused watching you two, a quiet laugh and shake of his head as Soonyoung yelled “Hoonie, save me!!”
“Go get your ass in that tower Soonyoung.”
The next few days went by torturously slow, Jeonghan instantly joking you were walking funny and Chan nearly spitting out his drink, laughing that Vernon left you unable to walk for days. Both of them got a shoe thrown in their direction.
You keep yourself distracted helping Seokmin with inventory one morning when Yuri wasn’t feeling well. You spar with Chan and Jihoon, Wonwoo and Seungcheol cheering you on in the background. The garden gets tended by you and Jeonghan before you do yoga and breathing exercises on the dock with Minghao. All of them knew you were worried to death about the others, trying to ease your anxiety in little ways. Every watch shift, even if you knew it was another day before their expected arrival, you watched the tree line carefully. Like you expected them to come back early.
When the sun began to set on the fourth evening, you felt uneasy.
“They could be coming any second now. Seungcheol will open that gate soon.” Jeonghan tried easing your anxiety over dinner. You picked at your corn, appetite nonexistent.
Five days. You were about to lose your mind. Now you knew how Wonwoo and Jeonghan felt when you and Chan came back late from the herd before. Everyone knew how runs could go smooth up until the last second, then needing to hunker down for the night.
“They definitely had to stop somewhere for the night.” Soonyoung reassured you as you peeled the fresh fish for dinner together. No matter what everyone said you felt the tension in the air. The whole group expected them back no later than this afternoon. Soonyoung, Seokmin and Chan did their best to keep your spirits up, getting a few laughs from you as you rested your head on Wonwoo’s shoulder throughout dinner. You made him sleep in your bed with you that night, his warm arms helped ground you as your mind raced.
“This actually isn’t funny, I’m really worried.” You chewed on your nails the next morning as you sat on your porch with Minghao and Jeonghan.
“Six days is concerning. Maybe we should ask Seungcheol if a small party could go out?” Jeonghan suggested, Minghao opposing knowing Seungcheol wouldn’t want to risk anyone else getting hurt potentially.
“Vernon’s been my friend since we were 15, I’m worried too but he knows the area better than anyone else,” He rests a hand on your knee, his gaze calm. “Breathe, remember the exercises I showed you.”
You were about to get another cup of tea when a shout in the distance caught your attention. You whip your head to look at Minghao, his expression confused as a second shout, more distinct this time, has the three of you running off the porch.
“Open the gate! Open the gate!” Jun’s voice clear as you run towards the entrance, the sight causing your heart to nearly stop.
The three of them were hobbling from the forest, Jun on the left, a large red spot visible on his bright blue shirt. Joshua, a deep gash blooming on his forehead, was panting as him and Jun worked to carry Vernon, his head down, limbs weightlessly dragging.
You felt sick to your stomach as Wonwoo opens the gate from above. You rush through the gap and run straight towards them.
“Fuck what happened? Is he alive?” Your panicked tone intensified as you saw Vernon’s black shirt sticking to him, covered in his own blood. You wrap an arm around Joshua who was limping, Jeonghan rushing to Jun as Minghao came to Vernon.
“He’s alive, his pulse is really weak though.” You catch Chan, Jihoon, Soonyoung and Seokmin rush towards the gate as you cleared it, Wonwoo rushing to close it as he jumps down the ladder from the tower.
“Seokmin, get Yuri ready for surgery, penetrating GSW to the abdomen.” Jun’s stern voice moving his colleague to try and assess Vernon’s injuries before he takes off running towards the medical bay, dragging Jihoon along as an assistant.
Chan takes your place under Joshua as you approach the makeshift hospital, Yuri up and barking orders to Seungcheol to grab everything they may need. You watch, shaking as Minghao, Wonwoo, and Chan lift Vernon onto the operating table, Jun making Joshua sit on the second table, reaching to start properly cleaning his wound.
“Wen Junhui are you injured?” Yuri’s sharp tone cuts the air as she cuts through Vernon’s shirt and the makeshift tourniquet tied around the bullet wound lodged in his ribs.
“Minor concussion, uh stab wound to the shoulder but I’m fine I-“
“Perfect, help Joshua then get over here.” Yuri and Seokmin work in tandem, Seungcheol with his fingers along Vernon’s neck checking his pulse and Jihoon on standby while Jun cleans and bandages up Joshua’s head.
You feel yourself zone out, the gravity of the situation hitting you all at once. You break down, the tears you held back coming out in streams as Chan brings you towards his chest, holding you tight. Sobs wrack your body as you look towards Vernon on the table, hooked up to cords, blood all you can see before Chan turns your head away. You sob into his chest as the chaos of the room makes your head spin.
“Everyone except Y/N out now.” Yuri calls from the center of the room, the others looking around not even attempting to protest before slowly filing out.
“Can I stay and comfort her?" Chan catches her gaze for half a second before she agrees, turned back to work on Vernon.
You feel sick, the sight and smell of everything combined with your thoughts makes you rush towards the door, the feeling of bile rising as you empty your stomach contents in the grass outside.
Chan is quick, holding your hair back as you dry heave, body shaking violently. You stay there for a minute before footsteps approach you— Jeonghan holds out a water bottle and rubs your back gently.
You croak a weak thank you, wiping your mouth and rinsing with the water. The sound of Seokmin yelling inside makes your eyes go wide, rushing back inside to see Yuri doing chest compressions on Vernon’s pale body.
“Oh my god..” You cry out, Jun demanding you to get out as you take in the scene. Chan drags you back out as you scream, thrashing in his arms as you catch a glimpse of Jun rushing over to the table.
“Chan let me back in right fucking now!” You try to escape his strong arms as he pulls you further from the medical bay in hysterics. He sits you on the next closest porch as sobs spill out of you.
“He can’t die, Chan I don’t know what I’ll do if he goes,” you choke out, the fight in you slowly giving out.
“He’s a fighter, he’s gonna hang on for you Stormy.”
You find your way to the common area, all the other guys already around the table as everyone waited to hear news. Joshua eventually makes his way in, hobbling through the door, his banged up foot wrapped now. Wonwoo gets up to help him sit down with a groan.
“Shua, please, what happened out there?” Your voice was hoarse, as your eyes pleaded with your friend.
“God it was insane. We got to the pharmacy just fine, found what was needed and some extras. Didn’t have any problems coming minus taking out some walkers,” he sighed, gaze cast downward.
“The way back was going fine, we were on day 3, on track to make it back by mid day 4 but we ran into some trouble. We stumbled into an area claimed by The Serpents.” Your blood runs cold, the image of the masked men appearing in your mind. “They didn’t spot us but they were taking people hostage. They… they were tying women up and.. sexually abusing them.” His eyes don’t meet your own as you feel more rage surge to the forefront of your emotions.
“We couldn’t just leave them, especially not Vernon. He was a victim of their actions before, he came up with a plan to free them. The plan worked, we got the people free but in return we were captured instead. Not intentionally, but we were held for two days before we escaped. A huge attack happened, they knocked Jun out for a while, I got my ankle stepped on and they bashed my head into a boulder,” He points to the bandaged head.
“Vernon was like a fucking vigilante man, taking those guys down left and right. I think he over calculated though, that’s when he got shot. Jun came around at this point, taking a knife to the shoulder to take out the rest of the guys. Jun did his best with the tourniquet but we were so far out we had to stop over night for a few hours. I was.. so scared of losing Hansol man..” Joshua gulped, eyes becoming glossy.
“I didn’t think any of us would’ve made it back, but somehow thank god we did.” The room fell silent, nobody knowing quite what to say before you reached across the table and held Joshua’s hand for comfort.
“Thank you Shua. For making it back here, for freeing those women, for protecting Hansol.” You offered a small smile that he returned.
Seokmin walked in, scanning the room as his eyes settled on yours. His shirt was covered in blood— Vernon’s.
“He’s breathing. We got him out of critical condition but we can’t be sure yet. He’s staying under watch until we’re confident he’s stable. He lost a lot of blood and had to get a transfusion from Jihoon.”
“He’s still out, I can’t guarantee when he’ll come around but you can come see him now.” You nod at him, standing on shaky legs.
“You want someone to come with you?” Jeonghan questions, worry in his tone as you shake your head, the boys letting you go on your own this time.
You enter the medical bay with caution, mentally preparing for the scene when you approached. You suck in a breath at the sight of Vernon, pale and whole abdomen wrapped in gauze, hooked up to an IV and another machine. You shake as you brush your fingers through his hair, a tear rolling down your cheek. The room was clear except for the three doctors, watchful eyes on him. There was a slight rattle every time he breathed, a sure sign he had shattered ribs.
“I can’t bear seeing him like this,” you sniffle, Jun pulling up a chair next to his bed and offering you to sit which you take up.
“It’s awful, he’s strong truly.” Yuri nodded, slumped against a chair in the corner, her sleeves rolled all the way up.
The others come in and out to visit him over the course of the day. Minghao was shattered, shedding a tear for his long time friend, hand gripping your own for support. You stayed next to his bed the whole night, Wonwoo bringing you a small cup of soup with a ruffle of your hair.
You slept in that chair for nearly a week, your back ached and you hadn’t gotten proper sleep in days but you couldn’t leave his side. You talked to him in hopes of him hearing you and coming back around, no matter who was in the room.
You bring the ipod one day, opting to play some of your favorites, humming along to a song Vernon mentioned he liked when you see his eyelashes flutter. You stop and stare as he shifts, a quiet groan escaping as you gasp loudly, Seokmin turning towards you, smile forming as he sees Vernon twitching.
“Hmm.. ‘earrings’ is so goated..” You catch his eyes open slowly, scanning the room before landing on your face. You start crying as you reach for his face, a tiny smile coming across his lips.
“Hey pretty..” his voice was hoarse, tongue drier than sandpaper as Seokmin makes him drink through a straw, heavy gulps before he winces in pain.
“God I do not recommend getting shot.” You sob, leaning forward to press your forehead against his. He weakly brushes your hair out your eyes as your body shakes.
“I was so scared.. Hansol you scared me so bad.. I thought you would leave me.”
“I’m here, I couldn’t leave you. Promised you I had my girl to come back to.” His smile grows as you kiss his forehead, holding his hand tightly.
“You’re never leaving these gates again Chwe Hansol.”
“Yes ma’am..”
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
A few weeks of recovery later and Vernon was up and moving almost like before, the pain subsided though he wouldn’t be allowed on runs for a few months, his daily physical activity limited as well.
The September air was starting to cool down, everyone beginning to pull their jackets out once again.
You were situated on a blanket in the grass near the dock, Vernon leaning against a tree for support, his fingers twirling a strand of hair as you were spread out reading. The breeze from the water was nice, making you sleepy, a yawn from your lips signaling you might need a nap. Casting a glance up, you see Vernon with his eyes closed, his movements in your hair suspended.
“Pretty boy,” you stare lovingly at him as a smirk forms on his lips.
“Pretty boy huh?” Cracking an eye open he looks at you playfully. You roll your eyes mumbling you take it back while he laughs obnoxiously. You get up and stretch, letting Vernon know you wanted to nap. He yawns on cue, agreeing to some designated nap time. You help him up with a huff, knowing his ribs were still in the healing process. Rolling up the blanket you walk hand in hand back towards your house when chaos near the gate catches your attention.
“State your purpose here!” You hear Seungcheol’s voice bark out, glock in his and Soonyoung’s hands as Chan angles an AR from the watch tower towards the unknown people at the gate. You inch a bit closer, curious to see what was going on when you hear someone on the other side gasp.
“Chwe Hansol?” The person calling Vernon’s full name caught you both off guard. He squints before his expression drops, his grip on your hand loosens and he moves towards the gate in a daze.
“Seungkwan?” His voice wobbles, catching sight of his best friend, Seungcheol and Soonyoung sharing a look of confusion.
“Holy shit, Mingyu? Chan open the gate.” Vernon calls out, Chan looking down uncertainly
“Are you su-“
“Chan, open it right now.” The metal bars slide with a groan as the two guys on the other side slowly approach. One was extremely tall and buff, chiseled features and tan skin while the other was a bit shorter, blonde with high cheekbones.
The blonde one throws his arms around Vernon with a cry, silent tears falling from Vernon’s eyes. The taller one joins in as you hear Minghao call their names, running over and throwing his arms around the group. Your heart warmed at the reunion as your eyes drift to a third person, a girl with long wavy brown hair, tan skin and green eyes.
“Um, I’m Xiomora.. I’m Seungkwan’s friend..” She spoke sheepishly and you smiled as you approached her, offering your hand.
“Welcome, I’m Y/N. Yuri is going to be so ecstatic to see another woman here.” She smiles back at you as the gate closes and tensions settle.
Vernon motions you to come over to which you so shyly, the new arrivals beaming at you.
“So this is my girlfriend,” he shares your name as the two guys — Mingyu and Seungkwan share an amused look before Seungkwan turns towards you with a handshake.
“You actually like him? You don’t have to lie it’s alright!”
The sound of Vernon’s fingers reverberating off Seungkwan’s forehead is so loud you can’t help but sputter a laugh. You could tell you’ll like him a lot already.
“You sound like my bestie Chan, Hey Channie, come down here real quick!”
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
November rolls around and the community is thriving. Seungkwan, Mingyu and Xiomara fall into routine with ease, becoming comfortable with the group quickly. Their playful personalities made integrating easy, Xiomara coming out of her shell after a night of sharing a bottle with you and Yuri. The once empty houses were filled with a little more warmth and humanity. You and Vernon occupied a spot together, Wonwoo literally jumping for joy over having his own bed finally as you packed to move one door down.
The two of you were lying spread on your bed, ipod softly playing music. It was getting to its last leg, down to 28 percent.
“The day this thing dies is the day I go..” Vernon speaks matter-of-factly, a scoff coming from you.
“Well you might not make it long then,” you joke, rolling his eyes in response.
“I would never leave you my baby bear, pumpkin, sweetiepie, angel cake, pookie bear.”
“None of these words are in the bible please.. never again.” You groan. He really was your biggest troll and ragebaiter. After Chan of course.
“Curse these damn zombies, I should be scrolling through reels right now bro.”
“Word..” You roll on your stomach, casting a glance behind to Vernon who was on his back staring at the ceiling.
“You know technically without those zombies you would’ve never met your hot, sexy, girlfriend with the juicy pussy or whatever..” He side eyes you, your arms spread in a shrugging manner.
“That last part wasn’t necessary.”
“Yeah? Was I wrong though?” You raise a brow, Vernon shifting to sit up with a smug look on his face.
“Why don’t you remind me again?” You throw a look over your shoulder, his gaze locked in on your ass.
“Sol.. you know we’re having a bonfire in like 20 minutes right?” He shrugs, his fingertips grazing along your back slowly.
“20 minutes is plenty of time to do what I wanna do to you.” Your core tingles at his words, trying to rationalize and resist your urge.
“Damn I really gotta pry you off me, fucking hornball..” You flip over and lay flat on your back now, watching Vernon climb over you casually.
“You know I used to hate physical touch. You’ve made me a changed man.”
“That’s your dick talking.” He laughs, leaning down to press a soft kiss to your lips, wrapping your arms around his neck. His mouth is soft and sensual, no ferocity behind his actions. He peppers kisses down your neck, pulling your shirt back to kiss along your collarbone.
“I really need to bury my face in your cunt so please take these off babe.” You kick off your jeans in seconds, Vernon dragging them the rest of the way discarding them on the floor.
“Pretty. Always so pretty.” He mumbles before diving in between your legs, sucking on your clit like a mad man, sloppy with his tongue as he devours your whole cunt. You bury your head in the pillow, hands tugging on his locks as he groans into your pussy, nose bumping against your clit.
“So good Hansol,” you sigh, bucking your hips onto his face as he lets you, rutting his hips against the bed as you mew beneath him.
The pressure builds quickly, the intensity of his tongue pushing you towards your climax with ease. You whine out his name as he spreads your legs farther, groaning from your pull on his hair.
You look down at him, his eyes never leaving yours as he slurps loudly, swirling his tongue just right. Your orgasm hitting you out of nowhere as your juices spill, a deep groan rising from Vernon as he laps up your release.
He pulls away briefly before going right back to his attack on your clit, your body jolting from overstimulation as he fucks his tongue into your hole once again.
“Hansol please.. no time.. need you inside me like yesterday.” You pry him off you, desperate for him to fuck you into the mattress when his demeanor changes.
“How much longer is your IUD good for?” You wrack your brain for when it was implanted, mind hazy in post-orgasm bliss.
“Probably a good three years before I’d have to worry. Why, what’s on your mind?” He sits on his knees, gazing into you intensely.
“If you’d be okay with it.. could I not pull out this time?” You mull his words over for a moment before you nod. “You don’t have to feel pressured. Please tell me no and slap me if you’re uncomfortable.”
“Sol, I’m okay with it. I would hate to bring a child into an awful world like this. But if I had to, I would do it with you.” Your words strike something in him, his lips on yours instantly.
“Man we’re so crazy. Now I have got to breed you.”
“Less talking more breeding then.” His pants are gone with quickness, both of your shirts thrown off as he kisses both of your breasts tenderly.
You reach for his cock, spreading your legs wider and bringing him down to line up with your hole.
“Somebody’s eager.”
“If you don’t fuck me right now-“ His length slides into your cunt catching you off guard, a moan slipping past your lips. His pace is steady, hips snapping into you as you wrap your legs around his waist, nails digging into his back.
“Mmm what was that?”
“S-Shut up.”
“You take me so well babe,” He kisses along your neck, your moans filling his ears as he fucks into you. Growing eager, his pace picks up when he brings one leg over his shoulder, making you feel him deeper inside you.
He watches where your bodies connect, his thick cock sliding in and out of your creamy cunt leaking onto him. A bulge appears in your stomach with every thrust as he presses down, pulling a long groan from you. The sight drives him crazy, groaning as your pussy squelches from the force and wetness produced.
“You’re so perfect, I love this pussy,” He mumbles, balls slapping against you as you squeeze him tight, your second climax sneaking up on you.
“Sol I’m about to-“ His finger drifts down to your clit, rolling quick circles along the bud.
“Open.” He commands and you obey, tongue out as he drops a pearl of spit onto your tongue, wasting no time swallowing. His eyes roll back, nearly cumming from the sight.
His hips start to falter as a lewd moan leaves you when you cum hard, moaning his name, your legs shaking intensely. He pushes your leg farther back and picks up the pace, groaning lowly as he feels his release approaching.
“Cum in me baby please Sol I need it.” You whine pinching your sensitive nipples, squeezing your pussy purposely hard around his cock.
His cock twitches inside you, giving a final rough thrust as he spills inside your cunt, moaning into your ear. His hips stutter a few times, your pussy milking every last drop as he fucks his nut deep.
He catches his breath, face buried in the crook of your neck as both your breaths stagger. He slowly pulls out watching intensely as the warm cum slides out your pulsing hole onto the sheets.
He definitely could get used to the sight.
You whine about being late while Vernon moves quickly to clean you up and get dressed. You fix your hair as best as you could, throwing your jacket on to hide your neck.
“Babe do I smell like sex?” He leans in to take a whiff, only smelling your shampoo and a faint trace of vanilla.
“Nah you’re good,” he gives a thumbs up. “But if you smell like it then I do too and we’re both cooked.”
“Everyone already thinks we’re fucking when we disappear for more than 30 minutes anyways.” He chuckles as you head out of the house, blowing out the candles.
“Whatever. Salty they’re getting none.” You laugh at him as you make your way towards the clubhouse. Directly behind it was a pre-existing fire pit everyone gathered around.
“Look who decided to join us!” Mingyu calls out, a glass of something clear— probably tequila, in his hands as you wave to the crew.
Xiomara and Yuri exchange a look before turning to you, a smirk on the younger girl’s face as she knew you were ‘glowing’ aka ‘i just got dicked tf down’ she joked as you swat her arm laughing with your girls.
“So you and Soonyoung..” You wiggle your eyebrows, your friend blushing instantly.
“Nothing.. yet.” You and Yuri giggle in anticipation. You already had your men it was only a matter of time before Xiomara was set up with someone.
“He wants to show me a special spot later so.. I’ll give an update in the morning.” You smile goofily, thinking back to when you and Vernon were first falling for each other.
You hear your name and turn, Vernon behind you holding out a glass similar to Mingyu’s. You take it and sniff, the familiar scent of tequila hitting your nose. He passes a small portion of juice as well knowing you’d need a chaser. You thank him as he smiles down at you before going to squeeze his way between Seungkwan and Minghao. Seungkwan, clearly tipsy, already throws an arm around Vernon’s shoulder rambling about something as Vernon smiles wide laughing at his friend he missed dearly.
Soonyoung and Seungkwan stand up, loud and tipsy as they make speeches about finding bonds like this during the end of the world, how they’re grateful for the community and that some “bitch ass walkers” will never keep us down. Everyone cheers, raising their glasses and throwing back the shot. You make a face and follow through with the swig of juice, the burn of the tequila warming your throat.
“Next celebration will be Vernon and Y/N’s wedding! Everyone find your Sunday best!” Mingyu announces, cackles erupting from around the circle as you shake your head amused.
You catch Vernon’s eye from across the bonfire, a playful glint in them as the flames crackled in his reflection.
He thought about how he would scavenge the whole country to find a ring for you. In apocalyptic dating terms, you two were pretty much already married in his head.
Yeah he was gonna marry you. As long as the walkers don’t get to him first.
genre: baseball au, university au, slight one-sided e2l, angst, fluff,
rating: M (dealing with some heavier subjects, some not nice things said)
summary: you've accepted your place in the world of baseball; you know what you're good at. outside of the dugout and locker room, certain university classes are NOT what you're good at. asking for help feels weak, especially from the perpetually smiley cheerleader who you're sure is just as dumb as he is pretty.
warnings: there's unkind things said in this (mostly about perceived gender and gender roles; degrading to both mc and Jun), seungcheol is awful (joshua and jeonghan aren't great either), mentions of death affect our mc though the loss occurs before the story begins, jun wears crop tops (that's definitely a warning!), some cursing, a little kissing, alcohol intake. if i've missed anything, please let me know.
a/n: a huge thank you to @sailorsoons and @100vern for letting me be a part of aju league, especially when this is my first time writing for seventeen. i hope i've done justice to Jun and the story. the story got a little heavier than i expected, but hopefully i wrote it decently. there is some baseball in this, but true to form....my english major background shows up. also....thanks so much for reading, please read all of the stories as they are posted.
notes at the bottom as well. this is unbeta'd because honestly? i didn't want anyone to tell me it was shit (i don't think it is, but i also like to live in a world of delusions)
dividers from @saradika-graphics here
You hesitate coming down the hall from the coach and staff's offices to the locker room. You're nervous, which is silly. There's no reason for there to be any concern about what transpired Saturday night.
You're an adult, he's an adult. It was consensual. It wasn't great, but you're pretty sure he doesn't know that and he seemed to have a good time. You blame the alcohol you both imbibed to why it might not have been an earth-shattering bout of sex.
Which is okay.
You hope that maybe a second time with less alcohol involved, might prove better.
You're almost to the door to the locker room when you hear his voice.
"What are you on about?"
"You disappeared with her at the party. Did you fuck our equipment girl?" It's Joshua, you can tell by the accent.
You're definitely not going in now. But you don't leave either. Curiosity killed the—
"You think I kiss and tell?"
So he's a gentleman? You've always thought he might be. He certainly has always spoken to you more kindly than a lot of the other players. Not that the bar is high.
"That's 80 percent of what you talk about, Cheol." And that's Jeonghan.
"Guys—" It takes you a little longer to recognize his voice. Because you rarely hear it at a normal volume. The male cheerleader with the megaphone. His regular tone is far less aggressive. It's almost soft. "I don't think—"
"Of course I fucked her."
Well, miracles don't really happen all that much. Besides, you told your roommate, so this is practically the same thing—
"Why? I mean, were there curves under that big t-shirt and jeans she always wears?" Joshua. You knew he didn't like you. It was only the tone of his voice, but you knew.
"I know Wen wouldn't care either way, but I only fucked her to be sure she had a pussy!"
The laughter is boisterous, loud and piercing.
Oh.
You'd turn around and leave if you could, but you came here for a reason. An errand the coach sent you on even though he could do it himself if he had a mind to.
You wait for the laughter to subside before entering. The silence is almost louder than the hilarity was a second ago.
"Choi," you begin, eyes forward to the empty lockers. It's only the four of them. The showers are occupied with the rest of the players. Small favors. "Coach wants to see you and Hong. To discuss today's game."
You dare to look at them then. Captain, his comrades Joshua and Jeonghan, usually up to mischief. Joshua looks a bit abashed, Jeonghan is holding back laughter, but that's hardly surprising.
The cheerleader is on the other side of you, and you refuse to look at him. Why would you care about his opinion? He's not even a part of the team. Barely.
Seungcheol nods at your summons, smirk curling at his lips as Joshua passes by you toward the offices. Your one night stand pauses next to you, saying your name low and tantalizing. Or it would be if you hadn't overheard what you'd overheard.
"Good to see you."
You raise your eyes to his (he's stupid tall). You might want to yell or even cry, but you haven't spent most of your life around men who think they know more about baseball than you to not hide your feelings successfullly.
And your blank expression is your absolute best weapon.
He falters for a second before following Joshua down the hall and away from you. When you go to pick up a discarded helmet and bat (you think it's Vernon because it usually is), you mistakenly look over to Jun who is seated on the bench, eyes on you. When your eyes meet, he tentatively smiles at you.
Does he think you're amused by all this?
Your eyes narrow (so much for the blank expression) and you quickly leave the locker room with your head held high.
You remember the first game. It felt like years since you watched a game live without being on staff. You weren't working with the team yet, your advisor was still trying to convince the athetic director that it contributed to your study and help to offset your tuition (your mom was grateful for that even if she never said so directly).
You bring along Binna, who isn't enthusiastic. Your new roommate prefers the theatre department, and spends most of her time in the art studio (you have no idea why she paired with you), but she likes going out and trying things.
A baseball game is one of them.
"I'm going to be so annoying," she prempts as you sit. "I know nothing about how this works."
You laugh. "It's okay. I know too much, so you'll probably be annoyed at me for explaining too much."
The game hasn't begun yet, but you're bringing a plate of dumplings and sodas for you and Binna to split. You glance to see that the cheerleaders have made their way to the top of the dugout. The image barely makes an impact on you, two female cheerleaders and a male leader (complete with megaphone), starting with chants and cheers to get the crowd revved up for the game.
You can't imagine that it's easy to do that with college kids. Especially on a hot nearly summer day.
"I know that guy," Binna says the moment to plop back down beside her.
"Hmm?" You offer her the plate of dumplings and she grabs one.
"The cheerleader guy…he's a second year. He's…um, he's besties I think with the TA in my Drawing I class."
"The hot one?" You're quoting her because you were not enrolled in any art class, so had never seen an Art TA, let alone an attractive one.
"Shut up. Yes." She squints at the cheerleaders. "That's definitely him. Jin or Jun or something. He's modeled for us."
"Naked?"
"No." She hits your arm, laughing. "Not yet."
You shake your head, eating a dumpling and settling in to watch the game. You occasionally look away from the field to the cheerleaders, but despite doing more than chants and call-and-response (he does a backflip and you're impressed), you dismiss them as pretty and on-rhythm.
It took some finagling but after producing a letter of reference (and a phone call that you begged your high school's baseball coach to make), you found yourself as a freshman, working alongside the equipment manager for the university's baseball team (mascot!!).
Nang Duho showed you the ropes reluctantly. You sensed the lack of enthusiasm and general distrust (because you were a girl? because you were young? because you wanted to do this kind of work?), but it wasn't the first time you'd run into the attitude.
You'd survived high school after all.
Once Nang realized you were authentically interested, he warmed to you. You think he liked being called seonsaengnim, especially since the players more often than not called him 'ahjussi' or just Nang-nim. It didn't take long for him to give you the bulk of the maintenance, the bats, the gloves, the cleats. You preferred that over laundry, even though you couldn't avoid that, especially when his back acted up.
You remember how the players watched you on your first day. Similar distrust and skepticism. You pushed the rolling laundry cart while each player dropped in his uniform. They seemed to be waiting for you to blush or avert your eyes at the exposed skin. You didn't stare, but you didn't blush either. Granted that you could appreciate eye candy, you weren't that flustered with naked torsos or legs. After years of putting up with high school players, you were pretty much desensitized.
"Oh…I do my own."
It's a soft voice. Not quiet persay, but it makes you think of a stuffed animal, snuggly and huggable.
Strange thought about a voice.
"You do your own…" you trail off as you look at him, and his uniform. He's handsome, most of the guys seem to be, but like his voice, his good looks seem softer. Warm brown hair, wavy and striking eyes.
"Jun's our resident cheerleader," the player next to him says cheerfully, knocking shoulders with Jun (?). Jun smiles, bright like the sun, nearly matching the player next to him.
You look at the long pants and top, same colors as the baseball uniforms. "Does it need special treatment?"
The cheerleader shakes his head. "No, but—"
"Toss it in. It's fine."
He blinks at you, as if he thinks you'll change your mind.
"Thank you," and tosses it with the rest of the uniforms. He turns back to his nook, giving you a glance at a small tattoo along his right shoulder blade. You can't distinguish it (something with whirls and script - pretty) and you've already stared too long.
You continue.
When you stop the cart by a senior player, Park someone, he says something oh so clever about laundry and the fact that you're female. You blink at him before pushing the cart toward the other side of the locker room. There's some guffaws and snickers.
It's not new. You don't like it, but it's not new.
"It's only because Park can't do his own laundry and still has to go home on the weekends so his Eomma can do it for him."
You snap your head to the new voice. Handsome, deep-set brown eyes, messy black hair. He's smiling with unbelievably rosy lips.
"Seungcheol," he says to you.
You nod, unsure how to respond other than to give your name. The broad-chested player, shirtless, drops his uniform into the cart before winking at you.
He repeats your name. "Pretty."
It's a miracle that you get out of that locker room without flushing (but it happens the moment you're safe.)
If you didn't love baseball so much, you might have quit after that eavesdropping experience from hell. But not even Choi Seungcheol, current captain in your second year of university, can dull the beauty of watching a baseball streak past the fence, or Chan's incredible catch in left field against NCT's hardest hitter Mark Lee.
You love the game. Your mom told you that your father had often played the game on the radio, holding up the speaker right next to your mom's swollen womb. She'd found out she was pregnant when the Korean Series was in Game Seven, and your father was convinced it was a sign of future greatness.
Was there disappointment when you were born a girl? A little. But Korea had a fantastic women's softball team, so you weren't out of the running as of yet.
However.
When you were six and had been 'playing' tee ball for two years, you didn't need your father to break the news to you that it was a delusion to hope to play in high school, college, or professionally. You knew it by your coach's expression every time you swung and missed for the tenth time, every time you tried to steal a base (not allowed in tee ball), every time you threw your cap to the ground to 'discuss' the ref's call with the ref. You knew that even at age six, you should do better, that your motor skills should have better capabilities.
You knew.
Perhaps someone else would have chosen a new direction, a new sport, hobby or passion. Your mom took you to dance lessons, sat you with a piano teacher, started you early on cram school.
You tolerated these deviations a little. You weren't exactly a rebellious child. But you were stubborn. You indulged your mother but you always ended up back where you belonged.
Baseball.
By the time you were at university, you had cemented your career path into the realm of sports management. The advisor stuck with you brought up several other options, based on your exam scores, but you denied, politely, each one.
"Why did you take it?"
"I thought Poetry would be easy. I mean, they're short, not long novels, right?" You know it's a dumb excuse, but you really didn't think it'd be this impossible. Having a 200 level literature class required for your minor in communications is heresy in your opinion. But your academic advisor shows you no mercy.
Not that you expected it, but one can hope.
Binna (you're still surprised that she wants to keep rooming with you after first year) shakes her head at you.
"You can't drop it."
"I know. They lulled me into a false sense of security starting with Robert Frost and Yun Dongju at the beginning."
"Go to the tutoring cener, they probably can help you."
"Ugh," you groan and let your head thump onto your dorm desk. "I hate looking stupid."
"You don't look stupid. Your grades say you are stupid."
You throw a pencil at her as she laughs.
When you enter the Art building, you do so with caution. You pass fellow students, some probably your age and year, and yet there is nothing in common. Their style, the way they talk, how they carry a sketchpad and fancy pencil in hand…nothing like you with your one bag that carries your laptop and musculoskeletal text book (because taking classes for sports medicine was also a terrific idea on your part).
Binna had wanted to go get a bite together and study after her painting class, so here you were. In unfamiliar and terrifying territory.
Class should be over, but you don't see your gregarious roommate anywhere. You pop your head into the studio to see the back of her head, in front of someone you don't know. But the way you can tell how fast she's talking and general vibrating of her body, you can guess who it is.
Minghao, the gorgeous art TA.
"Binna?" You take one timid step into the room, the smells of paint and some kind of cleaner accosting your nose. You sneeze then furtively look around to see if anyone is offended by your unbelonging presence.
Your roommate hears your sneeze, not her name (figures) and turns before grinning.
"Hey!" She waves you over and you wonder why people feel the need to include you in conversations when you have nothing to contribute. She loops her arm once you're in striking distance. "Minghao, this is my roommate."
The TA nods at you, face not really welcoming, but not repulsed either.
"Wait, that reminds me. She's failing Poetry and I was wondering if you knew anyone who might wanna help her out?"
You might kill Binna.
"I'm not failing," you mutter.
"Close enough. Most of your friends are humanties and arts, right?" Binna is solely focused on Minghao and you can't fault her for making use of anything to keep talking to her crush. You just wish it wasn't you and your lack of academic prowess.
Minghao tilts his head to the side as though pondering Binna's uncalled-for request.
"Actually…" he trails off when someone comes from the other side of the room. You had only noticed the easels, the visual cacophony donning the walls of current and past students' artistic expressions. But there's a curtain that separates the main part of the classroom from what looks like an alcove, an office space perhaps for the professor.
But it's not the professor pushes aside the curtain and walks out.
It's the cheerleader, Jun.
You glance away, embarrassed to be a part of this conversation now with someone from your baseball world. Even if you and he rarely interact or speak. He always says thank you when you gather his uniform, but there's no reason for the assistant equipment manager to make conversation with the cheer team.
If you had to tell the truth, you were intimidated by Jun, Raon and Dohee (his counterparts). People that pretty tended to be unwelcoming to people like you, so you avoided as a precaution. Raon and Dohee never left their uniforms for you to launder and you never sought them out to offer.
And you've never forgotten that laughter.
"I was gonna say that Jun's solidly a Literature major. He likes poetry."
"It's a minor," Jun says, wrapping his arm around Minghao's shoulders casually.
"Not the way you take each and every class offered."
"They're fun." Jun smiles winsomely at his friend who huffs at him, but it's goodnatured, you can tell. There's an ease between them that tells of years of friendship, even if they're both only third years.
"Sure they are," Minghao answers easily. Jun winks at him, coy and flirtatious before turning to you.
"Hi there."
You wave, like an idiot.
"You two know each other?" Minghao asks.
"She's on staff. With the team."
Minghao nods and you wonder, as an artsy person, what he thinks of your sports bent. You also appreciate that Jun says nothing about you doing his laundry. You do much more (equipment manager includes all matter of bats, gloves, helmets etc), but it seems that's the only thing the players ever say about you (That's a bit unfair to several members of the team, but for generalization purposes, a laundress is basically what half or more of the team sees you as).
"I can help…if you want. I took that class and the prof likes me." Jun is smiling at you, practically the same smile he uses on his friend.
Why?
"Uh…I wouldn't want to put you out."
Binna pinches your side and heavens favored, you do not externally show the jolt it gives you.
"She'd be so grateful. As would I, who has to hear her tangents about how none of it makes sense more often than you'd expect."
You think about pinching her back, but she would not handle it gracefully and bring about all the attention to your 'abuse.'
"It's not problem." He slips his phone out of the back pocket of his jeans that hang on for dear life. You force your eyes from the sliver of skin showing between hem and waistband. "Give me your number, I'll text and we can set up a time. What poem are you working on now?"
You shrug because you do not remember, handling his phone so you don't get your fingerprints on it (you feel grubby next to these three: Binna in her wrap dress that should seem too formal for class but her painted shoes make it work, Minghao in black ripped jeans and a t-shirt, but with a bandana tied in a belt loop and long hair pulled-half back—he looks like a sixties beatnik artist, and Jun in those low hanging jeans and t-shirt that looks like it shrunk in the dryer). You type your number in, hoping no one notices that you delete a couple times, highly anxious so you can't remember your number. They're all chatting about something that you can't follow when you hand his phone back.
"Thanks," you manage to get out. Jun's smile widens and except for when he's leading the chants, you've never seen him like this. In the locker room, he's subdued, quiet, almost unnoticeable among the larger personalities (and egos) of the players.
It's a nice smile.
"It'll be fun."
"Yeah, Jun loves to share all his useless knowledge."
Jun laughs before clacking heads with Minghao who gives him an unimpressed look (but his eyes are amused).
You tug on Binna's arm, hoping you can make a quick getaway. Your roommate is staring with big ole heart eyes at her TA.
Subtlety is not Cho Binna.
"We'll, uh, see you guys," you mutter, again pulling, this time harder, on Binna's arm.
"Yeah, see ya. Thanks again Minghao, Jun," she effuses, finally coming with you.
You wait until you're way out of earshot:
"I hate you."
"You love me."
"You used my failures as a student to talk more with your crush."
"I did. And I would support you if you did the same." She is unbothered.
"I don't have any crushes."
"Yes, well, that's your issue. Not mine."
After your last crush, you took a firm hold on yourself and decided not to crush again. Certainly not anyone related to baseball.
"I don't even know Jun, he could be a jerk." He probably is.
"He is not a jerk. I've drawn him twice now, and he's really sweet."
You pull up short. "Naked?"
Binna's haughty expression is a facade, you know it, but it still makes you roll your eyes.
"Why would it matter? It's art, not porn."
"It's just weird. If you've seen my soon to be poetry tutor without clothes."
"Would rather see Minghao—" She cuts off laughing when you break away and jog several steps in front of her, effectively ending that line of conversation.
You tap your pencil against the open page of your poetry textbook (still expensive and weighty despite poetry being a 'short' medium), half-looking across the lawn for the baseball cheerleader/poetry tutor.
He'd texted you that very evening about a good time to meet. He was well aware of when baseball practice was, so you couldn't really use that as a fake excuse.
You don't have to like him and he doesn't have to like you for the tutoring to be successful. As long as you don't say anything about that conversation and he doesn't, well, then, it's old news. You just need to pass this class.
Your brain meanders off of your impending tutoring session and onto duties for tomorrow's practice. Mingyu, true to form, stumbled into the only muddy puddle on the field after the rain days ago. You've treated his uniform, but are doubtful that it'll come clean when you wash it.
"Hi!"
You jump (observational skills lacking today it seems) at the super close voice. You barely noticed the shadow he cast across the table you'd commandeered in the quad.
Jun is holding two takeaway cups.
"I got two drinks; a flat white and a pumpkin spice. I like both, so I figure one of those could be your type of coffee."
You're staring at him with your mouth partially open, like a buffoon. It's not entirely your fault. The pink of his tshirt is the brightest pink you've ever encountered outside of the Barbie doll aisle at the toy store. Possibly brighter.
"Do you drink coffee?" he asks, sitting down across from you with grace you envy. Especially with a bag slung over one shoulder and a cup in each hand. "I just assumed—"
"I do, um, thank you. I'll take the pumpkin spice if you're sure."
He sets (presumably the pumpkin spice one) in front of your text book.
"It's completely fine. I promise." His smile's brightness matches his shirt's and you wish you'd thought to bring sunglasses.
"Thanks again. For doing this. I feel like Binna kind of bullied you into it."
"She strikes me as someone who is very…proactive when she wants something," he says easily, sipping his coffee and letting out a satisfied sigh. "Caffeine, nectar of the gods."
"That's Binna. Very…forthright."
Jun's smile turns mischievous. "And she wants Hao."
It takes you a second to realize who he's talking about, Binna only every calls him by his full first name.
"Oh, um…" You don't exactly want to out her if she prefers not to have the rejection option. For all you know, Jun and Minghao might be more than just friends.
"It's not hard to see."
"Does—he know?"
"Yeah."
"Oh."
Jun chuckles. "He moves as fast as a glacier in personal matters. All he cares about is art, classes, his family, and his friends. In that order." He points to your textbook. "Ready then?"
"I guess." You open the textbook to the most recent poem that you have a quiz on tomorrow. "I appreciate you doing this. I imagine you have enough to do with cheering, the art class modeling, and your own classes."
"We're all busy, arent we?" he says, brushing off your 'thank you.' "You just have to make time. Besides, we're…kinda teammates."
You blink at him. "I suppose. I don't really do much for you or Raon and Dohee."
"You wash my uniform every time."
"That's not impressive." You look down at the poem, eyes going over the words again like it'll make sense.
"I've always admired you."
Your head snaps up from the anthology. You imagine the dumbest expression is on your face, but you can't help it. You never expected to hear that from anyone, let alone him.
"You do? I mean, did?"
"I do." He leans forward, not in a seductive way, but like he enjoys being closer to you. "A lot of people wouldn't want your job. It's not exactly glamorous."
You roll your eyes. "I don't think even glamorous jobs are all that glamorous."
He laughs, a light and breezy thing. It's unfamiliar to your ear. "You have to do their laundry. I know what they smell like after a game. All too well. It's beyond disgusting."
You can't help wrinkling your nose. "I always want to plug my nose with something. I'm kinda desensitized, but some days it's bad."
"But you still do it."
You rest your arms on the open book, half-covering Tennyson. "The uniforms, the bats, the balls, the gloves…all of it needs to be in the best condition."
"So they won't complain? Or blame a bad hit on you?"
You know who he's talking about. It makes you shift in your seat. Early in your time, one of the seniors, now gone, definitely blamed the care of his glove for a fumbled catch.
It hadn't been your fault, but you'd still taken the criticism because sometimes it's easier.
"It's not about them."
"It's not?"
"It's about the game."
He rests his chin in his hand, eyes direct. It's disconcerting how focused he can get. "You really love it?"
No one usually questions this. You're surrounded by baseball players and coaches and staff. Your long-suffering roommate doesn't get it, but has never asked. She assumes it's about the players.
It can be, but not in the way she's thinking.
You nod to his most likely rhetorical question.
"Why?" Okay, so not rhetorical.
"Why?"
"I mean…I get enjoying sports, but you don't really seem interested in our football team or even our state-winning volleyball team."
"I went to a match last year," you mumble. Freshman year had had you attempting to do social things. The campus was full of opportunities to meet people, try new things, and in general be someone new.
The attempt didn't last fall semester.
He's smiling at you, not patronizing or condescending. Like he enjoys whatever you're saying.
"I just like what I like."
He taps your textbook. "And you don't like this?"
You know you're pouting, but you can't help it. "I don't see what this…war poem has to do with me. Or anything I will ever encounter in my life."
"Well," he begins, finally leaning back, but stretching way up revealing more inches of his torso. It's not chilly yet, it's summer's last gasp, but you already anticipate the impending briskness with your baggy long-sleeve sweatshirt. "It is about a battle. But it's more than that." He returns to touching the poem in your textbook. "Look at the numbers. You're good with numbers, right?"
You nod, still skeptical, as you reread about whatever a light brigade is. He hands you a highlighter. It's neon pink.
"Doesn't seem to fit the vibe of the poem."
"I bet Tennyson loved pink," he says easily. "Mark each mention of numbers. What do you notice?"
"It's only 'six hundred'."
"Now look at the words around each mention."
You do so, lips twisted with mild distaste.
"'Left of the six hundred,'" he quotes. "They didn't all make it."
"So?"
"So….how often do you go into a situation, already knowing you're gonna lose?"
"That's stupid."
"Is it? Or is it brave?"
"Stupid."
"So don't play another team that's so much better than yours?"
You sit back and cross your arms. "Playing a better team usually makes you better. But this is war. People die..and…that's stupid."
He doesn't say anything immediately, head tilted to the side, like a cat judging you. "Okay." He points to another line. "Sabres…you know what those are?"
"I'm not stupid. Swords."
"I don't think you're stupid," he says quickly. "Soonyoung would have said it was a tiger."
You laugh, knowing that's exactly what the shortstop would think. "Are you close with the team? I know you have to use their locker room, but I never see you with them other than that."
His smile freezes before dropping. "I wouldn't say close. Some of them are friendlier than others."
"Soonyoung."
"Obviously." He grins, some of the light in his dark eyes returning. "Mingyu. Chan. They're nice."
You hear a lot in the silence. "Not any of the others?"
He meets your eyes. "Sabres…swords, as you correctly named them. Swords against gunners." He indicates line 29.
"Wait, what?" you look back at your textbook. "They didn't have guns?"
"No."
"That's…more stupid."
"That was their orders."
"Screw their orders. They should have ran…um, retreated." You follow toward the end of the poem.
"They do. See the repeated 'Cannon' lines?" He continues when you nod. "Notice the change in directions."
"They're leaving." You huff a sigh. "How'd-you know all this?"
"Well, I've taken this class before. But also…" he pauses, thinking. "I like them? I mean, it just takes time and thought to figure out what's going on. I like doing that. Like a puzzle, or scavenger game. I like trying to figure stuff out, especially when it's not obvious."
"Weird."
His smile is a flash, but it strikes you that it's not as happy as it should be. "I guess."
You want to say something, that 'weird' isn't a bad thing, that you appreciate that he is good at this because you are definitely better off than an hour ago with this poem before he sat down.
But you don't because he's moved on to talking about the last stanza. But you think about the dropped smile after he's left and you're still sitting at the table in the quad. You watched him walk away in those jeans and short hot pink t-shirt for longer than you'd care to admit.
And how his laugh didn't sound like any of the laughter you heard in the locker room that day.
"The words…" you groan. "The words are…not words."
"They absolutely are words. Just not the ones we use now." Jun is laughing at you. You can't blame him because you are being petulant to the extreme. "You know what, just listen, okay? I bet you understand more than you think."
And so he begins to read the fourteen lines by one John Keats. You try to focus, but you zone out a bit. Jun's voice is nice to listen to, not bracing or strident, or combative. It rolls like waves, gentle.
"What do you notice?"
"It rhymes."
He half-grins. "Yeah. What's the scheme?"
"Alternating lines. every four then it changes." You pause, looking over it. "Except the last six?"
"Exactly, which goes against the rhyme scheme for a sonnet."
"Okay, yeah, fourteen lines."
"Other than the title spelling it out, what do you think it's about?"
You stare at it for a lot of seconds. "Honestly? If it wasn't called 'To Sleep' I'd think it was about death. I mean…the whole final line—'casket'."
He nods. "You know Keats died at twenty-five years old?"
"I think I read that in the introduction."
"He also, through his letters, seemed to think he would die young. A lot of his family died of the same disease, tuberculosis. So…maybe it is about death and not sleep. What else makes you think that?"
"Embalmer."
"Good. What about poppy?"
"What about it? It's a flower."
"It's the flower that makes opium, which they used to treat sickness back then."
You stare at him. "That's…that's horrible."
"Yeah, it was the only way they knew how to mitigate the pain." He stares back. "Opium is a downer, meaning is slows things down, whereas something like cocaine is a upper, speeds things up. So opium and sleep and death…"
"All peaceful, but not."
He cocks his head to the side. "What do you mean?"
"Well, opium might make you slow down, but its deadly, right?"
"Certainly can be and is addictive which doesn't help."
"Sleep can be peaceful, but often not. People have nightmares, night terrors, tossing and turning, just can't rest."
"And death?"
"Its not peaceful. Even if someone goes 'peacefully.'" You even do the air quotation marks with your fingers. "It's not peaceful. It's still loss. And that rips a hole into those who are left."
You don't notice how he watches you while you close the textbook and recap your highlighter (he brought you your own this session, a beautiful serene blue) and start to pack up.
"You okay?" he asks after a moment.
"Yeah. I just…I remembered I need to take care of some stuff." You finally meet his eyes. "Thank you for your help. I think I'll be okay on the quiz next week."
"I think you'll be just fine."
You shouldn't have told Binna that you passed that quiz because now she's got your phone, texting Jun about it and that has somehow elicited an invitation to go out with he, Dohee, Raon, Minghao, and some guys named Seungkwan and Seokmin. All artsy students to your understanding.
"No fucking way."
"Come on. You never hang out with my friends."
"I don't hang out with anyone. Except you."
"Yeah, that's for your therapist to dive into."
"I don't have—"
"But you could," she says and goes to her closet. "Come on. I've been to one party with the baseball team." You wince even though she doesn't mean anything by it. But it was that night. even though that was this past spring, it still haunts you.
Probably because the last sex you had was disappointing and…unfulfilling.
"Wear this." She tosses something at you and you grab it because you don't want to argue, or maybe you want something different.
Who knows?
The bar that you ride to, in an Uber with Binna, is one you don't know, which is unsurprising as you're not a big drinker, even less when it costs you money, but still you've heard enough from classmates and the team to be familiar with names of the local watering holes.
But Cheers doesn't sound like a place anyone of your age would readily spend time socially.
"It's great. It's where most of the art students hang out. I've been hoping for an invite."
"I won't fit in."
"Enough alcohol, everyone belongs."
True words.
Binna easily gets a pass from the bouncer who doesn't seem to even care that you might not be of age (you are, but still). Inside are splashes of color, music you've never heard (but it's nice and not too overpowering), and people.
So many people, but despite that, it's not impossible to keep up with Binna who heads to the bar. She orders two shots of something. You try to decline, but she isn't dissuaded. You knock it back and ask the bartender for a lemonade as she gets something you've never heard of. When it comes out, you take a sniff since she offers you a sip and you think the alcoholic fumes singe your eyebrows.
Binna plans to party.
"I'll stick to the lemonade."
She rolls her eyes, but doesn't protest. She grabs your hand and drags you away from the bar. You see some familiar faces, or are they just familiar from the alcohol burning in your stomach and through your body, in the flashing lights? You don't know but you're happy to let Binna lead this race.
"Found you!"
Jun jumps up to hug Binna; a tight, real hug before he turns to you.
You have no idea how she found them. Maybe she does have Minghao radar because there he is, leaning against the wall, looking oh so artsy and broody. He's listening to a guy you don't know, jabber on about something, incredibly expressive. You see Raon and Dohee sitting on a couch with another unknown guy, all laughing.
It shouldn't be intimidating, but you are tempted to run home.
"Hi."
You look up at Jun, decked in long sleeve shirt, the neck of it defines the word 'plunging'. His hair, that you've never considered long, is half pulled up and he's wearing glasses.
"Hi," you remember to reply. He's grinning widely at you. You wonder if he's drunk to be so happy to see you.
"I knew you'd do well."
What? Oh the quiz. Binna's excuse for all this.
"I wouldn't have without your help."
He leans closer and you repeat your words. You're sure the flush on his face is from alcohol and the warm room, not your gratitude.
"You look nice," he says, glancing at the skirt and top Binna forced on you. It's by no means too revealing, but as you live in work out clothes, or your staff uniform, it's practically a costume.
"Binna," you explain.
He grins again and clinks plastic cups with you.
"You look good, too," you blurt out, unable to look away from all the collarbone you can see. Why is that more affecting than those cropped t-shirts you see him in so much? "You always do," you add in case he takes offense.
"I do? Thank you," he hugs you to his side. If he notices how you freeze at his touch, he doesn't show it. "Come, meet everyone."
You recover though he hasn't let go of you, moving his arm from your waist to over your shoulders. You remind yourself that you've seen him do this with Minghao.
You wave awkwardly at Raon and Dohee, who wave back far more gracefully and excitedly than you did.
"It's so fun to see you out!" Dohee says loudly to be heard above the din of people and music. You shrug in response, unsure of what to say.
"That's Seokmin, he's a theatre major," Jun says, mouth so close to your ear (presumably so that you can hear him) that his breath tickles. You shiver and he tightens his hold. "You won't be cold long," he says before introducing the other guy. "Seungkwan who is Mass Communications and basically never shuts up."
"Fuck you, Wen." Accompanied by a corresponding hand gesture, and a big smile.
Jun blows him a kiss. "If you ever want to meet people, just tag along with him."
"So never do that, got it."
He chuckles at your retort as you sip your lemonade. "Come on…" He leads you to sit at the small table in front of his co-cheerleaders and Seokmin. You're fairly content to stay there, listening to them chat about the university's theatre department (possibly more drama than the baseball team, so that's affirming). Jun doesn't leave your side, seated next to you, arm brushing yours every time he moves or gestures to add to the conversation.
At some point, he taps your empty cup. "I'll get you another. What is it?"
"Just lemonade," you say. "And you don't—"
"Just lemonade." He smiles. "Not a drinker?"
"Not if Binna is going hard." You point toward your roommate who has somehow convinced both Seungkwan and Minghao to go and dance with her on the dance floor. "Seems safer to not."
"Lemonade it is." He takes your cup and walks back toward the bar. You watch him go before turning back to see three sets of eyes on you.
"What? Why…why are we looking at me?" You stutter at the sudden attention.
"Jun was very excited you decided to come tonight," Raon says, smile all-knowing.
"Oh. I mean, I did do well on the quiz because of him."
"That's not it," Dohee interjects. "He likes you."
Seokmin starts to cough. "You just fucking outed him, Hee. Why would you do that?"
"It's so obvious," she laughs. "And it's cute. Like he's the sweetest guy to ever exist—"
"Hey!" But Seokmin's protest is ignored.
"And you're like the most normal person he's ever been into."
"Normal?"
"Yeah, like not high-maintenance, or drama-ful or anything like that." Dohee reaches over and squeezes your knee, casual and reassuring. "You are so much better to have around than Nang-nim. Chan loves you."
Jun plops down at that, holding out the lemonade. You take it and try not to look at him. His friends could be wrong after all.
"Chan loves who?" he asks, offer the other cups of alcohol he purchased.
"Our impressive assistant equipment manager," Raon singles you out.
"That's because you helped him with his batting stance, right? That's why he's hitting better."
You can't help but stare at him now. "How…how did you know that?"
His grin and eyes are too warm. "I was checking something with where we stand on top of the dugout. RaRa nearly tripped and fell off the last time, so I was making sure the maintenance request was actually carried out. Saw you two out there. You were instructing him, weren't you?"
RaRa is such a cute nickname is your first thought. Your second is that you had no idea anyone knew of your impromptu coaching session with Chan when he'd first joined the team. He was a first year, eager to impress, but while his fielding skills were terrific, he lacked at bat.
You noticed, you don't know why no one else seemed to. So one day, when you were searching for a missing glove (Mingyu or Vernon, you can't remember) after practice, you found Chan out in the batting cage, swinging and hitting, but the ball not going as far as you're sure he wanted. So you wandered over and made a suggestion about how he stood. He listened. And he hit better.
It wasn't rocket science.
"I'm not…players aren't supposed to be coached by anyone else. Please don't—" You can't lose your job. What would you do at university if you didn't work on the team?
Study only?
Jun regards you for several moments, eyes dark in the minimal light. You want to look away because he is almost too pretty to look at for long, but you don't; hoping he understands how important it is.
"Lips are sealed."
You let out the breath you were holding. "Thank you."
"Enough talk, we're here for a good time, right?" Raon speaks up, breaking the gaze that Jun has on you. Raon grabs Seokmin by the wrist. "Dancing, darling."
He rolls his eyes but follows her, grabbing Dohee's hand to drag her out as well. Dohee in turn, tries to grab for Jun, but he dodges her hands.
"Finishing this," he shouts as they disappear toward the crowd that writhes and gyrates. He turns to you once they're gone. "Wanna dance?" He sips his drink, eyes lasered on you.
"I…I'm not exactly coordinated. I was a pretty poor tee-ball player." You gulp more of your lemonade.
"Well, that has nothing to do with dancing," he says casually. "Dancing is about looking ridiculous and doing it confidently."
"Confidence is also not my best attribute."
"Bullshit," he retorts, setting down his mostly empty cup to lean closer. You swallow more lemonade. "You walk through that locker room with the carriage of a queen. You are more confident than the rest of us."
"A facade." Maybe that one shot was more tongue-loosening than you thought.
"Fake it till you make it, huh?" His eyes drop once before he stands and offers his hand. "One dance. In celebration of your successful quiz."
"A celebration of your tutoring skills."
He shrugs one shoulder. "I'll dance to that." He takes your hand even as you're standing, about to find a good excuse (restroom maybe?), and leads you away from the safety of the couch and table. You stumble to keep up with his long legs, your eyes dropping to how his pants fit and then you chastise yourself.
You've seen him in less than this even if you weren't meaning to. The locker room was a veritable menu of male bodies of various types and sizes. You've never thought about him like that. Ever.
It's definitely that one shot Binna made you drink.
Your nose wrinkles at the smell of so many people and perfumes, but Jun spins you so you're in a small circle with the people you know. Your eyes find Binna's, who is sporting some moves with Seungkwan, while Minghao watches her passively (or interestedly, it's really impossible to tell with him). Binna is drunk enough that she doesn't seem surprised at your presence in a dance circle (more almond-shaped really).
Seokmin is happily sandwiched between Raon and Dohee, though you'd argue his moves are more impressive than theirs. You didn't know men could move their hips like that.
Jun's hands fall to your shoulders, paused as though waiting. You don't shrug him off, so his hands slide down your arms to your fingers. He takes one and spins you back round to face him.
"I'm really not good at this," you tell him again.
He taps your forehead with his index finger. "Stop worrying and thinking so much. Close your eyes." The last sentence, his mouth is at your ear so you can hear him above the music. You nod and do just that because not looking at him seems like a much better idea than looking at him so close. He lifts your hands to drape them around his neck, his own falling to your hips.
It is easier to move to the thumping bass with your eyes closed. It's easier not to worry about how you might look if you can't see anyone watching.
He says your name, his mouth touching your ear again; you shiver. "You're better coordinated than you think."
You risk opening your eyes to look up at him. The glitter around his eyes and on his cheekbones catch the strobing lights and he looks otherworldly. You forget what he's just said and stare at him for much too long. His smile turns embarrassed and you quickly move in his arms to face the group.
Binna mouths something at you, and you don't really know what she says, but you know you'll hear about it later (you do and it's all about how Jun's hands were on your hips and waist, and how perfect you two looked together; but Binna is drunker than you've seen her so you chalk her observations up to alcohol). The song morphs into another and you move away from the group, miming that you need water. Jun is reluctantly to let of your hand and once you're away from them, from him, you let out a deep breath.
You are never telling Binna that being near Jun makes it hard to breathe.
Can't meet today
everything okay?
sick
You look at your messages for several seconds. Binna pokes you with her bottle of nail polish.
"What's up?"
"Jun's sick."
"Oh that sucks."
You text back: I'm so sorry. Do you need anything?
you're sweet. i'm good. hao fed me.
"Are Minghao and Jun roommates?"
"Yes. Since they were first years. I think the school thought putting two exchange students together would help with the transition to Korean Uni." Binna blows on a polished nail.
"Do you know where they live?"
"Why?" She raises her eyebrows. "Why do you think I'd know that?"
"Really?"
She laughs effortlessly. When you grow up, you hope to be as carefree as Binna seems to be.
"I thought I could bring him some soup. Or something."
Binna stares at you for a few seconds.
"What?"
"Do you like him?"
"What? No. He's…kind of a teammate."
"So you'd do this for anyone?"
"Well…anyone I've exchanged more than five words with."
"Valid." She still doesn't look away. "I do know where they live."
"Of course you do."
When you knock on the door, you have to set down one of the two bags you're carrying. You're actually bending down to pick it up when the door opens and there stands Minghao, bottom half of his face covered with a mask.
"Hi."
He raises an eyebrow. "You here for Jun?"
"Yeah, I figured you couldn't cook for him every meal, so I brought um…soup and other stuff."
You're pretty sure Minghao doesn't hate you, or even dislikes you. You probably don't even enter his mind unless you're right in front of him. But his resting face (mostly eyes and eyebrows due to the mask) is blank with a touch of annoyance. Binna thinks it's HOTTT, but you realize that you like when you can see what a person is thinking or feeling.
Someone who smiles.
"Come in," Minghao steps back and then grabs from a stack on the little table in the entryway. "Wear a mask. No idea what he's come down with, but better safe than sorry."
You take the mask and slip it on as you set your hoarde of 'get better' items on the kitchen counter. It's more a suite than a regular dorm room and you hope you get lucky as an upperclassroom to have an actual kitchenette and living area, tiny as they are.
"He's um…if he's asleep, I can just leave…"
One of the doors past the sagging couch opens and Jun is standing there, looking the most un-Jun-like you've ever seen him. There's a lack of pink, minus his nose being quite red. He's wearing baggy orange sweats that look like they belong to someone taller and wider than him, and a threadbare faded green tshirt.
He says your name, and it's hoarse though delighted.
"Go back to bed, you moron," Minghao monotones. "You'll hate yourself if you get her sick."
"Hey Jun," you begin, walking over with your two bags. "I grabbed some medicine for you, ginger chicken soup, and lots of cough drops. I didn't know what kind you liked, so I got a couple."
He's still leaning on the doorframe, less like a male lead in a romance, and more like someone who might collapse if they let go.
"You…" he starts coughing and you back away from the coffee table and sofa. He leans his head on his arm. He looks miserable.
"I'm guessing you won't make tomorrow's game."
He makes a face, but doesn't speak. He's probably wanting to avoid a coughing fit.
"Will Raon and Dohee be okay without you?"
He shrugs before texting on his phone. Yours pings a second later.
can you watch out for them? sometimes ppl are shit at away games.
"Of course." You watch him a few seconds longer, how his hair is matted to his forehead, damp from sweat and you feel for him.
It's not fun to be sick. Especially away from home. And he is really far from home.
"Feel better…and you know, message me if you need anything else."
He smiles the smallest smile. It's happy, as much as he can be feeling like he does. But it makes something tug in your chest to see it.
He mouths thank you before stumbling back into his bedroom, the door not closing all the way, so you see him flop on his bed, his feet covered in pink socks.
How odd that you've danced, club-danced with him, but seeing his pink socks feels more intimate.
When you turn around to leave, Minghao is watching you.
"Um, if you need anything for him, like if you get stuck here or whatever…uh, let me know? Or Binna?"
He nods slowly, eyes not moving away.
"Okay, see you," you hurriedly say and open the door to leave.
"See you," and he says your name, which you realize is probably the very first time he has. Why does that feel like you have received his approval?
You see out Raon and Dohee once you arrive at the away team locker rooms. Dohee laughs when she opens the door for you.
"You know you don't have to knock. You are one of us."
You know she means your gender, but the 'one of us' phrasing feels especially kind.
"That…I wouldn't want to assume."
She laughs again as you walk in to see Raon straightening her top.
"I just wanted to see if you guys were okay. Without Jun?"
"It's annoying. Neither one of us likes having to used the megaphone, but…" Raon shrugs. "Hao said he was pretty sick."
"I saw him yesterday, he looks like the least Jun-like I've ever seen him."
Dohee and Raon share a look before turning back to you.
"You saw him yesterday?"
"Uh, I went by. We were supposed to have a tutoring session, but he said he was sick."
"So you just went by?"
All of a sudden you feel like you're in a courtroom, on the witness stand. You half-expect to hear 'objection'.
"I brought some stuff…" You feel unequiped to continue. "He asked that I look out for you guys. So…that's all."
They look at each other then at you again and it's inevitable, like an anvil falling in a Looney Tunes episode. You should never have walked in here.
When Jun wakes much much later, there's a number of texts and notifications on his phone. He squints at it for a few seconds, assessing how he's feeling and if looking at a screen will induce any nausea (as it did yesterday).
Honestly, he feels pretty good. Not like, run a lap or two (like he's even want to do that), but not like 'fall across his bed like a fainting Regency woman' either.
He'll call it a win.
There's a knock on his door, but it opens before he can croak out a 'come in'. Hao peers in, still masked.
"Alive?"
"More so than yesterday."
"Did you get the video?"
After being friends with Hao since first year of uni, Jun believes he can read the enigmatic man decently well. It's harder with a mask covering half his face, but the sparkle, slight but there, in his eyes warns Jun that something good or terrible has happened (honestly, knowing Hao for over two years, as roommates, does so little to uncover what the man is thinking).
"Video?" Jun's voice is on par with a life-long smoker's at this point.
Hao plops on his bed, opens his phone and places it right in front of Jun's eyes.
It takes many seconds (his brain is foggy with remnants of illness and medications) for Jun to understand the scene playing out on his roommate's phone. He immediately clocks Dohee and Raon, standing on top the dugout, dressed in their away game uniforms; the motions and choreo so familiar to him. The person to the right of Dohee is Mingyu, who is on the injured list currently for a possible concussion (it didn't happen during the last game, but in the locker room after practice when Mingyu decided to try and film the most recent TikTok dance challenge and failed miserably due to a bench, discarded cleats and Chan doing the dance better; this all occurred before Jun contracted the plague), standing with his arms crossed, staring down the patrons in the seats.
While Mingyu is new to the cheer lineup, that is not the change that shocks Jun the most. No, it's the person in the middle, his normal spot when he's not dying. This person is wearing his uniform top, though the trousers are definitely not his.
"Is that—"
"I got a message from Dohee, you probably have one too, though you've been sleeping."
"I'm in recovery right now."
"Sure," Hao takes his phone back, presumably looking for the message while Jun stumbles to opne his phone and see his notifications.
"It's on the team's instagram page?" Jun says hoarsely. "They never put us on there, or rarely at least."
"Hey Hao, wake up Junnie and tell him his girlfriend might just take his place. She isn't quite the peppy sort, but she does the cheers really well," Hao reads then plays the video again, this time with sound.
Jun's rarely heard you speak loudly, or yell or shout. Sometimes you raise your voice in the locker room to be heard because it's chaos in there, but it's barely more than a normal speaking voice volume.
The megaphone amplifies, obviously, but you are doing really really well. Your movements are stilted, though he doubts you even got the chance to learn them prior to participating in this. But by the end of the video, which has been spliced to include most of the cheers, probably cutting down two hours of footage to a minute, you move much more naturally, showing a little of the rhythm he saw in you the night at the club.
And you're smiling.
At first, it's a forced smile. One he's seen many times. But, probably with the infectious silliness of being flanked by Dohee and Raon, your smile grows, both warmer and in size.
It must be the medication, but he thinks he likes you wearing his uniform top despite it not fitting you in the slightest.
"Why did…" Jun coughs, covering his mouth and rolling in the opposite direction from where Hao sits.
"Why did she fill in your spot? I dunno. Guess you'll have to talk to her." Hao starts out of the room before pausing at the door. "I ordered some chicken and ginger congee from the place in the city."
Jun pushes himself up. "You are the perfect man, Xu."
"Fuck off."
When you walk into the locker room before practice after the away game, the room turns silent. Which never happens, not since you were introduced back in the beginning.
"Um, here to check on any last minute equipment issues? Something we might have missed." You always do this. Come in before practice or a game, a secondary check that even in your and Nang's meticulous surveying the items needed for the players, something could be missed. Sometimes there is nothing. Sometimes a player sees a crack or dent or missing cleat. It's never hostile.
The atmosphere feels hostile today.
"You know we lost," Seungcheol begins, breaking the brittle quiet.
You nod. You might not have been going back and forth with bats and gloves, but you were still very aware of the score and its resolution.
"Why do you think that is?"
You want to answer. You're know that the Boyz were a stronger and younger team, primarily made of up underclassmen who had a lot to prove. Also, the team had been without Mingyu due to the incident with his head and the bench, and that loss would make the team struggle.
But you rightly assumed that the captain's question was rhetorical.
"Because you decided you didn't need to be doing the job you were brought on for. No, you're up in the stands, playing at cheerleader. What the fuck?"
You hear a couple grumbles, echoing his statement.
"Nang-nim was there—"
"Shut it, first year!"
You move instinctively between Seungcheol and Chan who had spoken up. It hasn't escaped your notice that the captain is hard on the baby of the team, who shows immense promise and works so hard. You also know that Chan has the making of being a leader in his own right, leading by example.
He is also, exceptionally more talented than Seungcheol is. You guess the captain probably knows this.
"I cleared my absence from game duties with both the coach and seonsaengnim. I don't see how my not being there contributes at all to the final score."
Seungcheol laughs; and unsurprisingly, Jeonghan and Joshua do as well. It's a mean, mean-spirited laugh; full of poisoned barbs.
"You don't think I couldn't tell the gloves hadn't been properly oiled? My cleats were weak? Were you so excited to be seen as a girl that you forgot your actual responsibilities for the team?" He scoffs. "You're like the worst kind of cleat chaser. In it for the nearness, but can't even offer something in return."
It feels like a punch to the gut. The very idea that anyone would compare you to a baseball groupie. You know that isn't true. You know that most of the team knows that isn't true. You know this, but it hurts anyway.
You are trying to come up with the right response, when you hear someone else come in the locker room.
"Wen, you're back!" Soonyoung would always misread the room and signals, but his happy reaction to Jun returning does distract you for a moment. You turn to see Jun, looking far more healthy than the last time you saw him, though still a bit peaked.
He doesn't go to his cubby but walks up to you, and something in his face tells you that he isn't unaware of the words just pronounced in this space.
"So…captain," Jun begins, standing next to you calmly. "You admit that you need her, but accuse her of being just a 'cleat chaser' when all she does is clean up after all of us, makes sure that you have what you need for every practice, every game. Doesn't make a lot of sense. Did you get hit on the head or something? Might need the team physician to check you out."
"This isn't your business, Wen. This is about the team."
"Oh, okay, so now she's a part of the team."
You can see Seungcheol's frustration at how Jun undoes his poorly constructed argument.
"She's staff and—"
"So not a cleat chaser. Man, you really have to get your story right."
The moment Seungcheol lurches forward, as though to hit Jun, or you, who knows at this point; Mingyu, Chan and even Soonyoung break in between, stopping Seungcheol's intention. He looks more surprised than angry at this point, though the narrowing of his eyes returns when he realizes that he's being blocked, by part of his own team.
Neither Jun nor you are physically intimidating, but Mingyu's height and build, Chan's wiry muscle, and Soonyoung's chaotic energy…all of it is enough to be threatening.
It doesn't hurt that the coaches enter right then to get the players on the diamond for practice. The entire team all trudges out; your little protective squad last to go. Chan squeezes your shoulder as he passes.
You fall to the nearest bench when all that remains is you and Jun.
"You okay?" he asks softly, moving to sit next to you. "I only caught the last bit, but—"
"I'm okay." You look at him, your heart slowly down as your body realizes it doesn't need to fight or flee. "Are you? You were really sick."
"I'm better." He clears his throat, betraying that he's not totally healed.
"You look better."
He says your name. "Are you really okay? That was…that was aggressive."
"I'm sort of numb, I guess," the words slip out before you can hold them back. " I've heard a version of that probably most of my life, though usually not so directly. That the only reason I do what I do is because of guys." You straighten your shoulders. "I appreciate the back up, but you have to spend more time with them in here. I don't want you to—"
He leans forward, his forehead knocking yours, but lingering there. "Stop worrying about me, I'm fine. I didn't grow up doing Wushu for nothing." He lifts his head.
Your expression shares your confusion.
"Martial arts." He flexes a bicep. "This isn't just from my nights at clubs or cheering."
It pulls a smile from you. "Noted."
He lets his arm fall before reaching to cover your hand. "He's an asshole."
"Yeah."
"He always has been, he just hides it better than others."
"I really have shit taste in men, huh."
You both freeze as you realize it's the first time you've acknowledged that you slept with Seungcheol to anyone other than Binna.
"No. If you had shit taste, you'd still be into him…you aren't still into him, are you?" Jun's been looking at your hands, his still holding yours. He looks up at the end of his question, eyes betraying the answer he wants to hear.
"No." You laugh, drawing your hand away, feeling horribly embarrassed by the entire turn of conversation. "I have my issues, but I'm not masochistic."
"Good." He straightens up and looks around the empty locker room. "Speaking of…that day that you walked in on him…talking about you."
You turn on the bench, shaking your head. "It's nothing. It's not surprising."
"I should have said something. I should have defended you. I'm so sorry I didn't."
You look back at him, surprised. "You didn't laugh."
"No, of course I didn't, but I didn't speak up—"
"You didn't laugh. I thought you did. Because I didn't know your laugh then. But I do now. And you didn't laugh. Thank you."
He shakes his head, looking at his lap. "Don't thank me. I should thanking you…and asking why you filled in for me at the game? One of them could have done the megaphone part."
You feel your face heat so fast you imagine you look like a cartoon character with smoke rising from your skin.
"It was Raon and Dohee. Their decisiion, they were adamant at having me fill in. I didn't want to, I did a terrible job and…we are all happy you're back."
"I'm not mad. I was just surprised. You seem like someone who permanently likes to stay in the background."
"I do. I will not be repeating that experience. So do not get sick again."
He laughs before coughing a bit, turning his face away from you. "Okay. But you weren't bad at all. You were pretty cute."
Can your face get hotter?
"I was not."
He makes a face at you, disbelieving. "I saw the video…videos, actually. I stand by my statement."
You stand up, hands fidgety because you don't know why he's saying things like this. "I should…go to practice. I am happy to see you, less pale and ill-looking."
He stands as well, tucking the cardigan around himself like he's cold. He looks soft and far less sparkling. More glowing like a single candle over fireworks.
"Me too. Happy to see you." He looks over at his cubby. "Can we meet later? I need to make up the tutoring session we missed."
"Jun, you don't have to—"
"Sure I do. It's still Romanticism, isn't it?"
You shrug. Like you have a clue.
"I'll text you."
"Okay," you whisper and hurry out the door.
It turns out to be easy to reschedule, because the Carats do not make the playoffs. The final loss, which has nothing to do with you because you are back in your regular position, doing the things you always do, clinches the 'out of the running' for the team. It's your second season with them, first time full season, and you forget how much time you have when you're not at the ball field every free minute.
Seungcheol, Joshua and Jeonghan, all seniors, are quiet and sulky when the locker room is on final clean up. You watch all the players trod out, taking their personal things with them, leaving the team properties behind.
Chan turns to grin at you and wave.
You'll place money that he'll be captain by his junior year.
Clean up is well, gross, as a season's worth of sweat and dirt and general man has built up, but it's a nice thing to have done, especially when everything is inventoried and put up for the off-season. The players will still hit the gym to keep up with their health regimens, but you're no longer needed.
Unfortunately, poetry class is not over, not yet.
"It's all death," you claim, your voice more shrill than you prefer to keep it. But you've just read the poem for this week—there is another but this one is effing long—and you are over it. "Every single freakin poem is about death."
"Most art is? I mean, literature is about sex or death…usually. That's a freebie, when you take the exam and maybe get stuck; write about sex or death."
"But this is…stupid. It's long and wordy and stupid."
He chuckles. "So you don't like American romanticism, so noted."
"'Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, / Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed / By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave, / Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch / About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams'," you read monotonously. "Like I said with the Keats poem, death is not peaceful, or calm or pleasant!"
You realize you are almost yelling and even though it's not the library, but the common area in the student union, you still attract attention. You hunch over and frown.
"Did you read the other poem?"
"No. This one took me forever to get through."
"Here, let's go through the other one." He stands up, leaning over to flip the pages in your textbook, apparently able to read upside down. You look up at him, some of your ire fading at his proximity. He's finally given into the approaching winter; wearing a long-sleeve shirt, another cardigan, and corduroy trousers. His hair is messy from the wind outside and he looks fully back to healthy, cheeks rosy from the same outside zephyr.
"Jun?"
He sits back down, nodding to the pages. "Read it."
You don't say anything, not entirely sure what you would have said anyway. Your eyes scan the poem, catching the rhyme first, then the repetition, then—
"Wait, what is 'the good night'?"
"Take a guess."
Well, it's been pretty much the same theme, so you apply death to 'the good night.'
"It was the poet to his father. When he was dying."
You mouth the words of the final line, also a repeated line, "'Rage, rage against the dying of the light.'"
"It's also called a villanelle, which is a really specific poem structure, and really hard to do and—" He cuts off and says your name. "What's wrong?"
You wipe your eyes, aware now that you're leaking tears. "Nothing."
He reaches out, hand over yours. "Tell me."
"I don't—"
He looks around, how public this all is, and scoops up your book and bag, along with his. He tugs on your scarf, still around your neck and you follow him outside.
It's blustery, leaves dancing in circles around the quad. His hair dances in sync with the leaves, and he leads you to a copse of trees where the wind is slightly blocked. He slides your book and pen in your bag before pulling out a small package of tissues.
You wipe your face, trying to not think about what you're thinking about, but it's impossible. You keep seeing the words of the poem.
Jun doesn't say anything. He leans against a tree, waiting and watching.
"My dad loved baseball," you say slowly. "Like…loved it. Knew every member of every team, coaches, and why teams did well and why they didn't. He knew everything."
"Is that where you get it?"
You nod.
"I figured he wanted his only kid to play, but I'm not good. I'm really not good. So I did the next best thing. I learned everything about it. Statistics, the players, the trades, the fact that if someone would just plant his foot a little to the left, he'd swing so much better." You sniff and look out across the quad, feeling the wind play with your hair. "He died. When I was ten."
"I'm sorry."
"Me too. He never properly got to be traumatized by teenaged me." You laugh, but it's hollow. "He refused an experimental drug. After chemo, he was tired and so sick. It wasn't guaranteed, nothing is in a hospital, but he could have tried. Even if it didn't work. Even if all the possible side-effects, like memory loss or no appetite happened." You force yourself to look at Jun. "I wanted him to fight more, but he didn't want to." You swallow the lump in your throat. "We…I wasn't enough for him to try and stay."
He doesn't ask, and you're glad because you would have said no, but he pulls you in for a hug, tight. He rests his chin on top of your head.
"I doubt that."
"What do you mean?"
"Maybe he didn't want you to see him worse?"
You look up at him, surprised to see his eyes sparkling with unshed tears.
"Maybe the drug could have made him worse, um, his body, or his mind."
"Like the memory loss, like not recognize us?"
"Yeah."
"Wouldn't that be worth the risk if you got to stay alive?"
You realize he's still holding you, but he's warm and his cardigan is really soft. You don't move.
"I can't speak for your dad. I've never been in that situation. But if…if it meant possibly losing memories of those I loved? I think I might have considered not taking the drug." He kisses your forehead and you freeze. "Maybe he wanted to keep those memories and that love for as long as he could."
Your eyes well up again, and he tightens his hold.
"I'll mess up your shirt."
"And I'll survive that," he replies, so you bury your face in his chest, tears flowing. He rubs your back as you do, seems unbothered that you're gripping him like you might collapse without him.
You miss your dad. You always miss him.
When you finally let go, Jun relaxes his hold on you, but doesn't let you detach completely.
"Wanna go get ramyeon? My treat."
Later that evening, after you're both so full of noodles and broth, and talked about baseball, cheering (he got into it because someone he liked in high school was one and they had an opening for a male cheerleader; he got the position but that someone never returned his feelings —'honestly, they were kinda a horrible person, so maybe you're not the only one with bad taste in romantic partners') and poetry, he walks you back to your dormitory.
"Thank you, Jun. With the class, and just…you know, being a really nice person."
He grins. "It's not hard to be nice to you."
"Oh please." You wrinkle your nose. "I was definitely not friendly to you in the beginning."
"You weren't?"
"I never understood why baseball needed cheerleaders, so no, I wasn't exactly amicable."
He's still laughing. "But you still offered to wash my uniform. And you still always nodded at me when you saw me. Besides, cheerleading isn't a needed thing. It's a joyous thing, to be encouraged, to join together as a group, to lift up and not bring down."
He stops where the sidewalk intersects with the path to your dorm. You look at him in the light of the streetlamps. He still is exceptionally pretty; bright smile and bright eyes, hair messy from the day.
You're wrung out from all the emotions, so you can't be held totally responsible when you raise up on your tiptoes to press a kiss to his cheek. Maybe the forehead kiss gave you permission, or you've gone crazy.
But it feels like saying 'thank you' isn't quite enough.
When you land back on your feet, he's staring at you.
"Sorry if that—"
"Can I kiss you?"
Perhaps you shouldn't be surprised. Not after the way Dohee and Raon talked at the club that night, or how Binna has teased you about bringing him soup when he was sick.
But you still are.
"Yes."
He leans down, cupping your cheek in his hand. You're frozen, unsure all of a sudden how kisses work. He doesn't kiss you immediately, just sort of breathes you in, his nose brushing along yours before fitting his lips to your lips. It's incredibly soft and warm, like him. And you find yourself leaning into it, mouth opening for a taste. He returns taste for taste, teasing and igniting heat in you.
It doesn't go very far, only enough for you to miss him the moment he breaks the kiss.
"So…we'll have to revisit that," he says, his face even more rosy post-kiss.
"You mean, not on a day that I dump my entire childhood trauma on you?"
He catches your smile and leans in for another kiss, this one quick. "Next time, I'll share mine." He straightens up. "And in case it wasn't obvious, I like you."
Shouldn't really be surprising, but somehow hearing it is marveling to you.
"I like you too."
"Oh, that's good. Be weird otherwise."
You laugh, outright laugh after crying only hours earlier. "Just a little bit."
He nods toward your dorm. "You go in. You have a quiz and soon final exam to study for."
"I have a really good tutor."
His blush, even apparent in the bad street lighting, is so cute.
"Good night."
"Good night, Jun."
poems mentioned:
"Charge of the Light Brigade" by Alfred, Lord Tennyson
"To Sleep" by John Keats
"Thanatopsis" by William Cullen Bryant
"Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night" by Dylan Thomas
Themes: Smut | Angst | Slow Burn | Small Town | Found Family | Cowboy AU | Jealousy | Second Chance Romance | T.W.: mentions of domestic abuse, infidelity, physical violence
Wordcount: 50.5K
Playlist: 'Whirlwind' - Lainey Wilson | 'Too Sweet' - Hozier | 'Girl I Never Met' - Corey Kent | 'Old Pine' - Ben Howard | 'Not With Haste' - Mumford & Sons | 'Agape' - Bear's Den | 'Wildfire' - Seafret
Smut Warnings: Explicit sexual acts - Quickie - Semi Public Sex (twice) - Foreplay (F. receiving) - Soft Dom! Mingyu - PIV - Unprotected Intercourse - Praise (Yes, he uses 'good girl')
This story is intended for an adult audience only. Minors do not interact.
The bus doesn’t so much arrive as it gives up.
It hisses to a tired stop beside a curb that looks like it hasn’t been repainted since the last century, and for a second, you just sit there with your hands buried in the straps of your duffel, watching dust drift across the windshield in a slow, lazy sheet. The driver calls out the town name—soft, drawled, almost bored—and a couple of people stand and stretch like they’ve got somewhere to be. You do too. It just isn’t somewhere you can say out loud.
You step down into air that smells like pine and sun-warmed asphalt. There’s no ocean here, no damp salt on your tongue, none of that sticky, crowded heat you’ve been living in for months. The sky is vast in a way that makes you feel both smaller and safer, blue pulled tight over jagged mountains that sit on the horizon. Not the kind of mountains you grew up seeing in postcards. These are closer. Real. Their shadows over the town look protective rather than threatening.
Your pulse stays where it is. You wait for it to sprint—wait for the familiar headrush of panic, for your skin to go cold, for your ears to ring with imagined footsteps behind you. But the street is quiet. Not dead quiet, not eerie, just… slow. A car passes with a dog’s head out the window. Somewhere, a doorbell rings. A bird calls from the trees. A cow lows in the distance, so far away it sounds like it might be part of the wind. A man in a faded cap crosses the road with a cup of coffee, nods at you like you belong. You don’t.
You shift the duffel higher on your shoulder and walk. Your shoes scrape on gravel. Every few steps, you glance over your shoulder anyway, because your body doesn’t know how to stop doing that. It does now out of muscle memory, out of survival. Out of the kind of fear that doesn’t vanish just because the scenery changes. You keep your head down, hat low, sunglasses on, even though the sun is mild. You are a shadow wearing a name that isn’t yours.
Just keep moving. Just one night. That’s what you told yourself when you bought the bus ticket. That’s what you told yourself every time you crossed a state line, every time you slept in a seat with your arms wrapped around your bag like a life vest. One night to reset. One night to breathe. Then you’d be gone before anyone could notice you were there.
Transit town. That plan feels tidy in your mind until you see the motel. It’s a squat building at the edge of Main Street, the neon sign blinking VACANCY like a half-hearted promise. The kind of place with flower boxes on the windows and an ice machine that probably hasn’t worked in a decade. There are two pickup trucks in the lot, both covered in dust. A porch swing sits outside the office door, creaking lazily in the breeze even though no one’s sitting in it.
You pause on the sidewalk. You don’t want to go in. Going inside means saying a name. It means producing cash. It means being seen by a person who might remember you if someone ever asks—Did you see a woman come through here? Brunette, about this tall, nervous? But you’re tired. You are so tired you feel hollow in your bones. Like if you take one more step without stopping, you’ll split open and pour yourself onto the ground. So you go in.
A bell jingles when you push the door open. Behind the counter, a woman in wire-rimmed glasses and a cardigan sits despite the mild day. There’s a mug in her hand that says World’s Best Grandma and a crossword half-finished beside it. She looks up and smiles like she’s been waiting for you in a way that is purely polite and nothing more. “Afternoon, hon. Looking for a room?”
Your throat feels dry, tight like you’ve swallowed sand. You force your mouth to shape the words you practised. “Yes. Just for a night.”
“Sure thing. Passing through?” There it is—that little question that always feels like a hook in your ribs. You nod. Make yourself look casual. “Just passing through.”
She doesn’t ask where you’re headed. She doesn’t ask where you came from. She just pulls a ledger toward her, taps a pen against it thoughtfully. “We’ve got a single upstairs or a double on the ground floor. Single’s cheaper.” Cheaper wins. Always.
You slide folded bills across the counter—money that feels too thin, too fast to disappear. You hate how aware you are of every dollar. You hate how much you hate needing to count. Your last job used to pay by direct deposit. Now you feel each note leaving your hands like a small amputation. She peels off the bills, counts them, and hands you a key attached to a wooden block with a faded number branded into it. “Upstairs, end of the hall. Breakfast is coffee and toast in the morning if you want it. No charge.”
You swallow, nod again. “Thank you.”
She tilts her head, looking at you a second longer. Your skin prickles. Then she smiles softly. “You look like you’ve had a long road.”
Your breath stutters. You don’t know what expression you’re wearing, but it must be something honest, something that makes her say that. You exhale softly. “Yeah. I… yeah.”
She doesn’t push. She just nods as if that’s the whole conversation. As if she understands every human who walks in here is carrying something invisible. “Well, get some rest.”
You take the key and head back outside. Your room is exactly what you expected: a narrow bed with a floral quilt, a little table with a lamp that hums, and a bathroom with a shower curtain that smells faintly of bleach. There’s a window at the far end that looks out on the mountains. You put your duffel on the bed and stand there for a while, breathing.
No one followed you in. No one is outside your door. No car has slowed in the parking lot. Your hands are shaking anyway. You turn the deadbolt twice. Then you drag the chair from the tiny table over to the door. The legs scrape on the linoleum, loud in the quiet room, and the sound makes your stomach coil. You wedge it beneath the handle like you’ve done a hundred times, like it’s a ritual more sacred than prayer. Only then do you let yourself sit on the edge of the bed.
Your phone stays off. It has stayed off for weeks now. The battery is a useless brick, SIM card removed and wrapped in tissue at the bottom of your bag. You don’t check messages. You don’t scroll. You don’t search for anything that can ping your location. You try not to think in straight lines. That’s the worst way to remember.
Your body is still running on the leftover adrenaline that got you here. It’s a jitter behind your ribs, an electric ache under your skin. You should sleep. You should collapse. Instead, you drift to the window and stare out.
You don’t know the names of the mountains. You’ve never cared about names for things like this before. But something about the way they cut into the sky makes a quiet feeling bloom low in your chest, unfamiliar and almost painful in its gentleness. You didn’t know quiet could sound like this. Back there, quiet was never safe. Quiet meant listening. Quiet meant waiting for the footstep in the hall, the shift of a door, the click of a bottle on a counter. Quiet was a warning that something was about to break. Here, quiet is almost… comforting.
You force yourself to unpack only what you need: toothbrush, a change of clothes, the tiny travel deodorant you bought at a gas station three towns ago. You lay your ID on the table face down, because even looking at the plastic makes your stomach twist. You don’t want to see that name again. You don’t want to see that face. You take a shower that lasts too long just because hot water feels like a luxury you almost forgot. Then you sit on the bed with wet hair, wrapped in the motel towel, and eat the granola bar you’ve been rationing since yesterday. You count the cash you have left. You count it twice.
The number doesn’t change, but the second count still feels better, like maybe if you look hard enough, money will multiply out of pity. It doesn’t. Two nights. Maybe three if you stretch it, if you don’t eat much, if you don’t need anything unexpected. You stare at the ceiling and whisper to yourself, “Three days.” Then softer: “Two.” Then: “Maybe one.”
You close your eyes. You sleep with your sneakers still beside the bed within reach. You sleep with the chair wedged under the handle like a guard dog.
Dreams come in flashes you don’t want to name. Hands. A voice. A hallway that feels too narrow. You wake up before dawn with your heart trying to claw its way out of your chest. It takes a full minute to remember where you are. It takes another full minute to notice the quiet is still quiet. You breathe into your palm until you stop shaking.
The chair is still wedged beneath the handle. No one touched it.
Outside, the sky is beginning to pale. The mountains are turning purple and gold like they’re waking up too. The sight is so beautiful your throat goes tight again, but not from fear this time. Something else—something you forgot you were allowed to feel.
You rinse your face, tuck your hair under your hat, and look at yourself in the bathroom mirror. Your eyes are too alert for this early hour. Your skin is a little sallow from the road. There’s a bruise blooming under your jaw that you keep covering with your collar and hoping no one sees. You don’t look like a woman who came here for vacation. You look like someone who fled. You grab your purse and head out before the office even opens, because being in a room too long makes you feel trapped.
Main Street at sunrise looks like an old movie set: brick storefronts with peeling paint, a hardware store with saddles hanging in the window, a diner with a neon coffee cup sign already lit. Pickup trucks line the curb. Someone is sweeping the sidewalk in front of a feed store, slow and unbothered. You keep your head down and walk like you belong here, even though every muscle in your body is still coiled. First stop: the grocery store.
It’s small, maybe four aisles, old linoleum, a bell over the door like the motel’s. The produce section is tidy, apples stacked in pyramids, local honey in jars with handwritten labels. A teenage cashier with freckles and a ponytail smiles at you like she recognises you, even though she doesn’t.
You hover by a bulletin board near the entrance. Job ads are pinned in crooked rows: hay for sale, babysitting, church bake sale, tractor repair. Nothing that says I will hire a woman with no references and no past. A middle-aged man stocking shelves notices your slow scan and asks, “You lookin’ for somebody?” The question is kind, casual. It still makes your breath hitch.
“Work,” you say. Keep it simple.
His brow furrows thoughtfully. “Uh… we’re full up. But you could try the diner? Marla sometimes needs a hand.”
“Thanks.”
His smile is easy. “Good luck.”
You nod quickly and escape with a loaf of bread you didn’t plan to buy but do, just to look normal. Next: the diner.
The bell jingles again. Everything in this town has bells. Maybe to announce people coming in. Maybe because people don’t sneak here. Maybe because no one has anything to hide. A woman behind the counter wipes the counter down with a rag and looks up. Her name tag says Marla. “Morning. Sit anywhere.”
You take the stool closest to the exit by instinct. When she pours coffee into a chipped mug, your hands shake as you add cream. “Passing through?” she asks, and you almost laugh because it seems to be the town’s only question. “Maybe,” you say.
She studies you briefly, not unkindly. “Well, you’re welcome all the same.” You swallow a sip of coffee that tastes like it’s been brewed a thousand times, and all of them were for you. You clear your throat. “Do you have any openings? Someone at the grocery store said you might. I can wait tables, wash dishes, anything.”
Marla’s face softens in apology. “I’d love to, hon, but my niece’s doing weekends now, and I can’t afford another body unless I know I can keep them on. Town’s quiet this time of year.” Quiet.
You nod, pretending it doesn’t deflate you. “I understand.”
She doesn’t stop there. She lowers her voice a little, friendly conspiratorial. “Try the post office board. Sometimes folks stick real jobs up there. Or the bar later, if you don’t mind a bit of noise.” Noise isn’t what scares you. Noise is manageable. It’s silence with teeth you don’t trust. “Thank you.”
She squeezes your shoulder as she passes, a gesture so maternal it almost unspools you on the spot. You leave money for the coffee you barely drink and walk out with the sun on your face.
The post office board has more of the same. Yard work. Fence repair. A notice about a lost black lab. Someone needs help fixing a roof, but it’s clearly for a man who can lift two-by-fours without flinching.
By late morning, you’ve done three loops of the town, pretending your feet are restless instead of desperate. You buy a cheap apple at a fruit stand. You smile at strangers. You keep your head down when a truck slows to turn, not because it’s suspicious but because your body doesn’t know how to interpret not suspicious.
You find yourself outside a bakery without remembering how you got there. It’s a narrow place with old white paint and windows fogged from warmth. A small chalkboard sign out front reads: FRESH CINNAMON ROLLS — HOT COFFEE — ASK ABOUT PIE
The smell hits you like a tidal wave. Butter, sugar, yeast—home. Your stomach twists painfully. You haven’t let yourself eat like a human in weeks. You push the door open. No bell this time. Huh.
The bakery is alive: a few small tables, sun spilling in, a glass case full of pastries that look like they were made by someone who loves feeding people. Behind the counter is an older woman with a braid going silver down her back. She wears flour on her apron and wrinkles around her eyes. She looks up and smiles. “Well, you look hungry.”
The bluntness makes a laugh escape without permission. “I am.”
“Sit. I’ll get you something to start.”
Before you can protest, she’s already moving. She pours coffee, slides a plate with a warm roll in front of you, and when you instinctively reach for your wallet, she shakes her head. “First one’s on the house.” You blink at her. “I can pay.”
“I’m sure you can. But you don’t have to for that.” Her voice is calm. “Eat. Then talk.” You don’t know why your eyes burn.
You focus on the roll instead. It’s too good. It tastes like Sundays and safe kitchens and mornings you don’t have to earn with fear. You eat half of it before you even think to slow down. The woman watches you without staring. She wipes her hands on her apron and leans her elbows on the counter. “You’re not from around here.”
You shake your head. “Just… passing through.” There it is again. The safe line.
She hums softly, not buying it but not challenging it either. “Passing through usually doesn’t look like an empty stomach and a blur behind the eyes.”
Your throat tightens. You force yourself to breathe evenly. “I’m looking for work,” you say, because you need the conversation to stay on familiar ground. “Anything. Cleaning, serving, I don’t…” You stop when your voice wobbles. The woman’s gaze stays steady. There’s a weight to it. Not suspicion. Attention. “Name’s Nora,” she says.
You hesitate, then give her the name you’ve been wearing all week. It feels foreign in your mouth. “I’m… I’m staying at the motel.”
Nora nods once. “We don’t have an opening here. Not one that pays real money.” The words sting even though you braced for them. You nod anyway. Then Nora tilts her head a little, like she’s listening to something you can’t hear. Like she’s hearing the between-the-lines you didn’t say. “You willing to work hard?”
You give her a look that’s probably too intense. “Yes.”
“You mind getting dirty?”
“No.”
“You mind early mornings?”
Your mouth twitches. “I’m already awake.”
That makes her smile properly. “Alright then.”
She reaches beneath the counter and pulls out a napkin, and smooths it with her palm. She takes a pen from behind her ear. “There’s a ranch out past the old highway,” she says, writing as she talks. “Big one. Been here longer than I’ve been alive. Three owners these days. Always busy. Always needing hands. They don’t hire just anybody—so don’t go in there expecting it to be easy—but if you’re serious about work, it’s the best shot in this county.”
The word “ranch” lands in your mind. A ranch means land. Animals. Long days. A place that probably doesn’t ask too many questions as long as you show up and do your job. A place far enough from town that you might be able to breathe without flinching at every passing truck. You watch her pen scratch lines and arrows on the napkin. “Take County Road 4 till it forks,” she continues. “Go left at the old windmill. You’ll see their gate before you see the house. Tell whoever you meet that Nora sent you. They’ll know I wouldn’t bother them without a reason.”
She slides the napkin across the counter. Your fingers hover over it like it might burn. “Why are you helping me?” you ask before you can stop yourself. Nora’s brows lift slightly. Then her face softens into something that looks like memory. “Because I’ve been tired in strange towns before,” she says simply. “And because you don’t look like trouble. You look like someone who needs a roof and a chance.”
Your throat works. “I don’t have experience. With… ranch stuff.” Nora waves a hand. “Ranch stuff can be taught. Work ethic can’t.”
You stare down at the napkin again. The directions are plain.
For the first time since you ran—since you threw clothes into a duffel with shaking hands—you feel something other than fear trying to take root in you. Hope is a dangerous thing. It makes you picture futures your body isn’t sure are allowed. But it’s there anyway, small and stubborn. You fold the napkin carefully and tuck it into your pocket. “Thank you,” you whisper.
Nora studies you one last time—like she’s taking stock, like she sees all the scars you’re hiding, all the pieces you don’t know how to say out loud. Then she just nods and says, “Eat the rest of that roll. You’ll need the energy.” You do.
Outside, the morning has warmed into a slow gold afternoon. The mountains still sit on the horizon, huge and steady and unconcerned with whatever you’re running from. The town keeps moving at its own gentle pace. You turn toward the motel to grab the rest of your stuff, the napkin heavy in your pocket.
Transit town, you remind yourself.
But as you walk, you catch yourself glancing back once—at the bakery window, at the mountains beyond it, at the road that stretches out past the old highway. And you don’t feel your heart clawing in your chest. You feel it… waiting.
Like maybe, just maybe, something is waiting with it.
You spend exactly ten minutes staring at the motel bed, then you pack your life back into your duffel.
The clerk offers you coffee and a polite smile. You take the coffee, decline the small talk, and step out into the morning sun before you can talk yourself out of any of it—out of the ranch, out of the job hunt, out of the fragile little hope that’s been gnawing at you since Nora drew those crooked lines.
The bus stop looks smaller in daylight. The bench where you sat yesterday is empty now, just a strip of fading paint and gum. There’s no bus coming. Not for hours, maybe not till tomorrow. You’re not checking the schedule.
County Road 4 starts where Main Street ends, a strip of cracked asphalt that bleeds into open land. From there, the mountains look closer, like you could walk straight into them and disappear. You start walking.
The first mile isn’t so bad. The road is mostly flat, the air still cool. Your boots crunch on gravel at the shoulder. Grass rustles quietly in the ditch. Every now and then, a truck passes, slow enough that you can feel the driver’s curious gaze skim over you before they continue on. You keep your eyes forward, shoulders squared, thumbs hooked in your straps so they don’t see your hands shaking. Nora’s directions loop in your head like a mantra. Take County Road 4 till it forks. Left at the windmill. You’ll see their gate before you see the house.
You don’t know how far “till it forks” actually is. The napkin doesn’t have miles on it, only arrows and her cramped handwriting. After the second mile, your legs start to ache. After the third, the sun has climbed higher, and your hoodie feels like a mistake. You keep going. You’re not going back to the motel. You’re not going back, period.
A pickup truck appears behind you sometime after you pass a field of hay bales. You hear it before you see it, the low growl of the engine rolling along the road. Your whole body tenses. Old instinct tells you to dive off the shoulder, to hide, to make yourself small and invisible. You force yourself to breathe. It’s just a truck.
It slows as it comes alongside you, tyres crunching on gravel, and a man’s voice calls out through the open window. “You alright there?” You glance over, ready to fake a smile and a “fine, thanks,” then keep walking. But the driver is old—late sixties, maybe—with a tan that’s more leather than skin, a wide-brimmed hat, and kind eyes crinkled at the corners.
He does not look dangerous. You hate that that’s your metric now. “Road’s long to walk in those boots,” he adds, nodding at your feet. “Where you headed?”
You swallow and adjust your grip on the strap. “Out past the highway,” you say carefully. “A ranch.” His brows go up. “You mean Longview?”
You blink. You didn’t even know it had a name. Nora hadn’t said. “I… I think so,” you murmur. “She just said a big ranch out past the old highway.” He huffs a little laugh. “That’d be them. I’m goin’ that way with feed. Hop in the back, if you want. Save you a few blisters.”
Your gaze jerks to the bed of the truck: dusty, lined with feed sacks and a couple of empty buckets. From there, you’d be in plain sight. No locked doors. No closed windows. The idea of getting into any enclosed space with a stranger makes your stomach clench, but the back… You measure the distance with your eyes. Flat land. Open sky. If you needed to, you could jump. You hesitate long enough that he softens his voice. “Name’s Bud,” he says. “Been drivin’ this road longer than you’ve been breathin’. Figure Nora sent you, from the look of you.”
Your breath catches. “You know Nora?”
“Everybody knows Nora,” he answers. “She’s got a good nose on her. She trusts you enough to send you up to Longview, I trust you enough not to steal my ol’ truck. That seem fair?”
You don’t know what to do with trust said that plainly. You force yourself to nod. “Okay.”
He jerks his thumb toward the back. “Watch your step.”
You climb up carefully, fingers gripping the side of the truck, heart banging more from the decision than the effort. The bed is warm under your palms, dust sticking to your jeans. Bud checks his mirror to be sure you’re settled, then eases back onto the road.
The wind hits you as soon as you’re moving, whipping strands of hair out from under your hat. You sink down between the feed sacks, fingers curled around the metal edge, and let the town slowly unspool behind you. It’s strange, watching it shrink.
You’ve never left somewhere without looking over your shoulder in dread. Now you look back with something else tangled up in it. The bakery sign. The motel roof. The little strip of Main Street you memorised in case you ever had to describe it to… to anyone. Then the last of the houses fall away, and it’s just land.
The road stretches ahead in a narrow strip, bordered by fields and scattered trees. Fence posts march alongside in steady lines, wires glinting in the sun. Cattle dots the distance, dark shapes moving slowly through the green. A hawk circles overhead, its shadow sliding over the ground. You breathe air that smells like dirt and something green and alive and think, wildly, that you could get used to this if given half a chance.
After a while, the truck slows and then stops at a fork in the road, just like Nora said. To the right, the asphalt continues straight toward the mountains. To the left, the road narrows and the old highway sign leans at an angle, half swallowed by weeds. Bud leans out his window and points. “Left’s your turnoff. Gate’s a few miles down. I’ll be goin’ through it myself.”
You blink. “You work there?”
"Nah,” he snorts. "I just take their money for feed. But they’re good folks. Busy. Might be rough around the edges, but they look out for their own.”
The phrase their own makes something twist in you. “Thank you,” you say, voice low but earnest. He waves you off like it’s nothing and starts forward again, taking the left fork. The pavement gives way to a harder, packed-dirt road that jostles you in the back. Dust rises in soft clouds behind the wheels. You clutch the side of the truck and squint ahead.
You see the gate before you see the house, exactly like Nora promised. It appears out of the shimmer of heat: tall wooden posts, heavy metal bars, a sign welded across the top in thick letters: LONGVIEW RANCH
Beyond it, the land seems to roll on forever. Pastures stretch out in every direction, bordered by long runs of fence that gleam in the sun. You see a cluster of buildings farther in—a big house, smaller cabins, barns with open doors. Trucks are parked in wide dirt lots. You spot horses moving along a rise in the distance, riders on their backs just silhouettes against the sky.
The truck slows to a stop beside the gate. There’s a keypad on a post, worn from use. Bud puts the truck in park and twists around to look at you. “End of the line, miss.”
You climb down, legs a little rubbery from the ride. Your boots hit the dirt, kicking up a puff of dust. Up close, the gate’s even bigger, the bars cold under your fingers when you reach out to touch them. You suddenly feel… very, very small. It’s not just the size. It’s the scope. The sense that this place has existed for decades before you and will exist for decades after. That the problems you carry are, to this land, something inconsequential. Bud keys in a code, the kind of sequence his fingers know without his eyes. The gate shudders, then slowly swings open with a low groan. He grins at you over his shoulder. “Good luck to you,” he says. "Remember—work hard and don’t spook easy. They like that.”
“I’ll try.”
He tips his hat and drives on through, following the dirt track up toward the cluster of buildings. You hesitate just outside the gate, watching the path curve away, looking back once down the empty road as a last escape route. Then you tighten your grip on your duffel strap and step forward. Longview Ranch swallows you in.
The road is rutted but solid beneath your boots. On either side, pastures spread out in waves of green and brown. In one, a herd of black cattle moves slowly, tails flicking, heads down. In another, a few horses graze, ears flicking toward you as you pass. Fences crisscross the property, creating a patchwork grid that looks chaotic at first glance and then, the longer you look, perfectly deliberate.
Closer in, you start seeing people. A pair of hands moves along a fence line, hammering in new posts. A woman in a baseball cap and braid leads a horse toward a barn, talking to it under her breath. A guy in a faded tee throws sacks of feed into a wheelbarrow like they weigh nothing. No one stops to stare at you. They glance, note the stranger walking up the drive, then go back to what they’re doing. It unnerves you more than open curiosity would.
Finally, you approach the main cluster: a sprawling two-story house with a wide porch, flanked by outbuildings and a row of smaller cabins. A dog lies in the shade near the steps, tail thumping lazily as you get closer. You don’t know where to go. You’re hovering at the base of the porch steps when a voice calls out from your right. “Hey! You lost?” You turn so fast your duffel swings.
A man is walking toward you from the side of the house, wiping his hands on the seat of his jeans. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, with an open, easy grin that hits you like sunlight. His hair curls a little at his forehead, and there’s dust smudged across his cheek, but it does nothing to dull the brightness of him. He looks like he lives outside and laughs often. Sunshine in human form.
You take a breath. “Uh, maybe,” you admit. "I’m looking for… whoever’s in charge.”
His grin widens. “Well, that depends on who you ask.” He sticks out a hand. "I’m Seokmin.”
You shift your duffel and shake his hand, his palm callused and warm.
You give him your name, the one you’ve been using. It feels less foreign this time. Less like a temporary lie and more like something you might grow into. “Nora at the bakery sent me,” you add quickly, because her name feels like a talisman. "She said you might be looking for help.”
Seokmin’s eyes light up. “Oh, Nora.” He nods approvingly. "If she sent you, that’s a good sign. She doesn’t vouch for just anybody.”
Your shoulders loosen a millimetre. “I don’t… I don’t have ranch experience,” you admit, the words tumbling out before you can make them sound better. "But I can work. Anything you need—stables, cleaning, cooking, whatever. I just…” You don’t want to say, I just need somewhere to be. He seems to read it anyway. “Okay, okay,” he says, hands up in mock surrender. "You don’t have to give me your resume out here in the driveway. Come on. We’ll see what the bosses think.” The bosses. Plural.
Seokmin gestures for you to get up the steps and onto the porch. The boards creak under your weight in a familiar, comforting way. Up close, you can see little details—boots lined up by the door, a hat hanging from a hook, a faded horseshoe nailed above the frame. A place people come home to. He knocks once and pushes the door open without waiting for an answer, looking back at you with a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry,” he stage-whispers. "They bark more than they bite.” You aren’t sure that makes you feel better.
The inside of the house smells like coffee, leather, and something savoury from a kitchen you can’t see. The front room is large, with a worn couch, a coffee table covered in magazines and papers, and a big, scarred wooden desk shoved near a window. The desk is currently occupied by a man with a phone wedged between his ear and shoulder, one hand flipping through a stack of papers, the other typing on a laptop. He looks up as you come in. Sharp eyes. Dark hair. An energy that crackles quieter than Seokmin’s but no less intense. “Cheol,” Seokmin says. "Got someone for you to meet.” The man—Cheol—holds up a finger, still listening to whoever’s on the line. “No, we need those contracts by Friday or the whole thing falls apart,” he says, voice calm but firm. "Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Send ‘em to my email and to Mingyu’s. Thanks.” He drops the phone back into its cradle and exhales, rubbing the bridge of his nose before focusing on you.
“Sorry,” he says. "You’re—?”
You give your name again, feeling suddenly conscious of every wrinkle in your clothes, every smudge of road dust on your skin. Seokmin jumps in before you can stumble over your next sentence. “Nora sent her,” he says. "She’s lookin’ for work. Says she’s not afraid to get dirty.”
Cheol—short for Seungcheol, you assume now—leans back in his chair and gives you a quick once-over. It’s not leering, not assessing in that way. It’s practical, like he’s checking if you’ll fall apart at the first sign of trouble. “You ever worked on a ranch before?” he asks. You shake your head. “No. But I’ve worked… other jobs. Long hours, on my feet. I learn fast.” He nods slowly, like he expected that answer. “You got any problem with early mornings?”
"No.”
"You got any problem with bein’ told what to do?” That one makes your jaw tighten, just a little. You’ve had problems with it before. But not like this. Not in a context where what to do meant what to be, what to say, who to see, how to breathe. You swallow. “Not if it’s fair,” you say carefully. "Not if it’s about the job.”
Seokmin’s mouth quirks like he likes that answer. Seungcheol studies you another beat. Then he shrugs, like he’s already halfway moved on to the next problem. “We always need hands,” he says. "But it’s not up to just me. Mingyu’ll want a say.” You latch onto the first part. “So… there might be a place?”
"Maybe,” Seokmin chimes in. "We’ll see.”
Before you can ask who Mingyu is, another presence fills the doorway behind you. “What might we see?”
The voice is deeper than you expected. Calm, low, with a gravel edge that vibrates straight down your spine. You turn, slower this time, like bracing for impact. The man standing in the doorway might as well have stepped out of the mountains. He’s taller than Seokmin and broader through the shoulders, wearing a worn tee and jeans that have seen better days. A baseball cap shadows his eyes, but you can see the line of his jaw—sharp and set—and the dark hair curling slightly at the nape of his neck. There’s dirt on his forearms, a smear of something dark across his shirt. He smells like sweat and dust and sun. He takes you in with one long, unhurried look. It feels like being put under a microscope. Your fingertip goes numb around the strap of your duffel.
Seokmin brightens. “Perfect timing,” he says. "This is—” he glances at you for confirmation, then says your name. "She’s lookin’ for work. Nora sent her up.”
The man—Mingyu—doesn’t look at Seokmin. His gaze stays on you, heavy as a hand on your shoulder. “Work,” he repeats, like he’s tasting the word. You force yourself not to fidget. “I can do whatever you need,” you say, because silence feels worse. "I know I don’t have ranch experience, but I—”
He cuts you off with a small shake of his head. “Have you ever handled livestock?”
"No.”
"Ridden a horse?” Your cheeks heat. “No.”
"Driven a tractor? Worked a fence line? Fixed a busted pipe in the middle of a field in the rain?”
You open your mouth, close it. “No,” you admit, quieter now. He nods once, as if that confirms exactly what he thought. “Then we don’t need her,” he says, speaking to Seungcheol now as if you’re invisible. "We don’t have time to babysit someone who’s never seen a saddle up close.” The words hit hard, colder than you expect. You stand a little straighter.
“I said I can learn,” you insist. "I’m not asking for special treatment, I’m asking for a chance.”
His eyes flick back to you, dark and unreadable. There’s something there under the flat assessment—annoyance, maybe. Or something sharper that flashes and disappears before you can name it. “You got references?” he asks. Your mouth goes dry. References. You could give him names. You could give him numbers. You could also quietly hand him the thread that leads straight back to everything you’re running from. You shake your head. “Not… not ones you can call,” you say.
His jaw ticks. “So no references, no ranch experience, no idea what this job is actually like.” He clicks his tongue softly. "We’re not a charity.” You feel your throat close around a surge of panic. This was a bad idea. You were stupid to come. You were foolish to hope. You should’ve just kept walking to the next town, the next bus, the next—No. You are so tired of running on empty and calling it safety. You plant your feet.
“I know I’m asking a lot,” you say, voice shaky but louder. "But I don’t have anywhere else to go. I’m not picky, I’m not scared of hard work, and I will do whatever you tell me to do if it keeps a roof over my head.”
Somewhere behind you, Seokmin shifts. “We are short-handed,” he offers. "Since Hana started doin’ more horse work and Tess cut her hours, the bunkhouse chores have been a mess. She could at least help around there while she learns the rest.”
Seungcheol nods, eyes back on a page he’s pretending he’s not reading. “And Nora doesn’t send us dead weight,” he adds. "Last one she sent stuck around three years.”
Mingyu’s gaze doesn’t leave your face. He’s not cruel, exactly. But he’s not kind either. He looks at you like you’re a problem he doesn’t have time for. A complication he didn’t ask for and doesn’t want. You see it in the way his eyes snag on the bruise half-hidden by your collar. Or how his throat moves when you say you have nowhere else to go. He sees more than he wants to. You don’t know it for sure, but you feel it.
“We don’t know anything about you,” he says finally. "You say you’ll work hard? So does everybody who walks up that road.”
"How many walk?” you ask before you can stop yourself. "It’s a long road.” The corner of Seokmin’s mouth kicks up. Seungcheol lets out what might be an amused breath. Mingyu’s eyes narrow, just a little. “You think mouthing off is gonna help your case?”
"I think being honest will,” you shoot back, then wince because that sounded sharper than you meant. You take a breath, try again. "Look. I know I’m not ideal. If you had a line of people with more experience and clean resumes and references, you’d pick them. I get that. But you don’t.”
You gesture vaguely toward the window, toward the endless pastures and fences and animals you don’t know how to handle yet.
“You said you’re not a charity,” you say. "I’m not asking you to be. I’m offering you my time, my effort, my everything in exchange for a paycheck and a bed. If I screw up, you can fire me. If I can’t learn fast enough, you can send me away. But if you don’t give me a chance, I’ve got… nothing.” The last word lands too heavy. You hear the wobble in your voice, hate it, but can’t pull it back.
The room goes quiet. Somewhere in the house, a clock ticks. Outside, a truck door slams. The ordinary sounds of a life you’re not part of yet. Seokmin is watching Mingyu now, not you. So is Seungcheol. It occurs to you that, for all his talk about not being the only one who decides, Mingyu’s opinion clearly carries weight here. He looks pissed about it. He drags a hand down his face, like he’s trying to wipe away the argument.
“Cheol,” he says finally, not taking his eyes off you, “you really want someone green as spring grass out there? She’ll slow us down. She’ll get hurt.”
"Then don’t put her on a bull,” Seungcheol replies dryly. "Start her with bunkhouse work. Stables. She can learn. We did.”
Mingyu snorts. “We grew up on this land.”
"You weren’t born knowing which end of a cow is which,” Seokmin chirps. "Remember when you tried to milk the bull?”
Mingyu shoots him a look that could cut wire. “I was six.”
"Still counts.”
The banter loosens something in the air, a pattern older than you, older than this argument. You stand there, heart pounding, trying not to sway on your feet. Mingyu exhales, long and slow, like the fight is leaking out of him whether he wants it to or not. He looks at you again. Really looks.
You know what he sees: road-worn clothes, worn-out boots, a duffel that’s too light for someone who plans to stay, eyes that haven’t slept well in longer than you can remember. You don’t know what he makes of it.
“Two weeks,” he says abruptly.
You blink. “What?”
"You get two weeks,” he repeats, voice clipped. "Trial basis. You do what you’re told, you listen more than you talk, and you don’t touch a damn horse without someone watching you. You show up late, you slack off, you cause problems, you’re gone. Got it?”
Your knees go weak with relief so fast you’re glad you’re already standing near a chair. “I won’t let you down,” you say, the words rushing out. "I promise, I—”
He holds up a hand. “Promises don’t mean much out here,” he says flatly. "Work does.”
"I’ll work,” you say. You wish you could show him your hands, all the small scars they already carry from other lives. "I’ll prove it.”
He studies you for another heartbeat, then turns away, already heading for the door. “Seok,” he calls over his shoulder. "Show her where she’s stayin’. Get her a list of chores from Tess.”
"On it,” Seokmin replies gleefully.
Mingyu reaches the doorway and pauses just long enough to glance back, eyes skimming over you one more time. His mouth twists into something that isn’t quite a smile. “Welcome to Longview, Rookie. Don’t fuck up.” Then he disappears through the door and out onto the porch, leaving the taste of the nickname in the air. Rookie.
You’re not sure if it stings more because of how he said it… or because part of you desperately, stubbornly wants to prove you can be more than that.
Seokmin moves like he’s already decided you’re staying.
He walks you off the porch with a light clap of his hands, the kind people do when they’re excited about the shape of the day. The house falls behind you. The yard opens into dirt paths packed down by years of boots and hooves. You keep your duffel close, still half expecting someone to stop you and say, Actually, no, sorry, we changed our minds. But no one says that.
Seokmin points things out as you go, narrating the world like a tour guide who’s too enthusiastic for the size of his audience. “Barn’s over there—big red one. Tack room attached on the left. Don’t go in the tack room without one of us for the first week, okay? Horses can be… opinionated.” He says it with a grin, like horses are just moody roommates. Like being afraid of them isn’t something that could live in a person.
“Bunkhouses are past the corrals. Main bunkhouse for the guys on the right, girls on the left. You’ll be with the women.”
The path curves between two low buildings. The men’s bunkhouse has a porch crowded with boots, a couple of shirts hanging off a railing like someone abandoned them mid-laugh. The women’s bunkhouse is smaller, neater, with a pot of something green struggling to live in a cracked terracotta planter. A place to sleep. A door that isn’t a motel door. A roof that isn’t temporary by default.
Seokmin knocks once and swings the women’s bunkhouse door open. “Alright, ladies!” he calls, voice bright. “We got a new face!”
The room inside is warm, cluttered, lived-in. It smells like detergent and coffee and something citrusy—somebody’s lotion, probably. Four bunks line the walls in tidy pairs, with curtains pulled halfway around some of them. There are posters taped up, boots lined neatly by the door, a table crowded with mugs and a half-finished deck of cards. Three women look up at once.
The first one is sitting cross-legged on her bunk, hair in a braid that looks like it could survive a hurricane, sleeves shoved to her elbows. She has the kind of face that wears mischief like a crown.
The second one is leaning over the table, folding shirts, calm as a lake. She looks older—late twenties maybe, early thirties—and there’s a quiet steadiness to her, a groundedness you feel immediately.
The third one is perched on the edge of a bunk with one boot half on, chewing gum and looking like she was born with a smirk.
Your nerves flare. New places usually mean new rules. New people mean the urge to shrink, to make yourself smaller so you don’t trigger anything unpredictable. But the women don’t look at you like a threat. They look at you like something interesting just walked in on a Tuesday.
“Ohhh,” the braided one says, pushing to her feet. She’s shorter than you expected, compact muscles and sharp eyes. “Is this the stray Nora sent up the road?”
Seokmin laughs. “Don’t call her a stray, Hana.”
Hana. She steps closer and sticks out a hand without hesitation. “I’m Hana,” she says. “Welcome to Longview.” You take her hand. Her grip is firm, warm. Hana studies your face for about half a second, then nods like she’s already decided you’re fine. “You’re cute,” she announces. “We’ll keep you.”
The woman at the table snorts softly. “Don’t scare the poor girl. She just got here.” She wipes her hands on her jeans and walks over, offering you a smile that makes your shoulders loosen a fraction. “I’m Tess,” she says. “Bunkhouse mom, whether I like it or not.”
You almost laugh. The title fits her immediately. There’s a sense of I will make sure you eat and sleep and don’t break yourself in half rolling off her like warmth.
“Riley,” the gum-chewer announces, hopping down from her bunk. She doesn’t offer a hand—she offers a shoulder bump, like you’re already friends. “You like trouble? Because I’m trouble. That means we’re probably gonna get along.” You blink at her. Riley grins wider. “Kidding,” she says, not kidding at all. “Mostly.”
Seokmin claps again, as if to reset the room’s energy. “She’s on a two-week trial. Mingyu’s rules. Be nice.” Riley rolls her eyes so hard you think she might see her own brain. “Of course it’s Mingyu’s rules.”
Hana groans dramatically. “He’s in one of his moods again, huh?” You hesitate, still not sure what is safe to say. “He… wasn’t thrilled.”
The way Riley’s face softens for a split second is so fast you almost doubt you saw it. “He never is with new people,” Tess says gently. “Don’t take it personal. It’s a him thing.” Hana jerks her thumb at herself. “Also, he hates when Seok brings home strays. Ugly side effect of being the middle brother with stress issues.”
"Hey!” Seokmin protests.
“You literally brought home a goat once,” Hana says.
“It was lonely!”
Riley bursts out laughing. You don’t mean to, but a sound sneaks out of you. It feels strange in your throat, like using a muscle you forgot existed. Hana catches it and smirks. “See? Already improving the vibe.”
Seokmin points around the room. “Okay. Rookie—” He winces at his own word like he remembers Mingyu said it. “—uh, okay, you. Pick a bunk. Tess’ll show you the rules. I gotta go back out.” He starts toward the door, then pauses, looking back at you with that bright, earnest face. “Seriously,” he says quietly enough that only you hear. “You’re gonna be fine.” You don’t know what to do with that, so you just nod.
He leaves. The door shuts behind him. For a breath, it’s just you and the girls. Then Hana snaps her fingers. “Alright. First things first. Boots.” She crouches by one of the bunks and pulls out a spare pair—worn but clean, a little scuffed, loved hard. “These should fit close enough. If not, we’ll swap. You can’t work in those flimsy city shoes. Horses will eat you alive.” You stare at the boots, then at her. “I don’t want to take—”
"You’re not taking,” Tess cuts in gently. “You’re borrowing. We keep spares for anyone who needs them.”
Riley pops her gum. “Plus, if you don’t take them, Hana’s gonna whine about it all day. And I like peace.” Hana flicks Riley’s forehead. “Liar.”
The air feels… easy. Ordinary. Like your arrival isn’t a disruption, but a continuation of something they’ve done before. You accept the boots.
Tess leads you through the bunkhouse like it’s sacred ground. “Showers are in the back,” she says. “Hot water lasts about twenty minutes if you don’t hog it. We do a loose rotation. If you’re about to pass out, say it. We’ll bump you up.”
"Laundry room’s behind the shed. We take turns. Don’t leave your stuff in the washer unless you wanna find it folded on your bed by a mildly annoyed Hana.” Hana makes a face like she is deeply offended by the accuracy.
“Curfew’s not strict,” Tess adds. “But dawn work is. You wanna go into town at night, fine. Just don’t miss morning feed.”
Riley leans against a bunk, grin sharp. “And if you go into town with me, you won’t miss morning feed because I won’t let you sleep in anyway.” You don’t know if she’s joking, but the confidence of it makes your chest feel less hollow. Hana points to an empty top bunk near the window. “That one’s open. Right by the vent. Warm in winter, cool in summer.”
You set your duffel down carefully at the foot of it. It feels surreal to claim space. Like a trespass. Like permission. Tess watches you with something kind in her eyes. “You hungry?” The word itself almost knocks you over. Hungry. Like you’re allowed to be a body with needs instead of a survival strategy. “I—”
Your instinct is to say no. Always no. No need, no burden, no footprint. But the roll from Nora is still warm in your memory. And Tess is already reaching for a loaf of bread on the table, cutting thick slices without waiting for your answer.
“Sit,” she says. Not a command in the way you fear. A command in the way someone wraps a blanket around your shoulders without asking. “Eat. We’re doing lunch anyway.”
Riley slides a jar of peanut butter toward you. “Trust me, bunkhouse rule: you don’t turn down food unless you want Tess to stare you into compliance.” Tess gives her a look. “It’s a gift.”
"It’s a weapon.”
You sit. They talk while you eat. Not interrogating. Not prying. Just talking like people who live together and fill the silence with stories because it’s comfortable, not because they’re trying to trap you. Hana tells you about a horse that kicked Vernon in the shin last week and how Mingyu didn’t even flinch, just muttered “deserved” and kept saddling. Tess mentions the next cattle shipment coming in and how Seungcheol’s been stressed because of contracts. Riley tells you there’s a coffee shop in town that makes a latte so strong it could wake the dead, and how she intends to prove that to you personally when your feet stop wobbling. You laugh more than you mean to.
At some point, Hana tosses a casual line like she’s discussing the weather. “Cheol’s gonna hate that Seokmin brought somebody home again. He pretends he doesn’t care, but he does. Big brother stuff.”
You blink, coffee halfway to your mouth. “Cheol is your brother?" “Yep. Unfortunately.” Riley whistles. “Don’t tell her unfortunately. Tell her your brother runs this place like a mob boss who also cries at dog commercials.”
Hana throws a napkin at her. “Shut up.”
You stare. Hana’s eyes narrow, amused. “What?"
"Nothing. I just… didn’t realise.” Tess smiles at your expression.
“Yeah. Blood ties here are messy but good. And if you’re wondering: Mingyu’s not related to them by blood. The three of them grew up together. Seokmin’s like Cheol’s right hand. Mingyu’s… Mingyu.”
The pause is affectionate enough to make you brave. “What does that mean?” Riley leans forward like she’s sharing a secret. “That means he’s grumpy and hot and thinks feelings are a conspiracy.” You choke on your coffee. Hana cackles. Tess sighs with the patience of a saint. “Ignore her. He’s just protective of the ranch. New people make him prickly. He’ll thaw.”
You don’t say what you’re thinking—that the way Mingyu looked at you felt different than “prickly.” Like he’d already pinned you to the wall in his mind and measured every part of you. You just nod.
The afternoon passes in a blur of small kindnesses. They show you where to keep your toiletries. Hana gives you an extra hoodie because yours is thin, and the mornings get cold. Riley digs through a drawer and hands you a pair of gloves with a grin. “You can’t blister up on day one. That’s illegal.” You try to protest. They ignore you.
By the time the door opens again and Seokmin sticks his head in, you’re already sitting on your bunk with your boots on, feeling like a person who belongs in a room full of women laughing. “Ready for your grand tour?” he asks, eyes bright.
“Yeah.” You follow him back outside.
The ranch isn’t just big. It’s a kingdom.
Seokmin takes you through it with a kind of casual pride that makes the scale hit harder. You pass the main barn and he points out the stalls, the tack room, the feed storage, the medicine cabinet. He shows you the corrals, the hay shed, the equipment yard where tractors sit like sleeping beasts. Your head spins trying to take it all in.
“Okay, so feeding schedule,” he says, handing you a clipboard already marked with neat lines. “Morning feed is 5:30. Evenings at 5. It’s rotation-based. This week, you’re with Tess and me. Mostly basic stuff. I’ll show you.” He walks you to a row of feed bins, explains which scoop goes where, which animals get what. He doesn’t slow down to coddle you, but he doesn’t rush you either. You like that. He treats you like someone who can learn. Like someone who won’t break if the world is too fast.
The first stall you muck, your back protests immediately. You’re awkward with the pitchfork, clumsy with the wheelbarrow. You lose your grip twice. Your boots sink into the straw and manure in ways that send a ridiculous thrill of horror through you. Seokmin just laughs. “Welcome to the glamorous life.”
You wipe your forehead with your sleeve. “How do you… Do this every day?”
"We’re all a little insane.”
He’s not condescending. He doesn’t sigh when you mess up. He doesn’t take the tools out of your hands. He just shows you again. And again. And again.
By mid-morning the next day, you’re sweating through your shirt and your arms feel like rubber. But… you’re still standing. Still working. Still pushing through the unfamiliar. Every time you glance up, you feel eyes on you. Not Seokmin’s. Not the girls’. Mingyu’s.
He isn’t close enough for you to talk to. He isn’t close enough to even count as “hovering.” Half the time, he’s a shadow leaning on a fence line beyond the corrals. Another time, he’s in the driver’s seat of a truck, window down, gaze pinned somewhere that you can feel even when you’re not looking. Later, you spot him on the porch of the big house, arms folded, watching the barn like it’s an old habit. It unnerves you. The constant inspection. The way he looks like he’s waiting for you to trip, to fail, to prove him right. You don’t let it show. You don’t shrink. If anything, it lights something stubborn in your spine. You straighten your shoulders, adjust your grip, and push harder. Let him watch. Let him see. You’ve been watched by worse. You swallow the thought before it can bloom into something messy.
By the time lunch comes, your hands are tingling, and your thighs ache from crouching and lifting, but there’s also a dull kind of pride sitting in your chest like a coal that hasn’t decided whether to catch fire. You did work you didn’t know how to do yesterday. You’re doing it today.
Seokmin walks you toward the shade of the barn overhang where a cooler sits. “You okay?” he asks, and you realise he’s not asking to be polite. He’s asking like he means it.
“Yeah,” you say. “I’m just… tired.”
He grins. “Good tired or bad tired?”
"Good tired.”
"Then you’re doing it right.” He hands you a water bottle and a sandwich. “Eat. Tess will kill me if she finds out I didn’t feed you.”
You bite into the sandwich like your life depends on it. Maybe it does. Across the yard, Mingyu is tightening a saddle girth. He doesn’t look up. But you feel him.
The next couple days only get fuller.
Seokmin takes you through the rest of the essentials in quick, careful layers: how to carry hay bales without blowing out your back, how to open gates so cattle don’t spook, how to check water lines, how to clean tack without ruining leather.
You mess up. You drop things. You fumble knots. You forget which bin is which and have to correct yourself. You keep trying anyway.
By the third morning, your body is running on sore muscles and overcaffeinated determination. Hana shows up halfway through feeding rounds, braid swinging, and takes over part of the line with ease. “So you’re who the guys call Rookie,” she says, voice teasing.
Your ears heat. “I didn’t pick the nickname.”
She snorts. “None of us do. Mingyu thinks he’s funny.”
You glance toward the paddock like he might magically be standing there. Hana catches it. “He’s around. Always. Like a ghost with opinions.” You can’t stop the laugh that escapes. Hana pauses, looks at you like she’s checking something. Then her face softens a fraction. “You’re doing good.” You blink. The simple praise hits strange. It makes your throat tight. “Thanks.”
She doesn’t linger, just tosses you a carrot for the horse she’s leading and disappears into the next stall with the confidence of someone born into the rhythm. You’re slowly becoming part of that rhythm.
At night, the bunkhouse is noisy in the best way. Riley tells stories that get wilder with every retelling. Hana makes fun of Seokmin for being incapable of subtlety. Tess reminds everyone to drink water, eats in slow deliberate bites like she’s teaching you that meals don’t have to be rushed. You listen more than you talk. Not because they demand it. Because it feels good to just… be near people. People who aren’t waiting for you to slip. That night, you lie in your bunk, muscles aching, listening to crickets outside the window. The walls creak softly in the wind. Someone snores two bunks down. Riley laughs in her sleep like she’s in the middle of a dream that doesn’t care about anyone’s dignity. You stare at the ceiling in the dark. For the first time in longer than you can remember, your body isn’t braced to make itself invisible if footsteps come in the hall.
There is no hall. There is no chair shoved under your door. There is no listen, listen, listen for the moment something goes wrong. Your heartbeat stays slow. You let it. You drift to sleep with that faint buzz of belonging humming under your ribs like a new muscle learning how to exist.
On the fourth day, Seokmin throws you into the deep end of “town.” “We’re out of a few supplies,” he says that morning, flipping keys around his finger. “Feed supplements, some gloves, maybe a new hose. You wanna ride into town with me?”
Ride. The word makes you flinch before you interpret it. Then you remember. Truck ride. Not horse. You nod quickly. “Yeah. Sure.”
Riley wolf-whistles from the bunkhouse porch. “Don’t bring her back with a Seokmin tattoo, okay?”
Seokmin turns pink. “Riley!”
"I’m helping you flirt.”
"I don’t need help flirting!”
Hana lifts a brow. “You absolutely do.”
Tess waves a hand. “Leave him alone. Go get what you need.”
You climb into the passenger side of Seokmin’s dusty truck and try not to look too overwhelmed by the interior. There are empty coffee cups in the console, a pair of work gloves on the dash, and a tiny plastic dinosaur wedged into the air vent like it lives there. Seokmin catches you looking. “Vernon put that in here. Says it’s for ‘emotional support.’” You laugh softly.
The ranch fades behind you as the truck rolls down the dirt drive. It’s weird to see the gate from the inside now. Like it’s not a boundary keeping you out, but a threshold you’re allowed to cross.
Town is the same as it was in your first loop when you arrived, but it feels different now that you’re coming from somewhere. You’re not wandering anymore. You’re not drifting, looking for a crack in the world. You have a purpose. Seokmin keeps the windows rolled down, elbow hanging out like he belongs to the road. He greets everyone with easy familiarity: a wave at the hardware store guy, a shout to someone loading hay, a grin at a woman outside the diner. People wave back. They look at you, too. Not with suspicion. With curiosity. With the quiet acceptance of small towns that notice everything and still decide a person might be worth letting in. You end up at the feed store first. You follow Seokmin inside, clipboard in hand, trying to look like you know what you’re doing.
The bell jingles as you enter. It makes you smile a little now, because you’re starting to understand bells here are not warnings. They’re welcomes.
While Seokmin cheerfully argues with the store owner about prices, you wander toward the shelves of gloves, comparing sizes with no real metric besides what feels right. You pick out two pairs and turn—And stop. Because there’s a girl behind the counter at the far end of the store, you don’t recognise her from your first visit through town. She’s leaning against the register with her hair up in a messy bun, sleeves rolled to her elbows, and a bored look on her face like she’s already done twelve hours here and is planning to do twelve more. She’s pretty in a quiet, tough way. Not trying for it. Not needing to. Seokmin sees her at the same moment and goes a little… louder. Not by much. Just enough that you notice.
“Mae!” he calls. Mae’s eyes flick up. She takes one look at him and lets out a slow, unimpressed breath. “Seokmin.”
"How’s your day?” he asks, sliding into his brightest grin. Mae deadpans. “Longer now.”
You bite your lip so you don’t laugh out loud. Seokmin doesn’t seem deterred. If anything, he shines harder. “I brought backup this time.” He gestures to you. “This is—” he says your name. “She’s new at the ranch.” Mae looks you over with a steadier, sharper gaze than most people in town have given you. It’s not unkind. It’s… measuring. Then she nods once. “Hey.”
"Hi,” you say. Mae’s eyes return to Seokmin like a magnet. “What do you want, Seok?”
"Just supplies.” He leans an elbow on the counter like he’s trying to look casual. It comes off adorable. “And maybe—” he lowers his voice slightly, grinning—“maybe you could come by tonight? We’re doing a thing. Little welcome dinner. You could—”
"No.”
The flatness of it makes you blink. Seokmin pretends he doesn’t flinch. “Not even for five minutes?” Mae sets a receipt stack down with a soft click, expression unmoved. “Seokmin.” He blinks at her, hopeful anyway. She sighs. “You’re sweet. But no.”
And then she goes back to her register like that’s the end of the conversation. Seokmin stands there for a second, still smiling, but it falters at the corners. You step in gently before the awkwardness grows teeth. “Do you still carry those electrolyte blocks for the calves?” you ask, holding up a box in your hand. “He said you might.” Mae’s expression shifts. Not much. But enough to show she appreciates competence. “Third aisle. Bottom shelf.”
"Thanks.” You turn and walk away before Seokmin can spiral. In the aisle, you let yourself grin. Seokmin appears beside you a moment later, still pretending he’s not wounded. “She hates me,” he mutters. “She doesn’t hate you,” you say, low enough he’s the only one who hears. “She just doesn’t play along.”
He glances at you, surprised. “Yeah?”
"Yeah.”
That makes him laugh a little. “You sound like you know her already.” You shrug lightly. “I sound like someone who sees you trying your best.”
He looks at you for a second longer than the joke deserves, like he’s clocking the sincerity. Then he rubs the back of his neck and says, “I am trying my best.” The words are so honest you almost choke on your own tenderness. You hand him the electrolyte blocks. “Then keep trying.” He grins again, real this time. “Okay.”
On the way back out of the feed store, Mae gives you a nod—tiny, almost imperceptible. It feels like a second sliver of hope, different from the first. You climb back into the truck with Seokmin, bags in your lap, and watch town slip past the windows. On the way out, you pass the bakery. Nora is out front in her apron, sweeping flour off the steps. When she spots you in the passenger seat, she pauses. She smiles. You can’t stop yourself from lifting a hand in a small wave. She waves back in a way that feels like I knew you’d find your way. You look forward quickly, blinking too hard.
Seokmin doesn’t comment. He just drives. When the ranch comes back into view, it doesn’t feel as impossible anymore. It still makes you small in the face of it. But now that smallness doesn’t feel like weakness. It feels like beginnings. As you roll back through the gate, a familiar figure stands near the corrals, arms folded, cap low. Mingyu. He doesn’t approach. He doesn’t speak. But his gaze finds the truck, finds you through the windshield, tracks you all the way as Seokmin parks near the barn. The attention prickles your skin. Seokmin hops out, slamming the door with his hip, oblivious to the silent exchange. You clutch your bags and follow him around the hood.
Mingyu is still there, talking to one of the guys—Wonwoo, maybe—while keeping half his focus on you like you’re a slow-moving variable he hasn’t accounted for yet. You set your jaw. You’re not here to be a variable. You’re here to be useful. You head toward Tess, who’s waiting by the shed with a list, and you don’t look at Mingyu again.
When you walk into the women’s bunkhouse that night with Riley’s shoulder bumping yours and Hana yelling about showers and Tess asking if you ate enough, the place feels a little less like shelter—and a little more like home.
You wake up before your alarm, heart already pounding against your ribs. For a second, in the dark, you don’t remember why.
Then your eyes find the faint glow of your phone screen on the crate by your bunk. Sunday. Two weeks to the day since you stepped off a dusty old truck in front of Longview’s gate with a napkin in your pocket and nothing else that looked like a plan. Two weeks. Trial’s up. You stare at the ceiling, listening to the soft chorus of the bunkhouse: Riley’s little sleep-hum, Tess’s slow, even breathing, the occasional rustle from Hana’s bunk as she rolls over. Outside, the crickets are still singing, stubbornly ignoring the human concept of weekends.
If they tell you to go today, you have nowhere else to run. You picture yourself walking back down that long dirt road with your duffel, through the gate, past Nora’s bakery, all the way to the bus stop. You picture the bus carrying you away from the mountains and back into the haze of nowhere, new town after new town, until something catches up or you run out of money again. You can’t do that again.
You roll onto your side and stare at the outline of your boots under the bunk. You worked. You did everything you could. You woke up before dawn, stayed out after sunset, learned to shovel shit and haul hay and read the moods of horses you’re still half afraid of. You’ve got bruises on your knees and blisters turning into calluses on your palms. You’ve fallen in the mud twice, gotten kicked in the thigh by a gate, nearly lost your hat to the wind, and still showed up the next morning. If that’s not enough, you’re not sure what else you have to give. The alarm buzzes softly against the floor. You slap it off quickly before it can wake anyone else. Tess’s voice comes from across the room, low and sleepy. “You up?”
“Yeah.”
“You okay?” You wish people around here would stop asking that. It makes lying feel worse. “Just… thinking.” Tess hums, a soft, knowing sound. “Don’t overthink it. Do the work. Same as you’ve been doing.” Easy for her to say. Tess isn’t on trial. You take a breath. “Right.”
You climb down the ladder, the wood flooring cool under your bare feet. Your muscles protest the movement, little stabs of soreness up your legs and across your shoulders, but it’s a familiar ache now. One that feels like proof. Riley rolls over as you lace your boots, hair sticking out in every direction. “Is it Judgement Day?” she mumbles, voice thick with sleep. You snort despite yourself. “Something like that.” She cracks one eye open. “You’re fine,” she mutters. “If they try to fire you, I’ll steal the truck. They’ll forgive you to get it back.”
“You can’t drive a stick,” Hana’s muffled voice comes from somewhere under a pillow. “Not with that attitude,” Riley fires back. Tess laughs softly as she slides off her bunk. “See? You’ve got backup.” It’s not backup in any legal way. But it’s the kind that matters.
Dawn spills pale light across the yard as you and Hana make your way to the barn, breath puffing in the chilled air. “So,” Hana says, bumping her shoulder against yours. “Big day.”
“Don’t remind me.”
“He’s gonna make a show of it,” she warns. “He always does. Don’t let the grunting get to you.”
“The grunting?” She nods solemnly. “Mingyu’s native language is ‘hmm.’ You’ll see.” You roll your eyes, but your lips twitch.
The barn is still shadowed, dust motes caught in the first rays pushing through the gaps in the boards. You fall into the feed routine on muscle memory: scoops measured, bins marked, paths walked. Tess joins you midway through, tying her hair up as she moves. When you step out of the feed room, balancing a sack on your shoulder, you almost collide with a wall. Not a wall. A chest. Mingyu.
He’s blocking the doorway, hat low, arms loose at his sides. The early light catches the edge of his jaw, the stubble dark there, the line of his throat. There’s mud on his jeans and a faint smear of something across his sleeve, like he’s already been up for hours. Of course he has. He glances down at you, then at the feed sack. “Heavy?” he asks. You tighten your grip. “No.”
He grunts. A soft, uninterpretable sound. Hana passes behind you with her own sack, biting her lip to keep from laughing. Mingyu steps aside. Not enough that you can pretend he isn’t watching, but enough that you don’t have to brush against him as you pass. “I’ll be with you today,” he says. You almost drop the feed. “What?”
“Your trial’s up.” He says it like you could’ve forgotten. “I wanna see what you’ve actually learned.” So this is the evaluation. Not a meeting. Not a sit-down. No clipboard. Just him. In your shadow. All day. You nod, trying not to let your nerves show. “Okay.”
He eyes you for another long beat, then jerks his chin toward the stalls. “Well? Don’t stand there. You’re burning daylight.” You move.
You fall into the rhythm because you have to. Because stopping will only make it worse. You muck stalls with more focus than you’ve ever had in your life, trying to remember everything Tess and Seokmin showed you: how to angle the fork, where to pile the dirty straw for the wheelbarrow, when to swap tools so your hands don’t cramp. Mingyu follows. He doesn’t hover close enough to trip you. He doesn’t give you instructions. He leans against the stall doors, crosses his arms, and watches. Sometimes he nods once, barely perceptible. Sometimes he grunts—a short, sceptical hmm that Hana warned you about. Once, when you nearly step too close to a horse’s hindquarters, he snaps, “Watch his back leg,” and your whole body jerks like you’ve been electrocuted.
You didn’t see the twitch of his muscle. You adjust. You apologise to the horse under your breath. Mingyu doesn’t comment.
As the morning wears on, other people drift in and out. Wonwoo appears with a coil of rope over his shoulder. “Hey, Rookie,” he says, easy. “You done with that rake?” You hand it over automatically, the nickname sliding over you less like a bruise and more like a glove. You don’t realise it at first. Not until Hana snickers from two stalls down. “Look at you,” she calls. “Already part of the furniture.”
Later, Vernon whistles low when he sees you haul a bale of hay with less struggling than last week. “Damn, Rookie,” he says. “They ship you here pre-built?”
“No,” you grunt, adjusting your grip and shoving the bale into place. “They just keep making me lift things.”
Dino wanders by while you’re scrubbing buckets and kicks one gently with his boot. “You got the short straw, huh?”
“I like clean things,” you say, only half lying. He grins. “Then you and Tess are gonna get along just fine.”
All the while, Mingyu shadows you. He doesn’t talk much to the others. When they joke, he huffs a sound that might be amusement, might just be breath. At one point, he reaches past you to adjust a halter you’ve buckled wrong, his fingers brushing yours. “You don’t want this slipping,” he mutters. “They spook easily enough as it is.” His hand is warm, callused. You pull yours back, nodding quickly. “Got it.” He steps away without looking at you, like the contact didn’t register. It registered for you.
By lunchtime, you’re sweating, sore, and halfway convinced you’ve blown it six times already. Tess corners you by the water trough while you fill buckets. “You’re fine,” she says, not a question.
“You don’t know that.” She glances over your shoulder toward where Mingyu stands by the fence, talking low with Seungcheol. The two men are a mirror of each other’s focus: one slightly looser, one wound tight. “He wouldn’t be spending his whole day on you if he’d already decided to cut you,” she says. “He’d let you finish the trial and then tell Seok to handle it.”
You follow her gaze. Mingyu’s expression is hard to read from this distance, but his posture is all contained energy. He listens to whatever Seungcheol is saying, then shakes his head once, slowly. Seungcheol claps a hand on his shoulder, says something you can’t hear. Mingyu’s eyes flick to you. You look away first.
Afternoon takes you out of the barn and into the fields. Mingyu tosses you a pair of work gloves and jerks his head toward the fence line. “Come on.”
You jog to catch up, your shorter stride half-running to keep up with his. The sun has climbed higher, the cold edge gone from the air. Dust curls around your boots with each step. He hands you a bucket of metal tools—pliers, staples, odd little pieces of wire. “You know what we’re doing?” he asks. “Fixing the fence?”
“You think it’s broken?” You blink, adjust your grip on the bucket. “I… don’t know.”
He stops, plants the heel of his boot against the bottom of a fence post, and gives it a shove. It holds firm. “You don’t just fix things because they might be broken,” he says. “You look. You listen. You check.” He nods toward the run of wire. “Walk it. Tell me what you see.” Your anxiety spikes. You’re not used to being asked to assess anything. You’re used to being told what’s wrong and how it’s your fault. You swallow. “Okay.”
You walk the fence, eyes scanning the posts, the wire, the ground. You look for things that feel off. Disturbed soil. Sagging sections. Places where the wire is bent or loose. Three posts down, you find a stretch where the wire is pulled away from the post, the staple half-rusted, the tension off. You point. “Here.” Mingyu joins you, following your gaze. He grunts. “Staple’s loose,” he says. “Good.” Good. You try not to glow at the word.
He shows you how to pull the wire tight and set a new staple without snapping it. Your hands fumble at first, but you find the rhythm. He doesn’t grab the tools away when you struggle. He waits. He corrects your grip once, twice, tapping your wrist with a fingertip. “There. Again.”
You do it again. You work your way down the fence line like that, side-by-side, you finding the weak spots, him watching. Occasionally, he asks, “Why that one?” and you force yourself to explain your thinking instead of shrugging. By the time you circle back toward the main yard, your shoulders ache in new places, and your brain feels wrung out.
Mingyu stops near the gate and looks around, taking in the unfixed fence, the barn, the pens, and the yard. You wonder if you’re part of that inventory now. “Go wash up,” he says. “Family dinner’s at six.” Family dinner. Tess mentioned something about it in passing—Sunday nights at the big house, everyone cramming around whatever table space there is, food loud and plentiful. You didn’t let yourself imagine sitting at that table. Not when you might be gone by morning. You hesitate. “Is this…?”
“Your evaluation’s done,” he says flatly. The words hang there between you, heavy.
“And?” you push, because apparently you’ve lost your survival instinct somewhere between stall mucking and fence inspection. His mouth twitches at the corner, like he wasn’t expecting you to ask. He doesn’t answer. Instead, he turns and walks toward the house, leaving you standing there with your heart hammering.
You shower in record time, scrubbing dirt off your skin until the water runs mostly clear. You drag on clean jeans and a soft shirt Tess handed you last week with a brusque, “It doesn’t fit me anymore. Take it.” You leave your hair down for once, damp around your shoulders, because your fingers are too unsteady to wrestle it up.
In the bunkhouse, Hana is pulling on a sundress over leggings, muttering about the weather. Riley is trying to decide between two pairs of earrings, neither of which are remotely practical for ranch work. Tess eyes you as you stumble in. “Breathe,” she says, folding her own hair back. “It’s dinner, not a firing squad.” You wish you believed her.
The three of them flank you on the walk to the big house, talking about something else entirely—a calf that tried to eat Hana’s braid, Vernon’s terrible country playlist. You float beside them, heart trapped somewhere in your throat. The porch is already crowded when you get there.
Wonwoo sits on the steps, elbows on his knees, talking quietly with Dino. Vernon leans against a post, scrolling through something on his phone. Seokmin hovers by the door, running a hand through his hair every thirty seconds like that might tame it. When he sees you, his whole face brightens. “There she is!” he announces. “Our maybe-long-term-roommate.”
“Stop calling her that,” Hana says, smacking his arm. “It’s bad luck.” Seokmin grimaces. “Right. Sorry.” Your palms dampen.
Inside, the house smells amazing. Something roasted, something baked, the warm, yeasty scent of bread, the faint sweetness of a dessert you can’t identify. The big dining table in the main room is extended to its full length, chairs pulled from everywhere to circle it. The sideboard is already lined with dishes—bowls of potatoes, platters of meat, salad, and cornbread.
You hover by the doorway, uncertain where to stand. Seungcheol moves around the table, setting out extra plates with an efficiency that speaks of years of doing this. He’s out of his usual work shirts, wearing a clean button-down with the sleeves rolled to his forearms. He looks up, catches sight of you, and gives a short nod. It feels like approval. Or at least acceptance. “Alright,” he says, voice carrying easily over the chatter. “Grab a seat. Mingyu?” You turn.
Mingyu is standing near the head of the table, chair pulled back but not yet taken. His hat is off, dark hair a little mussed. He looks more tired than usual, a faint line between his brows. He scans the room, eyes briefly skimming over each face. When his gaze lands on you, it sticks. Your pulse jumps.
The room quiets, the way rooms do when people sense something about to happen. You feel every eye shift to you, then to him, then back again. He exhales through his nose, like he resents having to speak this much. “Two weeks ago,” he says, “Seok dragged someone off the road and into our mess.” A few people chuckle. Seokmin makes an offended noise. “Hey!” Mingyu ignores him. “No ranch experience. No references. Didn’t know which end of a pitchfork was up.” His eyes stay on you, giving the words weight. “Said she’d work harder than anyone if we gave her a chance.”
“We don’t do charity,” he continues. “We don’t have the time. Out here, you pull your weight, or someone else has to carry it for you. And I don’t like carrying more than I have to.” A ripple of amusement moves around the table. You want to disappear. He lets the silence stretch just long enough that your stomach flips. Then he shrugs, one shoulder sharp and deliberate. “Rookie can stay,” he says. “She pulls her weight.”
For a second, the words don’t register. Then the meaning hits you all at once. Stay. You can stay. The rush of relief is so intense you sway where you stand. Hana’s hand comes to the small of your back, steadying. Riley whoops loud enough to rattle the windows. “Hell yeah!”
Seokmin throws both arms in the air like his team just won the championship. “I told you!” he yells at no one in particular. “I told all of you! You owe me five bucks, Vernon!”
Vernon groans. “We weren’t actually betting!”
“We were in my heart.”
Dino thumps you on the shoulder. “Congrats, Rookie.”
There it is again, the nickname. This time, it doesn’t sting. It lands somewhere softer. The way they say it now—it’s not a jab at what you don’t know. It’s a marker of where you started and how far you’ve come. A way of pulling you into the circle without demanding you forget you’re new. Even Tess smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Told you,” she murmurs. “Work counts here.”
Seungcheol steps closer, plate still in his hand. “Glad you’re staying,” he says simply. You blink. “You are?” He nods, one corner of his mouth tugging up. “You keep the others in line. That’s worth a lot.”
Hana snorts. “Nobody keeps Riley in line.”
“She tries,” Riley says, flinging an arm around your shoulders. “That’s what counts.”
Someone claps. Someone else pounds on the table. Mingyu just sits down at the head of the table and reaches for a serving spoon like he didn’t just change your entire life with one sentence. The nerve of him.
The impromptu celebration folds itself into the existing tradition of Sunday family dinner. It’s not fancy. It’s not planned. But it feels like more than any birthday or anniversary you’ve ever had. People cram into every available chair, and some end up perched on the arms or sitting on the floor near the coffee table with plates balanced on their knees. The noise level rises with every minute: laughter, overlapping conversations, cutlery clinking. You end up wedged between Riley and Tess on one side of the table. Across from you, Seokmin has somehow wound up directly opposite an empty chair that stays empty for an uncomfortably long time.
Until the front door opens again. You glance up automatically. Mae steps into the room, hair loose from its bun, a simple dress softening her sharp lines. She looks… different away from town. Less guarded. But her eyes are the same, scanning the room, taking in the chaos with a single raised brow. Seokmin almost drops his fork. “Mae,” he says, voice an octave higher than usual. She gives him a flat look. “You sound surprised. You invited me.”
Hana leans toward you, whispering behind her hand. “Riley and I cornered her at the coffee shop and told her she’d be a coward if she didn’t come. You’re welcome.”
“She used the word ‘coward’ like, twelve times,” Riley adds. Mae rolls her eyes, but there’s the faintest hint of a smile tugging at her mouth. “I said I’d stop by,” she says. “I never promised to stay.”
She slides into the empty seat opposite him with a grace that suggests she’s more in control than anyone else in the room. He immediately straightens his shirt, suddenly aware of himself in a way that makes you bite back a grin. You catch Mae’s eye for a moment. She inclines her head slightly. “Hey,” she says. “Heard you made the cut.” You flush. “Apparently.”
“Nora said you would.” The warmth that blooms in your chest at that is ridiculous. Before you can respond, another voice cuts through the noise. “Who left their truck halfway across the driveway?”
The room parts a little to make way for a woman carrying a tote bag stuffed with colored folders. She’s in black jeans and boots, a soft T-shirt under an open flannel, hair scraped up into a messy twist that’s already slipping loose. There’s chalk dust on her sleeve and crayon marks on the side of her hand. You don’t need an introduction to guess what she does. “Evie,” Hana crows. “You’re late.” Evie huffs, dropping her bag near the couch. “I was grading spelling tests. Apparently, ‘hippopotamus’ is everyone’s favourite word to ruin this week.”
Tess stands to grab another plate. “You made it just in time,” she says. Evie steps toward the table, then stops when she catches sight of Seungcheol coming in from the kitchen with a dish of roasted vegetables. Her spine straightens. His jaw sets. The temperature in the room drops two degrees. “You’re blocking the doorway,” she says, chin lifting.
“It’s my house,” he shoots back.
“It’s also my shin you’re going to bruise if you drop that pan,” she replies. “Move, Cheol.”
He shifts sideways with a put-upon sigh. “You could say ‘please,’ you know.”
“You could not park like an idiot,” she tosses over her shoulder as she squeezes past him. A few ranch hands exchange looks that scream, “Here we go.”
Hana smirks. “Children,” she mutters to you, pleased. Evie drops into a chair near Hana, across from Vernon. “Who’s the new one?” she asks immediately, looking at you. You wipe your palms on your thighs. “I’m—” Hana finishes before you can. “This is Rookie.”
Evie’s eyes sparkle. “Already got a nickname, huh? Brave of you to stick around.”
“She’s staying,” Riley announces. “Officially. Mingyu said so. We’re celebrating.” Evie raises her glass of water. “To Rookie, then,” she says. “May the kids at school never learn from my example of stubbornness.” Across the table, Seungcheol snorts. “Too late for that,” he mutters. Evie glares at him. “What was that?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s what I thought.”
Despite the bite to their words, there’s a thread under it—familiarity, history. They know exactly which buttons to press and exactly how far they can push them. You tuck that away, curious. Seokmin leans over, stage-whispering. “Evie teaches at the school. Third grade. She thinks she runs this town.” Evie points her fork at him without looking. “I heard that.”
“See?” he whispers, eyes wide. “Psychic.”
Laughter ripples around the table. Mingyu doesn’t join in, exactly. But you catch him watching the scene with his head slightly tilted, like he’s cataloguing it. The noise. The teasing. You, bracketed by Riley and Tess, cheeks pink from attention. At one point, his gaze meets yours. You look away too quickly, staring hard at your mashed potatoes.
The food is better than anything you’ve eaten in months. Maybe years. Roast chicken, potatoes mashed with butter and cream, green beans with almonds, fresh bread still warm from the oven. Someone made a peach cobbler that sits on the counter like a promise for later. You eat until your stomach protests, and still Tess nudges another roll toward your plate. “One more,” she says. “You’ll burn it all off tomorrow anyway.”
People keep toasting you in small, silly ways:
“To Rookie not quitting after Vernon almost ran her over with the four-wheeler.”
“To Rookie for not crying when the calf peed on her.”
“To Rookie for figuring out which faucet doesn’t scream in the bunkhouse.”
Each one is ridiculous and true in its own small way. You laugh until your cheeks hurt. There’s a moment where you catch yourself leaning back in your chair, a full plate in front of you, chatter on all sides, warmth tucked into the corners of the room like extra blankets. You realise you’re not worrying about who’s coming up the driveway. You’re not listening for footsteps in the hall. You’re… here. In this house. At this table. A place set for you like it was assumed from the start. Your throat tightens suddenly. You take a sip of water to hide it.
Across the table, Mae watches you with an expression that’s hard to read. Then she glances at Seokmin and sighs. “You picked a good one,” she says to him quietly, like maybe she didn’t mean to let it out loud. Seokmin freezes. “What?”
“Don’t make it weird,” she warns, but there’s a twitch at the corner of her mouth. He doesn’t know what to do with that and ends up laughing too loudly, which of course makes it weird anyway.
Evie and Seungcheol start bickering over the correct way to teach fractions. Riley and Dino argue about which movie they’re going to force everyone to watch later. Hana gets into a heated discussion with Vernon about whose music taste is worse. Tess shakes her head fondly, collecting empty plates as she can reach them. At the head of the table, Mingyu has gone mostly quiet again, chewing slowly, listening more than he speaks. He doesn’t add to the toasts. He doesn’t tease. But when you glance his way, you catch the smallest shift in his expression. Pride, maybe. Or relief.
Later, when the dishes are stacked, and the cobbler is half demolished, and people have drifted into smaller clusters—some to the porch, some to the living room, some to the yard—you slip outside alone for a breath of air.
The sky is a deep velvet, pinpricked with stars. The mountains are dark shapes on the horizon, familiar now instead of looming. The yard hums with low conversation and the occasional burst of laughter from the porch. You sit on the steps of the big house, elbows on your knees, hands clasped. The word stay rolls around your brain like a new language. You can stay. Not forever. You don’t let your mind go that far. But longer than two weeks. Long enough to unpack your duffel without feeling superstitious. Long enough to learn the names of every horse and calf. Long enough that maybe the shadows at your back start to loosen.
The front door opens behind you with a soft creak. You don’t have to turn to know who it is. Mingyu steps out onto the porch, footsteps slow. He pauses for a moment, like he might turn back, then walks to stand at the rail beside you. You keep your gaze on the dirt. He leans his forearms on the wooden railing, staring out at the dark yard, shoulders loose for once.
For a long time, neither of you says anything. Crickets sing. Someone laughs in the bunkhouse yard. The air smells like dust and the last traces of dinner. Finally, he says, “You did good today.”
“I thought you didn’t believe in promises,” you say softly. He huffs, just a breath. “I don’t.” You wait. “But I believe in what I see,” he adds. You turn your head, watching him in the dim porch light. His profile is sharp, eyes on the horizon. “And what do you see?” you ask before you can stop yourself. He doesn’t look at you.
“Someone who didn’t quit when it got hard,” he says. “Someone who learned. Who listened. Who didn’t ask for special treatment.”
“You made it sound like you didn’t want me here,” you say. It’s not an accusation. Just a truth. He finally does look at you then. His gaze is steady, dark. “I didn’t,” he says honestly.
The bluntness makes you flinch. He sees it. “New people are trouble,” he continues, voice low. “They change things. They leave.” His jaw flexes. “I don’t like change much these days.” You don’t know what to do with that, so you just sit with it.
“But,” he says after a moment, the word dragged out of him, “you’re here. And you’re staying. So… we’ll deal with it.”
Somehow, that’s the closest you’re going to get to I’m glad you stayed tonight. You nod. “Okay.”
He studies you one last time, then straightens. “Don’t let Riley keep you up all night,” he mutters. “You still work in the morning.”
You almost smile. “Yes, boss.” He grunts. “Don’t call me that.”
“What should I call you then?” He hesitates. “Mingyu,” he says. Then, with a small, reluctant twitch of his mouth, “And you’re Rookie.” It settles into your skin like something claimed. “Rookie,” you echo.
He nods once, satisfied, and steps back through the front door, letting it swing shut behind him. You sit there on the steps for another minute, feeling the word settle in your bones.
Rookie. Not runaway. Not trouble. Not fraud. Rookie.
When you finally head back to the bunkhouse, the crickets are still singing, the mountains still watching. The chair is still by the bunkhouse door, but it’s there to hold boots, not to wedge under a handle. You crawl into your bunk, Riley’s soft snoring above you, Hana muttering in her sleep, Tess’s silhouette a calm shadow in the dim. You close your eyes.
For the first time, you don’t count the days until you have to leave. You count the chores you’ll do tomorrow. And the days after that.
You can stack hay now without almost passing out.
You can haul feed without losing your grip, muck two rows of stalls before the sun clears the barn roof, and find a loose fence staple in a run of a hundred posts in half the time it took you before. Your palms are callused, your back strong, your body different in ways that don’t show in a mirror, but you feel every time you bend, lift, breathe.
Chores, you’re getting the hang of. It’s the horses that are the problem. You remind yourself they are just animals. Just big, muscled, flighty, thousand-pound animals with hooves that could break bones and eyes that see everything.
The first time one of them snorts behind you, you nearly jump out of your skin. “Easy,” Tess says, hand closing around your elbow. “He’s just saying hi.” You eye the gelding in question—broad chest, dark mane, ears flicking. He eyes you back, unimpressed. “He’s huge,” you mutter.
“You’ll get used to it,” she assures you.
You’re not. You can curry comb with only mild terror now. You can lead a calm horse by the halter if someone else is close enough to grab the rope if you mess up. You know to watch ears and tails, to listen for the shift in weight that means a kick is coming. But riding? You’ve been avoiding that like it’s a cliff edge.
You’re good at avoidance. You used to avoid whole days, whole conversations, whole truths. It works for a while. There’s enough to learn on the ground that no one pushes it. Mingyu doesn’t mention it, at least not to you. Hana handles anything that involves actual saddles and reins. Seokmin focuses on your strengths—feeding, mucking, fence work, inventory. You tell yourself maybe they’ll just forget you don’t ride. It’s a stupid thought. Everyone here rides.
It catches up to you one afternoon. You’re in the smaller corral, helping Hana brush down a bay mare named Juniper. The horse is patient, tolerant, only swishing her tail occasionally as flies buzz near her flanks. You’re starting to relax, your strokes longer, smoother, your mind drifting.
The gate creaks. Something in you goes rigid before you even look. The mare feels it. Her ears flick back, muscles tensing under your hand. Your brush catches on a knot. You stumble a step, foot landing too close to her back leg. In the same instant, a shadow moves at the fence line—a hand on the rail, a weight shifting. You realise you’ve turned your back on her, and panic spikes. You freeze. Actually freeze. Your body goes tight as if locking in place can keep everything from shattering. Your breath stutters, lungs refusing to pull in air.
The mare’s head jerks. She dances sideways, hooves clattering against packed dirt. Not a full-on spook, nothing dramatic by ranch standards, but to you it feels like the ground just dropped out from under your feet. Hana moves fast, hand firm on the halter, voice low and soothing. “Hey, hey, easy, June. You’re okay. She’s okay.”
You backpedal too quickly, heel catching on uneven ground. You go down on your ass, the shock of impact rattling up your spine. Dust puffs up around you. For a second, you can’t breathe at all. Your heart is hammering so hard it feels like it might bruise your ribs from the inside. Hana glances back at you. “You alright?”
You nod too fast. “Yeah. I just—sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s fine,” she says, calm. “You stepped where she couldn’t see you. She got startled. You’re not hurt?” You flex your ankle, your wrist, and check yourself automatically. “I’m okay.” Emotion sits high and hot in your throat anyway. Embarrassment. Fear. A tiny shard of something older—memories of being too close to something unpredictable and bigger than you, no exit, no control.
You push to your feet, dusting off your jeans with hands that still tremble. “I’m okay,” you repeat. Like saying it louder will make it true.
Hana studies you for a heartbeat longer, then nods. “Take five,” she says. “Get water. I’ll finish up with June.”
You want to argue. You want to prove you can bounce back. But your chest is tight, and your head is spinning, and for once you don’t push through. You duck under the fence, step out of the corral, and head for the nearest trough, breathing hard. You’re halfway across the yard when a familiar voice calls out. “Rookie.”
You stop. Of course he saw. Mingyu is leaning against the fence that borders the main arena, arms folded, expression unreadable. His hat shades his eyes, but you can see the set of his jaw, the tightness around his mouth. “I’m fine,” you say automatically, before he can ask. He doesn’t. “You scared her,” he says instead. You bristle. “I know. I didn’t mean to—”
“Doesn’t matter if you meant to or not,” he cuts in. “Intent doesn’t change where her hooves land. You don’t walk up behind them like that if you can’t read ‘em yet.”
Shame burns hot in your chest. “I thought she was calm.”
“She was.” His tone isn’t cruel, just blunt. “Until you got tense enough to make a stone nervous.”
You flinch. He sighs quietly. “You alright?” he asks, softer. There it is. The question everyone here keeps asking. You look past him, toward the mountains, eyes stinging. “I’m trying,” you say.
It’s not an answer. It’s the only one you have. He watches you for a long beat, then pushes off the fence. “We’ll fix it,” he says, like it’s simple. Like fear is a broken board or a loose staple. “You can’t work here and be afraid of horses forever.”
You stiffen. “I’m not afraid.” He raises a brow. You sigh. “I’m… working on it.” He gives a noncommittal grunt.
You turn away before you say something stupid. Your feet carry you toward the water trough, toward the bunkhouse, toward anywhere that isn’t under his steady gaze. You don’t see Seokmin watching from the barn door, eyes flicking between you and Mingyu, wheels turning.
The next morning dawns as usual: dark, cold, full of chores.
By mid-morning, you’ve fallen into the familiar rhythm—feed, muck, scrub, repeat—and your heart rate has mostly returned to its new normal. You’re hauling a stack of folded saddle pads out of the tack room when Seokmin appears in the doorway, blocking your way with an exaggerated flail. “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he says. “Perfect. I need you.”
You blink around the stack. “For what? I still have stalls left.”
“Hana can finish,” he says breezily over his shoulder. “Hana, you can finish, right?” From somewhere in the barn, Hana calls back, “Depends. Do I get to watch her suffer?”
Seokmin grins. “Yes.”
“Then yeah.”
You narrow your eyes. “That’s ominous.”
He plucks the pads from your arms and tosses them onto a nearby bale. “Come on.” You follow him, suspicion growing with each step. He leads you out to the main arena: a wide, oval pen of packed dirt, bordered by a sturdy fence. A couple of riders are working a pair of horses at the far end, but Seokmin steers you to the quieter side, where a chestnut gelding stands tied to the rail, saddle already on, reins looped neatly. The gelding flicks an ear toward you, chewing absently on his bit.
Your stomach drops. “Nope,” you say immediately. “Absolutely not.” Seokmin bites back a smile. “Meet Milo,” he says. “He’s the chillest thing on four legs. We put kids on him at the fall festival.”
“You put children on that?” you demand, pointing.
“Everyone loves Milo.” Milo blinks slowly, unbothered. The ground under your feet feels suddenly very far away from anywhere safe. “Seok—”
He steps closer, hands up in the universal trust me gesture. “Listen. We’ve been putting this off. You’re doing great on the ground. But we can’t keep you in the kiddie pool forever. You’re part of this ranch now. That means at some point, you’re gonna need to sit on a horse.”
“Sit on a horse,” you echo faintly. “You make it sound like sitting on a couch.” He grins. “Okay, fair. It’s like sitting on a couch that moves. But Milo’s basically a couch.” You stare at him.
Your chest tightens the way it did yesterday in the corral—only this time there’s no spook, no horse dancing sideways, no concrete trigger. Just the possibility. Just the thought of your feet leaving the ground and trusting something else to hold you. No. Your mind flashes images out of order: hands on your shoulders pressing you somewhere you don’t want to go, a locked door, no way out. Your heart spikes. Seokmin’s face shifts instantly, all joking wiped clean. “Hey,” he says, voice low. “Hey. Look at me.”
You drag your eyes up to his. They’re soft. Steady.
“You’re safe,” he says. “You can say no if you really want to. I’m not gonna make you do anything. But I think you can do this. And I think you’ll feel better when you’re not afraid of it anymore.”
You swallow hard. Those words land too true. You’ve spent so long being forced, you forgot what it feels like to choose something scary. You glance at Milo again. He blinks. You exhale shakily. “Okay,” you say. “Okay. But if I die, I’m haunting you.”
Seokmin beams. “Deal.”
He leads you to the mounting block—a sturdy wooden step that helps riders mount. Standing beside it, he pats Milo’s shoulder. “First things first,” he says. “We’re not even getting on yet. Just touch him. Get used to how high he is.” You place a tentative hand on Milo’s shoulder. His coat is warm under your palm, the muscle beneath solid but not tense. His skin shivers once in response to a fly, but otherwise he stands still. Seokmin moves behind you, close but not crowding. “Good,” he murmurs. “Now step up.” You hesitate, then climb onto the mounting block. Milo seems even taller from here. The ground feels farther away than it has any right to. Your hand tightens on the saddle horn. Your legs want to lock.
Seokmin steps closer, one hand hovering near your hip like a safety rail. “I’ve got you,” he says. “I’m right here. We’re just gonna swing your leg over. I’m not letting you fall.” Your throat is dry. You nod.
“On three,” he says. "One… two…" You move on two. You grab the horn and swing your right leg over the saddle, scrambling a little, your boot catching for a second before going over. For a brief, terrifying moment, you feel off balance, weight tipped too far. Panic claws at your ribs.
Seokmin’s hand lands solidly on your hip, steadying you. “Easy,” he says. “Breathe. You’re up. Look at that.” You settle, both legs on either side of Milo, boots in the stirrups. Your hands clutch the horn like it’s the only thing anchoring you to the planet.
The world looks… different from up here. Wider. More exposed. If Milo moved right now, you’re not sure you wouldn’t just fall straight off.
Your breathing comes in short, sharp pulls. “I don’t like this,” you say, voice thin.
“I know,” Seokmin says. He moves in front of Milo, taking the reins lightly, his other hand reaching back toward your knee. “Hey. Hey, Rookie. Look at me.” You drag your eyes away from the ground and up to his face. He smiles, gentle. “You’re doing great,” he says. “You’re not going anywhere. Milo’s not going anywhere. We’re just gonna stand here. That’s it. You’re allowed to just… sit.”
The pounding in your chest eases a fraction. Seokmin keeps his hand on your hip for balance, thumb resting lightly, not moving. “Okay,” he says after a moment. “Now, heels down a bit. Yeah. Like that. If you lock your legs, you’ll bounce. Let your knees be soft. Trust the saddle. It’s not going anywhere.” The instructions come in a calm stream. You latch onto them.
He takes a small step back, then forward, leading Milo in a slow, tiny circle. The horse plods obediently, unhurried. You cling to the horn and the idea of not dying. You barely notice you’re moving at first. Then you feel the shift under you—the sway of Milo’s shoulders, the rocking motion of his walk. Your instinct is to stiffen, but Seokmin’s hand on your hip reminds you of the earlier instruction. Soft knees. Trust.
“You’re okay,” he says again. “You’re doing it.”
You are. You’re riding a horse. Sort of.
Your whole body is tense, but you’re not falling. Milo chews his bit lazily, unimpressed by your internal crisis. You almost start to believe you can do this. And then Seokmin steps closer to adjust your posture. “Here,” he says, moving behind your leg. “You’re tipping forward. Think chest up. Hips under you.” His hand slides from your knee up to your hip, gentle but firm, guiding your pelvis back a fraction. The motion is surprisingly intimate—not in a way that feels wrong, but in a way that sends a weird little shock up your spine. He’s all business, focused on your balance.
“There,” he murmurs. “Feel the difference?”
You do. You feel more secure. Less like you’re about to topple face-first into the dirt. You also feel eyes burning into your back. You glance toward the fence—and nearly jump out of the saddle. Mingyu is standing at the gate to the arena, one hand curled around the top rail. He must have been there longer than you realised, because his hat is pushed back slightly and his expression isn’t neutral. His jaw is locked. His gaze is pinned on Seokmin’s hand on your hip.
Heat floods your face. You hadn’t thought about what this looks like. You hadn’t thought about anything but not falling. But seeing Mingyu see you like this—perched awkwardly on a horse, Seokmin’s body close to yours, his hand holding you steady—sends a flush of something sharp through your chest. Something that feels suspiciously like guilt even though you’ve done nothing wrong. Seokmin notices your distraction and follows your line of sight. “Oh,” he says. “Hey, Mingyu.”
Mingyu doesn’t answer. He pushes off the fence and strides into the arena, boots kicking up small puffs of dust. Up close, he looks bigger somehow. Broader. The line of his mouth is thin, his eyes darker than usual. You swallow, fingers gripping the horn tighter. Milo flicks an ear, sensing the shift in energy. Mingyu stops a few feet away, gaze flicking briefly to your face, then back to where Seokmin’s hand still rests on your hip. “What are you doing?” he asks, voice flat. Seokmin blinks. “Teaching Rookie to ride,” he says, like it’s obvious. “She did good until you walked in. Now she looks like she’s gonna faint.”
"I’m not gonna faint,” you mutter, even as your vision feels a little hazy. Mingyu ignores you. “You don’t have time for this,” he says to Seokmin. “You’re supposed to be helping Vernon with the feed delivery.” Seokmin looks momentarily guilty, then defensive. “He’s got Wonwoo. They’ll be fine. She needs to learn sometime.”
"Not from you,” Mingyu says. The words are sharp enough that even Milo flicks his tail. Silence folds around the three of you. Seokmin frowns. “What’s your problem?” Mingyu’s jaw works, like he’s biting back about ten things he wants to say.
“You’re not watching her feet,” he says finally. “If Milo shifts, she’s gonna lose her balance and eat dirt. And you’re standing on the wrong side to catch her.”
"I’m fine,” you protest, though you’re suddenly very aware of how high up you really are. Mingyu steps closer to Milo’s other side, hand coming up to rest on the gelding’s neck. His presence is steadier than the fence. His eyes flick to yours, holding. “Take your foot out of the stirrup,” he says.
“Why?”
"Just do it.” You do. Your boot slips free. Immediately, you feel less anchored. Panic flares. Mingyu’s hand flashes out to your calf, fingers circling firm, stabilising you. “See?” he says to Seokmin, not looking away from you. “She’s not ready for you to half-ass this while you crack jokes. You step away for one second and she goes down.”
The unfairness of that hits you. “I wouldn’t—”
"You don’t know what you’d do,” he says, not unkindly. “You’ve been on a horse for ten minutes.”
You hate that he’s right. You hate that he knows he’s right. You hate that his hand on your leg makes you feel… safer, somehow. Seokmin’s cheeks flush, whether from the criticism or something else. “I wasn’t half-assing it,” he says, defensive. “I’m just trying to help.” Mingyu’s jaw clenches. “And I said I’ve got it.”
There’s a beat where Seokmin looks between the two of you—your white-knuckled grip on the horn, Mingyu’s steady hand on your calf, the way your whole body is vibrating with barely controlled nerves. His shoulders drop a fraction. “Fine,” he says, stepping back, hands up. “You want to play horse whisperer, knock yourself out.”
He pats Milo’s shoulder lightly. “You’re in good hands, Rookie,” he says to you, softer, then tosses Mingyu a look that’s equal parts fond and annoyed. “Try not to scare her more than the horse already does.”
He leaves the arena, dust swirling in his wake. You watch him go, guilt and gratitude tangled up in your chest. Mingyu waits until the gate clicks shut behind Seokmin before he shifts his grip, hand sliding from your calf to your ankle, then letting go once your foot is securely back in the stirrup. “He was helping,” you say quietly.
“He was distracting,” Mingyu counters. You bristle. “Distracting who?” His gaze flicks to you, heavy. You feel the answer in the way he looks away just as quickly. He clears his throat.
“If you’re gonna ride,” he says, voice a little rougher, “you’re gonna do it right. And you’re gonna do it with someone who actually knows how to keep you on the damn horse.”
"Seokmin knows how to ride,” you protest. “He knows how to ride,” Mingyu agrees. “He doesn’t know how to teach you.” He nods toward Milo’s ears. “He didn’t see when June almost kicked you yesterday. I did.” You blink. “Okay, so what, you’re just gonna—”
"Yes,” he interrupts. “From now on, if you’re on a horse, I’m there.”
The absolute certainty in his tone makes something in you bristle and something else relax at the same time. You’ve had men lay down rules before. You’ve had them use I’m there as a threat, a leash. This feels… different. Like a promise he’s making to himself as much as to you. You chew your bottom lip. “You don’t have to—”
"I’m not arguing with you about this,” he says. “You wanna stay here, you learn to ride. You wanna learn to ride, you do it my way. Or you stay on the ground and never ask to be out in a storm or on a drive.” The thought of being left behind when everyone else rides out—of standing at the fence, watching them go, useless—makes something twist in your gut. You don’t want that. You don’t want to be dead weight. You want to belong to the whole picture, not just the parts that keep your boots on the dirt. “Okay,” you say. “Teach me, then.”
For a moment, something unspoken passes between you: his stubbornness, your fear, his guilt for wanting to keep you off the back of any horse that could throw you, your determination to prove you won’t shatter. Then he nods once.
“Sit up,” he says, slipping instantly into instruction. “You’re slouching. Heels down. Don’t choke the horn. It’s not going anywhere.” You adjust. He steps back, but not far, his hand still hovering near your knee. “We’re gonna walk the rail,” he says. “Just like you did with Seok. But this time, you’re gonna feel what Milo’s doing instead of clenching like you’re on a rollercoaster.”
"I hate rollercoasters,” you mutter.
“Then good thing this isn’t one.”
He clicks his tongue softly and Milo steps forward. You tense automatically. “Breathe,” Mingyu says. “In through your nose, out through your mouth. Match him.”
You focus on the rhythm of Milo’s walk: the gentle sway, the steady four-beat pattern. You let your knees move with it instead of fighting. Dust swirls lazily around his hooves. Mingyu walks at his shoulder, close enough that if you pitched forward, he could catch you. You can feel his presence like a second gravity. “Better,” he murmurs after a lap. “You’re not a statue anymore.”
"Feels like it,” you say. “You’ll get there.”
You circle the arena again. And again. Each time, the panic spikes a little less at the first step. Each time, Milo feels less like a looming threat and more like… a big, moving couch, just like Seokmin said. A couch with opinions, but still. Mingyu corrects you in small ways:
“Don’t stare at his neck. Look where you’re going.”
"Relax your hands. You’re not trying to strangle the reins.”
"If you feel him tense, don’t freak out. Ask him what’s wrong. Shift your weight. Be ready, but don’t freeze.”
You want to roll your eyes at ask him what’s wrong—like horses can answer—but then Milo’s ears flick at a sudden shout from the other end of the arena and his stride shortens for a second. You remember the instruction, bring your heels down, steady your hands, breathe out. He settles. Mingyu makes a low sound that, this time, you recognise as approval. By the time he tells you to halt, your thighs are trembling and your butt hurts in ways you didn’t know it could, but you’re… okay. Still in the saddle. Still breathing. Alive.
He steps closer, hand coming up to the horn for a moment as you ease your foot out of the stirrup and swing your leg over. This time, you don’t wobble as much. When your boots hit the dirt, the ground feels weirdly solid and strange all at once. You pat Milo’s neck with a shaky laugh. “Thank you for not murdering me,” you whisper. He snorts, as if offended you ever doubted him. Mingyu watches you, expression unreadable. “Again tomorrow,” he says.
“Tomorrow?”
"You think you’re done after one lap around the arena?” His mouth quirks. “That was lesson one. You’ve got a long way to go, Rookie.” The nickname, spoken here—inside the arena, with your boots dusty and your heartbeat finally slowing—feels like something new all over again. Not a jab at your lack of experience. A marker of this new achievement, too. You swallow, nodding. “Okay.”
He nods once more, satisfied, then slaps Milo’s shoulder affectionately. “Good boy,” he mutters to the horse. Then, to you, “Go cool off. Drink some water. Don’t let Riley talk you into anything stupid tonight. Your legs are gonna hate you in the morning.”
"They already hate me,” you say.
“That’s how you know you’re learning.”
As you walk out of the arena, leading Milo beside you, you glance back over your shoulder. Mingyu is standing in the middle of the ring, hands on his hips, watching you go with that same intent focus he’s had since the day you arrived.
Only now, under the scrutiny, there’s a glint of something else. Responsibility. Reluctant pride. A claim he made out loud: If you’re on a horse, I’ve got you.
Riding becomes part of your days the way early mornings and coffee already are.
You don’t know exactly when it shifts from extra thing Mingyu is forcing you to do to something with a slot in the rhythm of the ranch. It just… happens. Somewhere between the third and tenth morning you find yourself tugging on your boots and automatically wondering which horse he’ll pick today. He never makes a big announcement. He just appears.
Sometimes it’s at dawn, leaning in the doorway of the barn, nodding toward the arena before the others are even fully awake. “Ten minutes,” he says. “Finish your coffee.” Sometimes it’s mid-afternoon, when chores quiet down and the sun hangs heavy over the pens. “You done with that?” he asks, nodding at your pitchfork or your coiled hose. “Arena. Now.”
He doesn’t ask if you’re ready. He assumes. You’re not sure if that annoys you or steadies you. Maybe both.
Milo becomes your usual partner in crime. Occasionally he swaps you onto another horse—June, when she’s in a good mood, or an older gelding named Scout—but it’s mostly Milo’s sturdy shoulders under your saddle as you learn what your body is supposed to be doing.
Mingyu is strict. He doesn’t coo or coddle. He doesn’t give you gold stars for trying. “You’re leaning too far forward,” he says. “You’re telling him to hurry and you don’t even mean to.”
"You’re clenching your thighs like you’re trying to crack a walnut. Relax or you’re gonna be sore for a week.”
"If you keep staring down, you’re gonna steer him into the fence. Look where you’re going, Rookie.”
But he is patient. Painfully, stubbornly patient. He repeats the same corrections day after day, never sounding surprised that you need them again, only mildly annoyed at gravity and probably your center of balance. “Heels down,” he says for the thousandth time. You let your heels drop. “Good. Now shoulders back, not rigid. You’re not on trial. You’re just sitting.”
"Feels like a trial,” you mutter. He snorts. “Jury’s still out.”
He walks beside you most days, hand sometimes on Milo’s neck, sometimes hovering near your knee. When he does ride alongside you, he’s a steady presence at your flank, posture so natural it makes you want to scream. How is it possible for someone to look like they were born on a horse? You struggle not to stare. You struggle not to stare at him more than you struggle with the reins most days.
The touches start small and necessary. A hand on your calf when your foot slips in the stirrup. Fingers brushing your wrist as he adjusts where you’re holding the reins. The flat, warm weight of his palm against your knee when he stops Milo with a quiet “whoa” and keeps you from pitching forward. You tell yourself they don’t mean anything. They don’t, to him. They’re corrections, tools. He’s not thinking about your pulse tripping along under your skin. You are.
Then there are the bigger touches.
“You’re crooked,” he says one afternoon, squinting up at you from the ground. “I am not crooked.”
"You absolutely are. Your left hip’s ahead of your right. Scoot back.” You try. You wiggle in the saddle, trying to reset yourself, but end up feeling more off-balance. He sighs, steps closer. “Stop. You’ll just throw yourself more out of line.”
He plants a boot on the lowest rail of the fence and hauls himself up so he’s almost level with the saddle. His height does the rest. Suddenly he’s right beside you, chest nearly level with your shoulder, one hand braced on the pommel. The other finds your hip. His fingers spread over bone and muscle, firm and sure as he nudges your pelvis back an inch, then another. Your breath catches. He’s not rough, but he’s not tentative either. He moves you like he moves tack—confident he knows what he’s doing. “There,” he murmurs, voice close to your cheek. “Feel that? Your seat’s under you now, not sliding.” You feel something, alright.
You nod, words lost somewhere between your sternum and your throat. He doesn’t seem to notice the way your heartbeat has kicked into a sprint. Or if he does, he doesn’t comment. He just adjusts your other hip to match, thumbs pressing gently, and then slips back down to the ground like nothing happened. You spend the next five minutes trying to remember how reins work.
You fall on a Wednesday. It’s your own fault, technically.
The air is sharp with the promise of changing weather, wind gusting across the arena and rattling the boards. Milo is a little livelier than usual, ears flicking at every new sound. “He feels different,” you say, nerves prickling. “He’s just reading the wind,” Mingyu replies. “You’re fine. If he speeds up, don’t yank his mouth. Sit deep. Ask him to come back to you.”
Ask him. Like that isn’t the most abstract instruction on the planet. But you try. You circle the ring, heels down, shoulders back, remembering every bullet point he’s drilled into you. Milo’s walk turns into a jog for a few strides, but you manage to breathe through it, steady your hands, bring him back. You’re proud of yourself. Too proud. You’re thinking I’m getting this when a tarp next to the arena snaps loud in the wind. Milo startles. Not a huge spook. Not a rear. Just a sudden leap sideways, a jump forward, his body tensing under you like a spring. You do exactly what you’re not supposed to do. You tense up, lean forward, and grab for the horn. Your weight shifts too far over his shoulder. Your right foot pops out of the stirrup. The world tilts. You slide. For a second, everything slows.
You see dirt rushing up toward you, feel the empty swing of your leg, hear Milo’s quickened breathing. Panic spikes white-hot in your veins. Someone shouts your name. Strong arms clamp around your waist. The impact you braced for doesn’t come. You hit something else instead—someone else—and it knocks the breath out of you. You and Mingyu go down together in a messy tangle of limbs, but he takes the hit, rolling under you, his body absorbing the worst of it. You end up sprawled half on his chest, half beside him in the dirt, hat askew, heart beating so loud you can taste it. Milo trots a few steps away, then stops, snorting indignantly.
For a moment, there is no wind, no ranch, no sky. There is only the solid thump of Mingyu’s heart under your palms and the heat of his body pressed along yours. Your fingers are curled in his shirt. His arm is banded tight around your middle, having pulled you close on instinct. His other hand is braced in the dirt behind your shoulders, keeping you from smacking your head. His cap has flown off somewhere, dark hair mussed. His face is inches from yours. You can see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes. The small scar near his brow. The way his pupils are blown wide, adrenaline turning his gaze almost black. You try to breathe. You get something like a gasp instead. His chest rises under you, fast, then slower as he forces his lungs to cooperate.
“You okay?” he asks, voice low and rough, like he’s been yelling even though he hasn’t. The world narrows down to the question. Are you? You do a quick inventory. Bruised knees, maybe. Scraped palms. Pride in tatters on the arena floor. But alive. Held. “Yeah,” you manage. “I—yeah. I’m okay.”
You realise you’re still lying on him. You realise he realises it at the exact same moment. The air between you shifts. His gaze flicks to your mouth for the tiniest, traitorous second, then back up. You feel your own eyes do the same to his without permission, landing on his lips, on the breath you can feel against your cheek. For one dizzy, impossible heartbeat, you imagine closing the distance. His fingers flex on your waist.
Then he lets go like he’s been burned. “Get up,” he mutters, already moving you off him. The loss of contact is a shock in itself. He rolls to his feet in one smooth motion, brushes dirt off his jeans with hands that aren’t quite steady. You push yourself upright more slowly, dust clinging to your palms, your knees. Mingyu retrieves his hat, slaps it against his thigh, and jams it back on his head like he can hide under the brim. “You good?” he asks again, but the edge is back in his voice now. You nod, cheeks flaming. “I’m sorry,” you say. The apology feels too big for the situation and not big enough at the same time. “I panicked.” He exhales sharply. “Yeah,” he says. “You did.” The bluntness stings. You wrap your arms around yourself, suddenly cold.
“You said he’d be fine,” you add, immediately regretting how accusing it sounds. Mingyu scrubs a hand over his face. “He was fine,” he says, calmer. He nods toward Milo. “He just hopped. You turned a hop into a disaster because you locked up.” You flinch.
“Congratulations,” he says, “that makes you normal. Everybody eats dirt at some point.”
“You’ve fallen?” He snorts. “Rookie, if you ride long enough, the question’s not ‘have you fallen,’ it’s ‘how many times and did anyone see.’” His mouth twitches. “Unfortunately for you, I did.”
You stare at him. The tension in your chest loosens by a thread. “You saved me,” you say quietly. He shrugs, looking away. “You were falling in front of me,” he mutters. “I wasn’t gonna let you snap your neck on my watch.”
Maybe it’s the adrenaline still buzzing in your veins. Maybe it’s the memory of his arms locked around you, the solid certainty of his grip. But something in you responds to the my in that sentence. “Thank you,” you say. He nods once, still not meeting your eyes. “You done for today?” he asks.
You should be. You’re shaken, humiliated, your brain ping-ponging between near-fall and near-something-else on the ground. You look at Milo, at the saddle, at the dirt. You think about fear, about running, about all the times you’ve taken one bad moment as proof you should never try again. “No,” you say, surprising both of you. “I want to get back on.” His head snaps up. “Now?”
"If I don’t, I’ll think about it all night,” you admit. “And then I won’t get back on at all.” He stares at you for a long, unreadable moment. Pride flickers across his face before he can kill it. “Alright,” he says. “Back on, then.”
His hands are all business as he brings Milo back, checks the girth, reins the horse in closer. When he helps you mount this time, his touch is still steady, but he keeps more distance between your bodies—like getting that close to you again is a nuisance he doesn’t want to repeat. You notice. You file it away.
You ride three more slow circles without falling. It’s not graceful. It’s not pretty. But it’s you, on a horse, after hitting the ground, and it feels like some quiet miracle.
Everyone else seems to notice something you don’t. They’re not subtle about it. At dinner that night, you squeeze onto the bench between Tess and Riley, legs pleasantly aching, adrenaline finally worn down to a hum. Your hair is still damp from your shower, curling slightly around your face. There’s a dull bruise already staining your knee under your jeans. “Heard you had a date with the dirt,” Vernon says as he passes you the mashed potatoes. You groan. “Who told you?”
"We have eyes,” Hana says. “And also Dino was pretending to practice his roping and watched the whole thing.” Dino raises a hand from the other end of the table. “You bounced,” he says cheerfully. “But like, in a tough way.”
"Thanks,” you mutter. Riley nudges your shoulder, eyes gleaming. “More importantly,” she says. “We heard about the catch.” Your fork pauses halfway to your mouth. “What catch?” She wiggles her eyebrows. “The Mingyu-shaped crash pad.” Your ears go hot. “Nothing happened.” Tess gives you a look. “You’re bright red,” she says mildly. “So something happened.”
"He just… didn’t let me die,” you sputter. “That’s his job.”
"Yes, but did he have to roll with you?” Riley asks. “Did he have to cradle you?” Hana adds, hand over her heart. “Did he have to look like a romance novel cover while doing it?” Riley finishes.
“I didn’t—” You cut yourself off, stabbing your potato with unnecessary violence. Down the table, Seokmin leans back in his chair, watching you with a little smile. His gaze flicks briefly to where Mingyu sits, and his smile grows when he catches him pointedly not looking at you. Mingyu keeps his focus on his plate like it’s a contract in need of signing.
Later in the meal, the conversation shifts. It always does, swirling around work and town gossip and whatever nonsense Vernon and Dino have gotten up to. Tonight, it lands squarely on Evie and Seungcheol, which is always good entertainment.
“Did you fill out those field trip forms I gave you?” Evie asks, spearing a piece of chicken with unnecessary force. Seungcheol chews slowly, pretending not to hear her. Evie narrows her eyes. “Cheol.” He sighs. “I looked at them,” he says. “And?”
"And some of those questions are ridiculous.” He gestures vaguely with his fork. “Why do you need to know if every kid’s grandma has a favorite color?” Evie’s stare turns lethal. “Those are reflection prompts for the kids,” she says tightly. “The actual permission slip is on the back, which you’d know if you ever read anything all the way through.”
"I read contracts all day,” he protests. “I’m not reading about little Timmy’s favorite dinosaur.”
"It’s not about Timmy’s dinosaur, it’s about getting them to think about—”
"If the forms are that important, why didn’t you just bring the kids out without me?”
"Because we need your liability waiver, genius,” she snaps. “And your precious insurance paperwork. And maybe I didn’t want to risk having thirty eight-year-olds trample your fence line without warning.”
Hana leans toward you, stage-whispering. “I give them five minutes before one of them throws food.” Riley hums. “Three,” she whispers back. Tess just shakes her head, lips twitching.
“I’m just saying,” Seungcheol continues, “you could have explained it better instead of dumping a stack of papers on my desk and yelling about ‘childhood experiences.’”
"I did explain it,” Evie fires back. “You were on your phone. Like you always are when I talk about anything that isn’t cattle weight or feed costs.”
"Because we own a ranch.”
"Because you’re emotionally constipated.”
A chorus of oof travels around the table. Seungcheol sets his fork down very carefully. “Excuse me?” Evie doesn’t back down. “You heard me.”
For a moment, the air crackles. They’re both flushed—him with annoyance, her with righteous indignation that somehow still looks good on her. They’re leaning in, eyes locked, completely focused on each other. If either of them took half that intensity and pointed it somewhere other than an argument, you’re pretty sure this table would catch fire. “Just kiss already,” Dino mutters under his breath, not quietly enough.
Hana chokes on her drink. “Chan,” Tess hisses. Evie and Seungcheol both swing their glares toward Dino, united for one brief second in their outrage. “What did you say?” Evie demands.
“Nothing,” Dino says quickly. “Just… pass the salt?”
Nobody believes him. But the spell breaks. Evie huffs, stabbing another piece of chicken. Seungcheol shakes his head and picks up his fork again. “I’ll sign the damn forms,” he grumbles. “Bring your kids. Just warn me before they unleash hell.”
Evie lifts her chin. “They’re eight, not demons.” He gives her a pointed look. “Debatable.” She throws a napkin at him. Everyone rolls their eyes and smiles into their plates. You do too.
You catch Mingyu watching them, expression somewhere between tired fondness and please don’t make me be in the room when this explodes. His gaze slides to you then, like it can’t help it. You look away, pretending to be very interested in Riley’s story about Vernon’s failed attempt at baking bread. But your skin prickles. Because you can feel it—the way something between you and him shifted out there in the arena. How it’s still shifting, even now, under the surface of your work and his gruff orders and your attempts to act like it was just a riding lesson.
You wonder how long you can pretend it’s only the riding you’re learning to trust.
Longview feels different at the end of a long week.
Like something electric. Anticipation, maybe. You can feel it humming under everyone’s skin all day—louder jokes in the barn, music blaring from the guys’ bunkhouse while they shower, Hana yelling through the open window that if Vernon steals her good boots again, she’s stapling them to the floor. You’re halfway through braiding your hair when Riley slaps a palm on your bunk and declares, “We’re making you pretty.”
“I’m already pretty,” you protest, even though your stomach flips. “We’re making you bar pretty,” she corrects. “Different scale.”
Tess snorts from where she’s folding laundry. “She’s fine as she is.”
“I didn’t say she wasn’t,” Riley says. “I said we’re upgrading. It’s her one-month-iversary. We’re celebrating properly.”
Hana appears with a swipe of mascara and a wicked grin. “And by properly, she means we’re going to get you drunk enough to dance and sober enough to remember it.” You laugh, but there’s a flicker of something else underneath.
A month. You’ve been here a month. Longview isn’t a transit stop anymore—not in your chest. It’s stalls at dawn, coffee in cracked mugs, Milo’s warm shoulder under your palm, Mingyu’s voice saying “heels down” so often you hear it in your sleep. It’s laundry on the lines and Nora’s bread on the counter and family dinners where your chair is just… there. You didn’t think you’d get a month of anything like that again. “Okay,” you relent. “Make me bar pretty.” Riley whoops in triumph.
Hana digs out the skirt she convinced you to buy in town—dark, soft, a little shorter than you’re used to. Tess insists on one of her tops, a black thing that drapes in all the right places and shows a hint more skin than you usually dare. They argue over earrings. Riley wins. By the time you’re standing in front of the bunkhouse mirror, you barely recognise the woman staring back. She’s still you—same eyes, same scar half-hidden at your jaw, same bone-deep caution. But there’s colour in her cheeks and gloss on her mouth and something wild in the way she’s standing, weight on one hip like she has a right to take up space. “Damn, Rookie,” Hana says, low. “Look at you.”
“Mingyu’s gonna have a stroke,” Riley adds cheerfully. Your stomach does something stupid. “He won’t care,” you lie. They give you a synchronised sure, Jan look.
The bar in town looks different tonight than the first time you saw it. Then, it was noise and neon and unknowns you didn’t have the bandwidth to face. Now, arriving with a convoy of trucks and familiar voices spilling out into the gravel lot, it feels less like a threat and more like a little pocket of the world you’re allowed to share. Music thumps through the walls, low and pulsing. The place is packed: locals, travellers, ranch hands from other spreads. Trucks lined up under the string lights, cigarette smoke curling in the cool air. Above the door, the same faded sign buzzes faintly. “Alright, children,” Tess says as everyone piles out of the trucks. “Ground rules: we all get home in one piece, nobody gets in a fight, and if anyone vomits in my truck, they’re mucking stalls for a week.”
Riley salutes. “Yes, mom.”
“Stop calling me mom.”
You fall into step with Hana and Riley, your boots crunching on gravel. Behind you, you hear Seokmin’s loud laugh as he hooks an arm around Seungcheol’s shoulders, teasing him about looking like someone’s dad in his nicer shirt. Mingyu’s heavier footsteps are unmistakable, steady and unhurried. You don’t look back.
Inside, the bar is all dim lights and bodies moving in a loose, happy press. The air smells like beer and fried food and perfume, the floor sticky in places, the walls crowded with old photos and rusty license plates.
Mae is behind the bar. You almost don’t recognise her. She’s in a simple black tank and jeans, hair pulled up, tattoos on her forearms visible. She’s moving fast, pouring, laughing, sliding bottles down the counter with enthusiastic precision. The second she spots your group, her mouth quirks. “Look what the cows dragged in,” she calls. Seokmin beelines for her like he’s been magnetised. “Mae.” His voice goes softer, warmer. “You look—”
“Busy,” she cuts in, grabbing a bottle. “What do you want?”
“Your heart,” he says, without missing a beat. She rolls her eyes. “On tap or bottled?” The guys snicker. Hana groans. You bite back a grin. “Two pitchers of beer,” Seungcheol orders smoothly, sliding in to spare Seokmin from himself. “And, uh—” he glances at you, Riley, Hana, Tess “—whatever they want.” Mae’s eyes sweep over you, taking in your outfit, your slightly self-conscious posture. “First drink’s on me,” she says. “Happy one-month, Longview.”
Warmth floods your chest. “Thanks.” She taps the bar. “Don’t let them corrupt you too fast.”
“Too late,” Riley says, already reaching for the shot glass Mae plants in front of her.
“One each,” Mae warns, sliding three more shot glasses your way. “Two each,” Riley corrects, immediately flagging down another. “We’re celebrating.” You down yours, coughing a little at the burn, and feel the heat bloom in your chest, loosening edges you didn’t realise were still clenched. Mingyu hangs back a few steps, the slide of his gaze quick but thorough. He takes a beer when it’s passed to him, nods at Mae. “You good?” she asks him.
“I’m fine,” he says.
“Try having fun,” she suggests. His mouth twitches. “We’ll see.”
You don’t mean to end up on the dance floor so fast. It just happens. The music shifts into something with a beat, and Riley yelps, “Oh my God, I love this one!” She grabs your hand, and suddenly you’re in the middle of it—lights spinning, bodies moving, heat on your skin. Hana’s beside you, hips swaying, arms thrown up, hair whipping. Tess is more restrained but still smiling, muttering, “I’m too old for this,” even as she taps her foot and lets Riley spin her. You’re stiff at first. Self-conscious. Hyper-aware of your own limbs. Then the chorus hits. Riley whoops. Hana bumps your hip. “Loosen up, Rookie!” she hollers over the music. “Nobody’s watching!”
That’s not true. You know it’s not true. But for once, it doesn’t send your heart into your throat. You close your eyes, feel the bass under your boots, the air brushing your bare legs as your skirt swings. You let your body move—not gracefully, not perfectly, but honestly. Shoulders rolling, hair sticking to your neck, laughter coming more easily. When you open your eyes again, you catch a glimpse of the bar. Mingyu is there, half-leaning against it, beer in hand, talking with Wonwoo and Dino. His cap is off, hair messy from the day, the collar of his shirt open. He looks relaxed, in that coiled way he has, like even at ease he’s ready to move. His gaze is on you. Not on the crowd. On you.
The song ends, another one starts. At some point Riley staggers back from the bar with a tray of shots, grinning like she’s discovered oil. “Anniversary round!” she shouts, thrusting a glass into your hand. “For bravery and bad decisions!”
“You’re going to kill her,” Tess says, but she takes one too. You clink the tiny glass with theirs and toss it back. The second burn is easier. It slides into the first, warmth spreading through your stomach. When you step back onto the dance floor this time, you’re buzzing. From the shots. From the music. From the way Mingyu’s gaze keeps finding you no matter where you move. You feel it like a touch between your shoulder blades, low on your spine, tracking every sway of your hips. Every time you glance over, he’s still there. Sometimes he’s pretending to listen to Wonwoo. Sometimes Seokmin is talking his ear off. But his eyes… They stay you.
And for the first time in years, instead of making you want to shrink, that look makes you want to see what happens if you lean into it. You let your movements slow down. Smoother. Your hips roll a little deeper with the beat. You shrug one shoulder, let your hair fall over your face and then toss it back. Your hands skim down your own sides as you turn, skirt swishing high on your thighs. You’re not dancing for the room. You’re dancing because his eyes are on you and, with the warmth of the alcohol in your veins, it feels… good. Powerful. Like claiming the body you live in instead of just hauling it through the day.
Hana whistles. “Okay, Rookie,” she laughs, pulling you closer. “I see you.” Riley cackles. “Someone’s gonna combust,” she sing-songs. You risk another glance toward the bar. Mingyu’s jaw is tight. His grip on his beer bottle looks like it might snap glass. He’s not even pretending to follow whatever joke Dino just told. His eyes track the line of your thighs, the way your top clings when you lift your arms, the tilt of your mouth when you laugh at something Hana says. Seungcheol leans in, shoulder brushing Mingyu’s, lips moving near his ear. You can’t hear what he says over the music. You see the effect. Mingyu’s mouth flattens. His gaze sharpens. He shakes his head once, like he’s telling himself something you’re not privy to. Seungcheol just gives him a knowing look and claps him on the back, moving away to intercept Evie, who has just walked in with murder in her eyes for whoever left copies jammed in the school printer. You don’t hear that conversation either. Because there’s suddenly someone behind you. A chest at your back. Hands too close to your waist. You stiffen, the good kind of heat evaporating. You turn and find a stranger.
He’s tall, maybe your age or a few years older, in a worn ballcap and a T-shirt with some local beer logo on it. He smells like cheap whiskey and cologne, grin easy and just a little too confident. “Couldn’t help noticing you out here,” he says, leaning in close so you can hear him. “Dance with me?” You take a half-step back, trying to keep it light. “I’m with them,” you say, nodding toward Hana and Riley. “Just having fun.” He takes that as encouragement, not a boundary. He moves with you as you shift away, matching your steps, closing the space you opened. “Looks like you were dancing for everybody,” he chuckles. “Don’t mind if I enjoy the show.”
“I’m good, thanks,” you say, louder this time, placing your hand flat on his chest. A polite barrier. He doesn’t stop. He slides in closer, your palm pressing against him as he moves anyway, his hand brushing your hip like he has the right. “Come on, sweetheart,” he says, breath too hot against your ear. “Don’t be shy.” Your heart starts to pound for a different reason. “I said no,” you repeat, trying to sidestep. His fingers curl around your wrist. Not gently.
The music keeps thumping, people keep moving, but in the small circle of space around you, everything narrows to the feel of that grip—too tight, too familiar, memories ripping up through your chest like weeds.
You yank your arm back on reflex. The hold tightens. “Don’t be like that,” he says, smile slipping. “You were practically begging for attention out here.” You open your mouth—to protest, to shout, to do something—but you don’t get the chance. A solid weight slams between you. Your arm is yanked free, not roughly, but decisively. The stranger is shoved back a step as a larger body shoulders him away from you.
Mingyu. He’s suddenly there, filling your vision, standing squarely between you and the stranger, his frame a wall shielding you. “She said no,” he snaps. You’ve never heard his voice like that. Not raised, exactly, but sharp enough to cut. The stranger sneers. “Who the fuck are you?” Mingyu doesn’t answer. He steps into the guy’s space, shoulders broad, hands loose at his sides. You see the tension in him, coiled and ready, the same kind of readiness he carries on a horse when something spooks—focused, lethal.
“Walk away,” he says. “Now.” The guy shoves his chest. Everything happens too fast after that. Mingyu’s fist comes up in a blur, catching the stranger square across the bridge of his nose. There’s a sickening crack, an explosion of movement—chairs scraping, people shouting, Mae swearing. The man goes down hard, hands flying to his face, blood spilling between his fingers. You gasp. The room’s energy whiplashes from fun to dangerous in a heartbeat.
Someone yells. The bartender nearest Mae reaches for the phone. Another guy steps in front of his friend, glaring at Mingyu, but doesn’t move closer—something in Mingyu’s face making him think twice. “Mingyu,” you breathe out in horror. He doesn’t look at you right away. His chest is heaving, nostrils flared, eyes locked on the man groaning on the floor like he might get up and try again. He won’t. Thank God.
“Out,” Mae snaps, suddenly in front of the bar, hands slammed on the counter. Her eyes blaze at both men equally. “Cheol, get them out before I have to mop up their teeth.” Seungcheol is already moving, muttering under his breath, pulling Mingyu back by the arm. “Come on,” he growls. “That’s enough.”
The stranger is hauled to his feet by a friend, nose crooked and bleeding, yelling something about “psycho cowboys” and “lawsuit” that no one really listens to. You just stand there. Shock pins you in place. You stare at the blood, at Mingyu’s knuckles, at the way his jaw is clenched so tight you think he might crack a tooth.
You should say thank you. You should say what the hell. You’re not sure which wins. You reach out, fingers brushing his forearm. “What the hell was that?” you demand, voice breaking on the last word. He finally looks at you. His eyes are dark. Wild. “He grabbed you,” he says, like that’s the beginning and end of the story.
“I had it,” you snap, even though you didn’t, not really. “You can’t just go around breaking people’s faces.”
“Watch me,” he snarls.
The bar’s noise starts to creep back in around you—music turned down, people whispering, someone swearing in the bathroom about the blood trail. Hana and Riley hover a few feet away, eyes wide. Tess moves closer, but stays back just enough to give you space. Your wrist throbs where the stranger’s hand was. You’re shaking now—for a different reason. Fear, yes. But also anger. At the guy. At the way your body remembers being grabbed like that. At Mingyu for exploding instead of… something else. “You didn’t have to hit him,” you insist.
“He didn’t have to touch you,” Mingyu fires back. You stare at each other, breathing hard. Seungcheol pinches the bridge of his nose. “Okay,” he says. “We’re done. Mingyu, outside. Now.” Mingyu doesn’t take his eyes off you. “I’m taking her home,” he says.
“Excuse me?”
“You’re done drinking,” he says. “You’re done dancing for idiots who don’t understand the word no.”
“You don’t get to decide that,” you snap. “I can finish my drink and—”
“You’re cut off,” he says, voice low and hard. “You’re leaving. With me.” The command hits somewhere low in your stomach, a tangled mess of fury and something hotter. “Oh, absolutely not,” you say. “I’m not some calf you can just drag into a trailer—”
He doesn’t argue with words. He just moves. One second you’re standing on both feet; the next, your world flips. A strong arm hooks behind your knees, another clamps around your thighs, and you find yourself hoisted over his shoulder like a sack of feed. “Mingyu!” You pound at his back, more scandalised than actually hurt. “Put me down!”
“No,” he grunts. The bar erupts into laughter and catcalls.
“Get it, Longview!”
“Damn, Rookie, you pulled the boss!” Riley shrieks, half hysterical, half delighted, before Tess smacks her arm.
“Chan, stop filming,” Hana hisses at Dino, who’s absolutely trying to get his phone out. Mae glares over the bar. “If you two are going to screw up my Saturday night, have the decency to do it outside,” she calls. Seungcheol is torn between exasperation and amusement. “I’ll settle the tab,” he says. “Go. Before someone calls the sheriff.”
You wriggle, but Mingyu’s hold is iron. The world bounces with each step he takes, his shoulder pressing into your stomach, arm locked over the backs of your thighs to keep you from kneeing him in the face. This close, you can smell him—sweat and soap and beer and something distinctly him underneath it all. It’s infuriating. It’s dizzying.
Outside, the night air hits your flushed skin, cooler than the bar, stars bright above the parking lot. He strides toward the trucks. “Mingyu, I’m serious,” you warn. “Put me down or I swear to God—” He stops. For a second, you think he might listen. Then he simply adjusts his grip and keeps walking. “You can swear at me from the truck,” he says. He drops you onto the passenger seat with less gentleness than usual but more than anger would allow. The door slams, vibrating the frame. He stalks around the hood, muttering something vicious under his breath.
You’re panting, hair mussed, skirt bunched around your thighs. “You can’t just manhandle me like that,” you snap the second he climbs in. He turns the engine over, jaw still tight. “You weren’t listening,” he says. “And I wasn’t about to let you stay in there so some other asshole could try his luck.”
“I said no,” you shoot back. “I can handle myself.”
His hand slams against the steering wheel, making you jump. “Can you?” he demands, finally looking at you. His eyes blaze in the dashboard light. “Because from where I was standing, you were shaking so hard you could barely talk.”
Your throat tightens. “That’s not your call to make,” you whisper. Some of the heat drains out of his face, replaced by something else—guilt, maybe. He drags a hand down over his mouth, breathing hard. “He grabbed you,” he says again, voice rougher now. “I saw your face, Rookie.”
You swallow. “That doesn’t mean you get to break someone’s nose,” you say. “Or throw me over your shoulder like a caveman.”
“Maybe not,” he allows. “But I’m not apologising for getting you out of there.” You glare out the windshield, furious at him, at yourself, at the way your body betrayed you in front of a stranger. “It's not your job to protect me from everything,” you mutter.
“Maybe not,” he says. “But I’ll sure as hell try.”
The words hang there, too much and not enough. You don’t know what to do with them. He puts the truck in gear and pulls out of the lot. Gravel crunches under the tyres. The bar recedes in the rearview, neon shrinking to a smear of light in the dark.
The first part of the drive is silent. You watch the road, the way the headlights carve a tunnel through the night. The fences flash by, familiar silhouettes. Your breathing slows, the adrenaline shifting from sharp edges to a steady buzz. His hands on the wheel are tight, knuckles pale. His jaw is still working. You’re both wound so tight you might snap. “He didn’t matter,” you say after a while, voice low. “He was just some guy.”
“That’s the problem,” Mingyu says. “Just some guy. Thinks he can put his hands wherever he wants. Thinks ‘no’ is a maybe.”
“You punched him because you were jealous,” you accuse, because it’s easier to poke that than admit how much the rest of what he said affected you. His hands tighten on the wheel. “I punched him because he touched you,” he says. Then, after a beat, “And yeah. Because I didn’t like the way he was looking at you.”
Your heart stutters. “You don’t get to be jealous,” you say. “You barely talk to me unless I’m falling off a horse.”
“I talk to you,” he mutters.
“‘Heels down’ doesn’t count,” you shoot back. He huffs a humourless laugh.
The truck slows. Mingyu turns off the main drive, pulling onto a side track that leads out toward the back pastures. There’s no house here, no lights—just a narrow strip of dirt and the vast dark of the fields on either side. “What are you doing?” you ask. He puts the truck in park and kills the engine. Suddenly, the world is nothing but soft ticking metal and the sound of your own heartbeat. He turns in his seat to face you fully. In the dim cabin light, his face is all hard lines and shadow, eyes searching yours. “I talk to you with my eyes,” he says quietly. “You just never look long enough to hear it.”
“What are they saying, then?” you ask, because the alternative is to shatter. He reaches up slowly, thumb brushing the faint red marks on your wrist with a gentleness so at odds with the memory of his fist that it makes your throat ache. “They’re saying I hate seeing you scared,” he murmurs. “They’re saying I hate that you think you gotta prove yourself, constantly.”
His thumb slips lower, tracing the pulse fluttering under your skin. “They’re saying I wanted to rip his hands off you,” he adds, voice rougher now. “Because when you dance with someone, it should be because you chose him. Not because he dragged you.” Heat rolls through you, hot and cold at once. You swallow, eyes locked on his. “And who,” you ask, “exactly, am I choosing?”
The question hangs there, fragile and dangerous. His gaze drops to your mouth. When he looks back up, something in him has given in. “Tell me to drive you home,” he says. “Tell me you’re mad at me. Tell me you never want me to touch you again.” You don’t. You lean across the console instead.
The kiss crashes into you the way the bar noise did earlier—loud, overwhelming, everything at once. His mouth is hot and hungry, tasting like beer and anger and something softer underneath that you’ve been pretending not to see. Your hands find the front of his shirt, balling fabric between your fingers, pulling him closer like you’re trying to erase the last few inches of air between you.
He makes a sound in the back of his throat, low and rough, and then he’s cupping your jaw, thumb against your cheek, tilting your head to get a better angle. His other hand slides into your hair, fingers tightening just enough to make you gasp. "Fuck," he breathes against your lips. "You have no idea what you do to me, Rookie."
You climb over the console on instinct, desperate to close the distance. Your knee clips the horn. It blares. You both jerk, then burst into breathless, incredulous laughter against each other’s mouths. "Smooth," you gasp.
"Shut up," he mutters, already hauling you fully into his lap, one big hand spanning your waist and guiding you down. You straddle him, the steering wheel at your back, the top digging into your shoulder blades. Suddenly, there’s nowhere that isn’t him—thighs braced under you, chest solid against yours, breath mingling in the small, dark cab.
Your skirt hikes up as you settle, bunching around your hips. His jeans are rough under your thighs, the heat of his body bleeding through the denim. His hands grip your hips, thumbs pressing into the soft give of you. There’s no hesitation in the way he handles you—strong, sure—but there’s nothing trapping about it, either. He moves you like he’s done this a thousand times in his head and is terrified of getting it wrong in real life.
He drags his mouth from your lips to your jaw, to the edge of your throat, each kiss a little rougher than the last. When he finds the spot just below your ear, he bites lightly, and your whole body jolts. "You okay?" he asks, voice ragged against your skin. "Tell me if you’re not. Tell me to stop and I will. I mean it."
You nod so fast your hair brushes his face. He pulls back an inch, eyes dark, jaw tight. "Use your words, Rookie."
"I’m okay," you manage. "I want this. I want you." Something in his shoulders drops.
"Good girl," he murmurs, so soft you barely catch it. Heat rolls through you, sharp and sweet all at once.
His hands slip under the hem of your borrowed top, fingers skimming your back, your ribs, tracing the edge of your bra. Your spine arches without your permission, chest pressing against his. His thumbs make slow, almost worshipful passes along your sides, learning every line. You fist your hands in his hair, tugging a little. He groans, low and filthy, and his mouth slants back over yours, kiss turning messier, wetter. You taste him, feel him, lose track of where you end and he begins.
He slides one hand down, over the curve of your hip, along your thigh, fingers splaying against bare skin where your skirt has ridden up. He squeezes once. "You have any idea what it did to me, watching you dance?" he mutters into your mouth. "Knowing every asshole in that place was looking at you when you were—" he cuts himself off with a strained laugh, breath catching as your hips shift. "Jesus."
You shift again on purpose this time, rolling your hips down against him, testing. The sound he makes is half curse, half prayer. "Don’t—" he says, fingers tightening. "You keep doing that and this is gonna be over fast."
"Maybe I like you a little desperate," you whisper, surprised by your own boldness. His eyes flash. "Careful, baby," he says hoarsely. "You’re gonna find out exactly how desperate I am." He proves his point. His hand slides higher along your thigh, up, up, dragging your skirt with it. The air in the truck feels too hot. You grab at his shoulders, at anything, as his fingers map out slow, maddening paths on your bare skin; He pauses just shy of where you want him, thumb pressing into the tense muscle of your inner thigh, holding you open without forcing, making you feel every inch of the distance between almost and there. "Mingyu," you whisper, hips shifting restlessly.
"I know," he murmurs, voice low and frayed at the edges. "I’ve got you."
His hand slips higher, knuckles grazing the edge of your underwear, testing how far he can push. The contrast of his rough fingertips and the soft lace of your panties makes you jolt, a quiet, involuntary sound escaping your throat. He swallows it with a kiss, his mouth hot and greedy on yours as his fingers start to explore. He ghosts his touch along the edge of the fabric, tracing the line where it meets skin, but never quite giving you what you’re aching for. He draws lazy shapes, circling slowly, feeling the way your muscles tense and shiver. "Here?" he breathes against your lips, adjusting the angle of his touch by a fraction, until his fingers pass through your folds. Your answer is a sharp inhale and your nails biting into his skin.
"Yeah," he says, more to himself than to you. "There."
He settles into a rhythm—small, focused circles over your clit that send heat unfurling low in your belly. Every time you gasp, he chases it, refines it, like he’s cataloguing what works and what doesn’t. He alternates pressure, speed, angle, paying attention to every twitch of your hips, every little stutter in your breathing.
"You feel what you’re doing to me?" he mutters, voice rough, the heel of his other hand pressing briefly against your lower back as if to keep you from floating away. "Look at you, falling apart in my lap."
Your head drops to his shoulder, forehead pressed to his neck. It’s too much and somehow still not enough—you grind down against his hand without meaning to, chasing more, chasing the friction he’s giving you and his hardness you can feel against you through his jeans.
The sensation builds, tight and bright, your thighs trembling around him. He slips two fingers easily into the heat of your core, your slick walls greedily enveloping the digits. He murmurs praise against your skin as he curls them inside, words blurring together—that’s it, good, just like that, let me see you—and each one winds you tighter. His touch is firm but responsive, adjusting the instant you flinch, doubling down when you moan. You’re panting now, breath hot against the window.
"Mingyu," you gasp, fists clenched in his shirt. "I—oh my God—"
"Too much?" he mutters, words almost lost against your skin. You try to ride it out, to let him take you over the edge with just his hand, but the need spikes past what he’s giving you.
"It’s not enough," you pant. His answering curse is muffled against your collarbone. His fingers ease out of you, not abandoning but shifting, rolling over your clit. "Okay," he mutters, breathing hard. "Okay. You want more? You’re gonna get it."
You feel him fumble at his belt, his zipper, movements clumsy for the first time since you’ve known him as he frees his cock. He’s not smooth here. Not practised. He’s a little frantic, a little shaky, and somehow that makes it worse—in the best way. You’re dimly aware of the cold air against your core where he pushes your skirt even higher. There’s something obscenely intimate about how much you’re still wearing, how little has to move for everything to change.
He pauses, breathing hard, forehead resting against yours as he rasps out: "Tell me no, and we drive back, and forget this happened." You cup his face in both hands, forcing him to really see you. "I’ve spent so long having things done to me," you say, words tumbling out. "I want this. I’m choosing you."
His eyes close briefly, like the words physically hit him. When he opens them, there’s no distance left. "Okay," he whispers. "I’ve got you." He slowly guides you down onto his cock.
The first push of him inside you drags a shocked sound from your throat, a stretch that borders on too much and somehow not enough. His jaw is clenched, eyes squeezed shut as your walls flutter around him. "Breathe, baby," he grits out. "You’re so—" he breaks off, sucking in air through his teeth.
"I’m okay," you whisper, voice shaky. "Move, Mingyu. Please." He exhales a broken laugh. "You’re gonna end me," he mutters.
He starts slowly, careful, like you’re made of glass and he’s trying not to break you. Each push of his hips lifts you, settles you, finds a new angle that pulls soft sounds from your throat. The steering wheel digs into your back when you lean too far, the horn threatening right under you if you shift wrong. The absurdity of it bubbles up between the moans and curses—you on his lap, half-dressed, hair a mess, windows fogged, in the middle of his land like the whole world has shrunk down to this truck cab and the way you fit together.
You rock with him, following his lead, then finding your own rhythm. His hands help, guiding you down onto his cock after each lift of your hips, coaxing, not forcing. Every time you gasp his name, his grip tightens; every time you bury your face in his neck and bite his shoulder through his shirt, his hips jerk up harder, his breath catching. "That’s it," he groans. "Just like that. You feel that? That’s us, Rookie. That’s you and me."
The words should embarrass you. They don’t. They catch in your chest, lodge there, drive you higher. The heat builds fast, too fast, coiling low in your belly. The world outside the truck disappears; there’s only the frantic creak of the seat as he fucks you, the sting of his stubble on your throat, the salt of his skin under your mouth, the way his voice sounds when your walls grip him deeper. "I—" you start, then lose the sentence on a harsh inhale.
"You close?" he rasps, one hand leaving your hip to slide up your spine, pulling you flush against him. You nod helplessly, forehead pressed to his.
"Look at me," he says. You force your eyes open. His are blown wide, pupils swallowing the warm brown, sweat beading at his temple. He looks wrecked and reverent and a little bit undone.
"Come on, Rookie," he whispers. "Let go for me." You do.
It hits hard, all the tension and fear and want you’ve been carrying snapping at once. You break apart around him, a strangled sound torn from your chest as everything goes white-hot and weightless. He holds you through it, arm banded tight around your waist, forehead pressed to yours, grounding you with little words you barely register.
When you start to come back to yourself, you realize his hips are still moving, slower now, as if he’s trying not to lose it before you’re fully with him. You kiss him—messy and half-formed, all gratitude and need—and that seems to be what finally tips him over the edge. He shudders beneath you, his rhythm faltering, a soft, wrecked curse spilling against your mouth as he follows you over and spills his seed inside of your, grabbing at your hips like he has to hold on to something.
You slump against his chest, forehead tucked under his jaw, arms still looped around his shoulders. His hands rest on your back, large and careful, stroking slowly up and down like he’s not sure how to stop touching you without spooking you. He presses a lazy kiss into your hairline, another under your ear, softer now, almost apologetic. "You okay?" he asks again, voice hoarse but gentler at the edges. You breathe him in and let your weight settle fully on his lap. "Yeah," you whisper, surprising yourself with how true it feels. "I… yeah."
He leans his head back against the seat, eyes closing for a second, like he’s bracing for you to bolt anyway. You lift your head enough to look at him. He looks wrecked. And beautiful. And very, very real. "You’re still an asshole," you say, because your brain needs somewhere to put all of this. His mouth curves, small but unmistakable. "Yeah," he says quietly. "But I’m your asshole tonight."
Your cheeks heat. You don’t argue.
You just stay there, skirts and denim and skin tangled, letting your breathing sync with his while the truck ticks and cools around you, the night pressing close on all sides and the ranch waiting, somewhere ahead in the dark.
You wake up to the sound of Riley’s snore and the taste of Mingyu still in your mouth.
For a second, you don’t know where you are. All you remember is heat and cramped space and the feel of his hands locked around your hips as the truck windows fogged—Then the bunkhouse ceiling snaps into focus, and shame and want hit you at the same time. You’re in your own bed. In your own clothes. The walk back from the trucks is a blur—you remember him helping you down, smoothing your skirt, both of you suddenly quiet in the way people get when they’ve done something they can’t take back.
You remember him saying, “Get some sleep, Rookie.” Like you hadn’t just come apart in his lap. You roll onto your stomach and groan into your pillow. One-time thing, you tell yourself. It was adrenaline, alcohol, almost getting grabbed, his stupid face, your stupid heart. A storm, that’s all. Storms blow over.
Liar, something in you whispers. You shove that voice down and drag yourself out of bed.
The kitchen in the big house is already busy when you walk in.
Tess is at the stove, flipping pancakes, hair tied up in a messy knot. Hana leans against the counter, scrolling through her phone. Dino is pouring himself orange juice as if it were a life-saving elixir. Seokmin is sitting on the table instead of at it, telling some overdramatic story about Vernon almost driving into a ditch last night. “It was not a ditch,” Vernon protests. “It was a shallow depression.”
“You screamed,” Seokmin says.
“The truck bounced.”
“You grabbed my arm and yelled, ‘tell my mom I loved her, ’” Seokmin insists. Dino chokes on his juice. You slip in, grab a mug and pour coffee.
Everyone looks… normal. Relaxed. No one is staring at you like they know you fogged up Mingyu’s windshield with your body heat. You exhale slowly. Hana bumps her shoulder against yours. “How’s the head?”
“Not as bad as I thought,” you say. “Not sure if that’s a good sign.”
“Rookie handled her liquor,” Riley crows from the doorway, shuffling in with lion’s mane hair and yesterday’s eyeliner smudged under her eyes. “Proud of you.”
The kitchen door swings open. Mingyu walks in, hair damp from a quick shower, clean shirt pulled over broad shoulders. His knuckles are bandaged. His gaze sweeps the room once, automatic, count-the-heads, check-the-vibe, then catches on you. You force your face into something neutral and take a heroic sip of coffee.
“Morning,” Tess says. He grunts what might be a greeting.
“How’s your hand?” Dino asks, eyes wide.
“Fine.”
“You really tagged that guy,” Seokmin says, half-admiring. “Never seen so much blood in a bar that wasn’t from Riley’s line dancing.”
“Hey!” Riley protests. Mingyu ignores all of them. He goes for the coffee, passing directly behind you. For half a heartbeat, his arm brushes your back, a barely-there touch through your clothes—but your whole body lights up like someone plugged you into a generator. You grip the mug tighter.
He pours his coffee, moves to the other side of the table, and sits down like nothing is wrong. You try not to stare. You fail. There’s no sign on his face that anything is different. No smirk, no awkward cough, nothing that screams I had you in my lap last night, remember? He looks exactly like he always does at breakfast: tired, focused, somewhere between amused and done with everyone’s shit. You tell yourself that’s good. You tell yourself your chest stinging a little at that realisation is stupid. Normal. It’s all normal. If you pretend hard enough, maybe it’ll feel true.
You move through the day like you’re playing a part. You muck stalls. You help Tess with inventory. You check on Milo, stroke his nose, breathe in the familiar smell of horse and hay and leather until your heartbeat calms. You avoid being alone with Mingyu. You fail at that, too.
In the tack room, you reach for a bridle hanging on the wall at the same moment he does. Your fingers brush over worn leather and then over his knuckles. You both jerk back like you touched a live wire.
Outside, when you’re hauling feed, Vernon tries to grab the heavier sack from you. “Here, Rookie,” he says. “You’ll blow out your back.” Before you can answer, a sharp voice cuts across the yard. “She’s got it,” Mingyu snaps. You and Vernon both look over. Mingyu’s expression is hard, jaw set. He’s leaning against the fence line, clipboard in hand, pretending to check something off. Vernon raises his hands, backing off. “Okay, man,” he says slowly. “Didn’t realise there was a waiting list for sacks.” You lug the feed past him, cheeks hot.
Later, Wonwoo stands a little too close behind you at the workbench, talking you through how to mend a broken latch. It’s innocent—just his hand guiding yours, voices low. Mingyu appears in the doorway like he was summoned by the ghost of jealousy. “Wonwoo,” he barks. “You done with that gate yet?” Wonwoo straightens. “Almost.”
“Then maybe work on the gate instead of crowding the newbie,” Mingyu growls. You bristle. “He’s not crowding me,” you say. Mingyu’s eyes flick to you, something tight and unreadable in them. “You’re supposed to be on feed, Rookie,” he says. “Not tinkering.”
“She’s learning,” Wonwoo points out, frowning.
“She can learn when the work’s done,” Mingyu shoots back. “There’s feed sitting, and last I checked, the cows don’t give a shit about latch theory.”
Tension crackles. Wonwoo’s jaw tightens, but he steps back. “Yes, boss.”
You want to say something cutting. You want to call Mingyu out for acting like a dog who’s just found out he has teeth. For no longer acting like last night didn’t happen, but like he has no idea what to do with it. You don’t. You grab the feed schedule and march out into the yard, muttering curses under your breath, trying to ignore the way every cell in your body is vibrating with awareness of him.
Mingyu can’t sleep.
He sits on the edge of his bed in the big house, elbows on his knees, hands hanging loose between them. The room is dark except for the lamp on the dresser, casting long shadows across the floorboards.
He can still feel you. That’s the worst part. Not the split skin on his knuckles when he punched that guy. Not the weight of Seungcheol’s stare in the bar or Mae’s unimpressed glare. Not even the faint ache in his jaw from clenching it all damn day. You. Your weight on his lap. Your hands in his hair. Your voice saying I’m choosing you. He drags his palms down his face. Idiot.
He shouldn’t have lost his temper at the bar. He knows that. He’s not proud of that part—not the blood, not the crunch, not the moment when he wanted to keep hitting long after it was done. It felt too familiar. Too much like a road he’s already walked down—or tried to. He sees flashes of memory he doesn’t usually let himself touch: rain on a windshield, headlights too bright, a laugh in his passenger seat that he will never hear again. Flowers on a grave he avoids like it can hurt him any more than it already has. He’s built this life out here to keep moving. To keep his hands busy enough, his days full enough that there wasn’t room for anything else. Not grief. Not hope. Certainly not you. And yet. Every time he closes his eyes, there you are. The way your face looked when that guy grabbed you—fear and fire, both at once. The way your mouth tasted in the truck. The way you’d said please, like you didn’t know how much power that word had over him.
He’s furious with himself. He’s furious at the part of him that feels… not guilty. Not about you, anyway. He’d expected shame when it was over. Guilt. Maybe something like betrayal, like he’d done something disloyal to a ghost. Instead, there was this gut-deep relief.
And then, afterwards, when you were breathing hard against his neck, and he was holding you—he’d felt something else he hadn’t let himself feel in a long time. Want. Not just the sharp, physical kind, though there’d been plenty of that. The quieter kind. The kind that looks like mornings and coffee and your boots next to his by the door. The kind that scared him enough, he almost pushed you off his lap and drove you back to the bunkhouse without another word. He didn’t. He let himself have it. Just once, he told himself. Just this.
He looks at his hands now, flexes his fingers. There are scars on them—rope burns, old cuts, the small, pale mark on his pinky finger where he used to wear something he hasn’t taken out of the drawer in two years. He doesn’t deserve this; he knows it. Not you. Not the way you looked at him in the truck, eyes blown wide, giving him trust you shouldn’t waste on someone who’s already proved he can destroy things he loves just by existing near them. He knows that. He believes it. He also can’t stop thinking about the way you sighed when he touched just right, the way you clung to him like he was something safe instead of something dangerous. He wants that again. He wants you again. Craves it, like a thirst. He presses his thumb into the old pale groove on his finger until it hurts. “Get over yourself,” he mutters.
Maybe he can thread the needle. Maybe he can give in to the wanting without letting it become something bigger. No promises. No future. No lies about forever. You’re a grown woman, not a girl he can wreck with a careless word. You wanted him. You said so. Maybe you want the same thing he does: heat and relief and something that makes the nights less long. He can do that.
He can give you his body and keep everything else locked up where it belongs. He can take yours without touching the parts that hurt. He can keep things simple. No strings. Nothing real. Just sex. Just you. He lies back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, and repeats that until he almost believes it.
You try to stop it before it starts. You fool yourself trying to draw lines—but wanting doesn’t take orders.
Late one night, you’re closing up the barn, last to finish, checking latches and lights. The sky is clear, stars bright. Your body is pleasantly sore. Your head is finally quiet. You turn to leave and find Mingyu leaning against the doorframe. “You missed a light,” he says, nodding toward the far stall. “I was getting to it,” you lie.
He grunts, pushes off the frame, and crosses the distance in a few long strides. You tense, expecting an inspection, a lecture about routines and safety. Instead, his hand catches your wrist. Not hard. Not like the stranger’s. Just enough to stop you. “We’re okay?” he asks quietly, eyes searching your face. “You’re not… scared of me now?”
“If I was scared of you, I wouldn’t have climbed into your lap,” you say before you can think better of it. His mouth twitches. “Fair.”
Silence stretches between you. You can taste the memory of his mouth. You can feel the ghost of his hands. Your body leans toward him like it remembers before your brain catches up. You shouldn’t. You do. You step into him.
The kiss feels inevitable. It’s different from the truck. Less frantic. Less jagged. His hands come up to cradle your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones as if he can’t quite believe you’re here, letting him do this again.
It’s like the floodgates open after that.
A brush of fingers in the tack room when no one else is around, your hands meeting on the same bottle of liniment and staying tangled a beat too long. You slipping into the shadowed part of the barn during a lull and finding him already there, leaning against a stall, arms open like an invitation. His mouth on yours, pressed up against the cool of the wood, his hand cupping the back of your neck, your fingers tugging at the hem of his shirt, both of you pulling away only when someone calls your name from the yard. You start to recognise the creak of the big house’s back stairs at midnight. You lie awake in the bunkhouse, listening to your roommates’ breathing settle, heart pounding in your throat. When you’re sure they’re out, you ease off your bunk, pull on a hoodie over your sleep shirt, and slip outside. The air is cold. The stars are bright. The big house looms a little darker at this hour. You almost turn back.
Then the back door opens without a sound. He’s there. Barefoot, in sweatpants and a T-shirt, hair mussed, eyes watching you. “You shouldn’t be sneaking around like this,” you whisper as he lets you in.
“You’re the one sneaking,” he murmurs, bracing one hand on the wall beside your head, caging you in. “I’m just answering the door.”
In his room, the walls remember him—work shirts on the back of a chair, dusty boots lined up by the door, the faint smell of leather and detergent. The bed is too neatly made, like he doesn’t sleep much in it. You forget about that once he pushes you down on it.
The nights are a blur of heat and whispers, of his mouth mapping your skin, your fingers drawing new constellations on his back. Sometimes it’s quick and rough, the kind of relief that leaves you limp and laughing into his shoulder. Sometimes it’s slow enough that it almost scares you, the way he looks at you like he’s seeing something he doesn’t think he has any right to touch.
You never stay until morning. You always slip out while the stars are still high, padding back to the bunkhouse on bare feet, heart thudding, telling yourself this is nothing. No strings. Just chemistry. Just two people taking what they can, while they can. You almost believe it.
But then, a calf gets sick. She’s too small, all knobby knees and big eyes, breathing too fast in the straw. You and Tess have been taking turns checking on her for hours, warming milk, coaxing her to drink, rubbing her sides to keep her circulation up. By the time it’s close to midnight, Tess is swaying on her feet. “Go,” you tell her. “I’ll stay a little longer.”
“You sure?” You nod. “You’ve been at this longer than I have. I’ll call if she does anything weird.”
Tess hesitates, then squeezes your shoulder. “Text if you need me,” she says. “She’s a fighter. Like her babysitter.” When she’s gone, the barn feels bigger. Quieter. You sit in the straw beside the calf’s pen, hoodie pulled tight around you, listening to her breathing, petting her soft, stupid head.
“You’re gonna be fine,” you murmur. “You have any idea how much trouble you’re causing?” She blinks at you. You smile, tired. You don’t hear the footsteps at first. “Rookie?” His voice is low, softer than usual, threading through the dim. You look up. Mingyu is in the doorway, shoulders filling the frame even in shadow. He’s in a dark sweatshirt and jeans, hair mussed, eyes tired. You stand too fast, straw sticking to your knees. “You scared her,” you whisper, nodding at the calf.
“I scared you,” he counters. You shrug, heart jittering. “What are you doing here?” He steps in, letting the door swing shut behind him. The barn light overhead hums, casting everything in a warm, muted glow. “Tess said you stayed,” he says. “You shouldn’t be out here alone this late.” You roll your eyes. “What, is the calf gonna mug me?”
He doesn’t smile. He crouches by the pen, big hand reaching through the slats to rest on the calf’s side. His touch is gentle. The calf huffs, but doesn’t shy away. “How’s she doing?” he asks.
“Better than earlier,” you say. “Her breathing’s slowing down. She finally took the bottle just before Tess left.” He nods, watching the rise and fall of her small ribs. “You did good,” he says quietly. Something in your chest loosens. You sink back down beside him, your shoulder almost brushing his. For a minute, it’s just the three of you in the soft, straw-scented quiet.
“You didn’t have to come check,” you say after a while. He huffs. “I wasn’t sleeping anyway.” You don’t ask why.
Silence settles again, thicker now. You’re too aware of the way his thigh is a few inches from yours, of how the barn seems to have shrunk around you. You glance at him. He’s already looking at you. Something passes between you—unspoken, familiar, heavier every time you let it. You swallow. “This is nothing, right?” you blurt. His jaw tightens. “Is that what you want it to be?” he asks, voice slow. You should say yes. You should say absolutely. You look at his mouth instead. “It’s what it has to be,” you say, which is not the same. His eyes close for a second. When he opens them again, there’s a decision to be made. “Then that’s what it is,” he says quietly. “Nothing.” He reaches out, thumb brushing a piece of straw from your hair, touch lingering at your temple. “Come here,” he murmurs. You go. He kisses you there in the straw, beside a half-sleeping calf. It starts soft—his mouth a slow question, his hand cradling the back of your head—but it doesn’t stay that way. It never does.
You swing a leg over his lap as his hands find your hips, thumbs pressing just hard enough to make you shiver. The kiss deepens—heat rising, breaths tangling, the world narrowing to the press of his chest against yours and the way your heartbeat kicks when he nips at your bottom lip.
“Door’s locked?” he asks against your mouth. You nod, already breathless. “I locked it when Tess left,” you whisper.
“Good girl,” he says. You don’t know how he keeps making that sound like praise and not a joke.
His hands slide up under your hoodie, palms spanning your waist, fingers tracing the familiar path along your ribs. You arch into him, chasing every brush of his skin on yours. Outside, the wind bumps against the barn walls. Inside, all the noise is you and him. He slows you down. That’s the main difference tonight. In the truck, everything felt like a landslide. Now, he treats you like you have all the time in the world, even though you both know you don’t. His mouth moves from your lips to your jaw, to your neck, to the hollow of your throat, tasting, marking, worshipping.
Clothes shift. Not all the way off—too cold, too exposed—but enough. Your hoodie bunched around your ribs, his sweatshirt pushed up, his jeans undone, your leggings tugged down. The contrast of covered and bare feels weirdly more intimate than full nakedness would.
He turns you gently. You let him, trusting the way he guides you like you trust his hands on the reins. He eases you forward until you’re braced against the smooth, worn top rail of the pen, the calf snuffling curiously a few feet away. Your fingers curl around the bars, knuckles white. Behind you, his body is a wall of heat along every inch of your back, chest hovering just off your spine. His hands settle on your hips, thumbs stroking slow circles into the dip of your lower back. “If you want to stop, you say it,” he murmurs, leaning in so his chest ghosts your spine. “Any time. I mean it, Rookie.”
Your eyes flutter closed. “I know,” you whisper.
“Look at me,” he says. You blink, confused. He shifts, one hand leaving your hip. You feel him bend, reach, then he’s angling you a little, guiding your chin with one broad hand. There’s a smooth metal panel set into the stall gate—something reflective enough that, in the barn light, you can see a hazy version of yourselves: your flushed face, his broad shoulders behind you, his eyes locked on yours. “Here,” he says, voice low. “Keep your eyes on me.”
The barn disappears. The calf does too. There’s only the reflection—the two of you folded together, your breaths fogging the metal, his gaze steady and intent on your face as he settles behind you. You feel the head of his cock nudge at your entrance, slow and careful, one hand steady on your hip. When he finally pushes into you, your breath catches, fingers biting into the rail. The stretch has you gasping, your eyes wide with surprise. His grip on your hips tightens. “Easy,” he murmurs. “Breathe. I’ve got you.”
He stays there for a beat, letting you adjust, forehead close to the side of your head so in the warped shine you can see his expression—jaw tight, eyes dark, fighting for control. You inhale, exhale, easing back into him.
Only then does he start to move. Every slow roll of his hips is deliberate, unhurried, angled just right so that each glide hits that spot inside you that makes your knees buckle. His hand slides from your hip to your stomach, flattening there as he pulls you back into him, keeping you upright. He presses his mouth to your shoulder, your neck, your cheek, dropping an endless line of kisses on every inch of exposed skin he can reach—soft, reverent little touches that contrast with the deep, steady push of his thrusts.
“Say my name,” he whispers, breath hot against your jaw. You do. “Mingyu.” He shudders. “Again.” You obey, his name breaking a little more each time as heat builds low and heavy in your gut. In the reflection, you can see how wrecked you look—cheeks flushed, lips parted, eyes blown wide and fixed on his. It’s slower tonight, but no less intense. If anything, the pace makes it worse—in the best way—drawing everything out until you’re half-sobbing against your own knuckles on the rail, your body arching back into him, your reflection so clearly wanting him that it scares you a little. He watches your face, not looking away even when his own expression twists, even when his control frays. His free hand leaves your stomach, sliding lower, fingers tracing over your thigh before slipping between your legs. You suck in a breath as his fingertips find your clit, stroking you in small, sure circles that match the rhythm of his hips. The added pressure makes your vision blur.
“I want to see you come,” he murmurs in your ear, voice rough. “Right here. With me.” It’s too much. It’s exactly enough. You fall apart with your eyes on his in the metal, your walls clenching around him, sound caught in your throat. The world narrows to the feel of his arm banded around your waist, his hand working you through it, his voice rough in your ear, saying that’s it, I’ve got you, baby, I’ve got you as you come undone. He doesn’t last much longer. Maybe it’s the look on your face in the reflection. Maybe it’s your voice saying his name like a prayer, dragging him over the edge with you. He buries his face in your neck when he comes, breath stuttering, a low, unguarded sound tearing out of him that you’re pretty sure no one else has ever heard.
Slowly, he eases away, careful even now. You tug your clothes back into place with shaking fingers, suddenly aware of the chill again. He turns you gently, big hands framing your face, tilting your chin up. You expect a joke. You expect distance. Instead, he kisses you. Soft. Chaste, almost, compared to everything that just happened. It feels like the most intimate part of the whole night. “You okay?” he asks quietly. You nod, throat tight. “Yeah.” His thumb brushes your lower lip.
“This is still nothing,” he says softly, like he’s trying to convince both of you. “Right?” You swallow, the word tasting like a lie before you even say it. “Right,” you whisper. He searches your face for a long heartbeat, then nods once, stepping back. “Go get some sleep,” he says. “I’ll sit with her for a bit.”
You look at the calf, then back at him. You want to stay. You want to curl up in the straw with both of them and watch his face in the barn light until morning. You don’t. You force your feet toward the door, every step a quiet ache. You shove your hands in your pockets and start the walk back to the bunkhouse, heart full and hollow at the same time. This is nothing, you tell yourself. No strings. No promises. Just sex in trucks and barns and midnight rooms. But as you glance back and see the soft glow of the barn light with him still inside, everything in you knows the truth you’re not ready to name: You’re already tangled.
You feel the weather turn in your bones before you see it.
All afternoon, the sky sits low and heavy over Longview, clouds stacked bruise-dark over the mountains, wind coming in sharp, restless gusts. Horses are jumpy. The dogs pace. Even the air tastes metallic, like the world is holding its breath. “Radar looks bad,” Seungcheol says at dinner, phone in hand, frowning at a weather app that never quite matches reality out here. “Storm line’s shifting south. We’re gonna get the worst of it.”
"Could use the rain,” Tess mutters. Mingyu just nods, jaw clenched. “Check the low spots on the fence before dark,” he says. “Move the herd closer in. I don’t want them anywhere near the ravine if it blows through hard.” You volunteer to help without thinking. He looks at you for half a second too long. “You and the girls secure the barn,” he says instead. “Tarp the feed. Make sure nothing’s gonna blow loose.” You bite back the urge to argue. This is not the time. You do as you’re told: hauling tarps, double-tying knots with Tess, securing loose tools while Hana calms horses and Riley curses at the wind trying to peel the hat off her head.
By the time you’re done, the first thunder rolls across the hills, low and distant. You wedge the barn door shut and feel it in your ribs.
The storm hits in the middle of the night. You jerk awake to a crack so loud it feels like the sky splits open right over the bunkhouse. Rain hammers the roof. Lightning flashes under the curtain, turning the room white for a heartbeat. “Shit,” Riley mutters under you. “That was close.”
Then, faint but unmistakable under the roar of rain, comes the sound that makes everyone on a ranch move: Yelling.
You throw your legs over the side of the bunk, boots already within reach because you’ve learned. Hana is doing the same. Tess is halfway to the door in a t-shirt and jeans, braiding her hair as she goes. “Fence?” she says, voice sharp. “Fence,” Hana confirms.
You grab your jacket, shove your arms through damp sleeves, and run. The world outside is chaos. Rain slashes sideways, stinging your face. Thunder rolls so close it shakes the ground. In the sudden bursts of lightning you see silhouettes moving fast—men swearing, horses skittering, the big yard flooding with water.
“Rookie!” You turn toward the shout. Mingyu stands by the barn, hat gone, hair plastered to his forehead, rain dripping off his jaw. Behind him, Seungcheol and Seokmin are already saddling horses, hands moving quick and efficient despite the storm. “Section of the north fence is down,” he yells over the wind. “Cows are pushing toward the ridge.” Your stomach drops. The ridge means bad footing, broken ground, a creek that can swell into a death trap in a storm like this. “What do you need?” you shout back.
Lightning splits the sky, turning everything stark and bright. For a second you see the herd in the distance—a dark mass against the flashes, moving in the wrong direction. Mingyu doesn’t hesitate. “You’re staying here,” he says. “Help Tess and Hana keep the barn secure. Coordinate on the radios. We’ll bring them in.”
"Like hell,” you shout. He stares at you, rain running down his face, eyes fierce. “Your riding’s not there yet,” he snaps. “I am not fishing you out of a ravine tonight.” Rage and fear slam together in your chest. “I’m not asking you to fish me out,” you fire back. “I’m asking you to let me help. I can ride enough to be useful. I know the land better now. You said I pull my weight—let me prove it when it actually matters.”
Seokmin appears at Mingyu’s shoulder, cinching his saddle tight. “She’s not wrong,” he yells. “We’re short bodies. If we don’t turn them fast, they’re gone.” Seungcheol swings up into his saddle, scanning the dark. “Give her a mount you trust,” he calls. “Keep her with you. We don’t have time to argue.” Mingyu looks like he wants to fight all three of you and the sky at once. Lightning flashes again. You see the decision happen in his face. He swears, low and vicious. “Fine,” he bites out. “You don’t leave my side. You don’t try to be a hero. You do exactly what I say, when I say it. You understand me, Rookie?” Your heart is pounding, but your voice is steady. “Yes.” He points at you, eyes blazing. “Say it.”
"I’ll do what you say,” you repeat. It tastes like surrender. It feels like trust. He yanks Milo’s saddle off a rack and throws it on with a speed that would make your trainer-self faint. Minutes later you’re in the yard, foot in the stirrup, rain soaking you through as you swing up. Milo snorts, shifting under you. “Easy, boy,” you murmur. Your voice shakes. You settle anyway. Mingyu is already mounted, larger horse dancing sideways a little at a flash of lightning. He brings his gelding close, leans in. “If at any point you feel out of control, you yell for me,” he says, low and fierce. “I don’t care where we are. You yell. Got it?” You nod, throat tight. He looks like he wants to say more. Instead, he just clicks his tongue and kicks his horse into motion. You follow.
The world beyond the barn is a different planet. Wind claws at you, trying to peel you out of the saddle. Rain stings your eyes, blurring everything beyond a dozen yards. The ground is turning to soup under Milo’s hooves; each step requires more balance, more trust. Mingyu leads, Seokmin close on his right, Seungcheol veering off toward the south side of the pasture, shouting orders into the radio clipped to his vest. “Get Vernon and Wonwoo on the east flank,” he yells. “Dino with me. Keep ’em off the creek!” Your adrenaline spikes. But as you ride, the lessons kick in. Sit deep. Don’t choke the horn. Let your knees be soft. Look where you’re going, not where you’re afraid you’ll fall. You focus on Milo’s movement under you, on keeping your heels down, your body in the centre, your breaths timed with his strides.
The herd is a dark, shifting mass ahead, bunched near the broken fence. A section of posts has splintered under the force of the wind or a fallen branch; wire dangles useless. Beyond, lightning illuminates the uneven rise of the land, the faint gleam where the creek is already swelling.
The cattle are panicked. You can hear it in their lowing, see it in the way they crowd together, some already drifting toward the slope.
Mingyu’s voice cuts through the storm. “We push them back to the inner paddock,” he shouts. “Keep them away from the low ground. Don’t chase—pressure and release. Use your bodies, your voices. Don’t rush them into a stampede.” Seokmin whoops, half to pump himself up, half to cut through the noise. “You hear the man! Let’s go!” You fan out.
You end up on the left flank, a little behind Mingyu, Milo’s ears pricked forward, your heart in your throat. You’ve done smaller pushes before, in daylight, on dry ground. This is another animal entirely.
A clap of thunder hits right overhead. Milo flinches. So do you. You almost lose a rein, fingers slick with rain. Then you hear Mingyu. “Breathe, Rookie!” he yells. “Talk to him!”
You suck in air. “You’re okay,” you tell Milo, voice wobbling. “We’re okay. Easy.” You loosen your death grip on the reins a fraction, letting your seat and legs speak more. Milo snorts, but he steadies, picking his way forward as you angle him toward the edge of the herd. The cattle move in a single file, rippling away from your approach. You keep your eyes up, watching where you want them to go, not the jagged rocks you’re afraid of. Lightning throws the world into stark relief. You see, clear as a photograph, several cows nosing toward the top of the slope, where the mud is already starting to slough away. “Left side!” you shout, voice cracking. “They’re going for the ridge!”
"Take ’em!” Mingyu bellows. “You’ve got it!” You don’t have time to question him. You put your leg on, angle Milo between the cows and the drop. Your pulse roars in your ears. You shout, wave your arm, make yourself big, the way Mingyu taught you. The nearest cow tosses her head, eyes rolling white. For a second, she looks like she’s going right over the edge anyway. You push a little closer. “Hey!” you yell into the wind. “Move it, come on, go, go!” Milo feels your intent and shifts with you, cutting off the path just enough that the cow snorts, turns, shoves back into the herd instead of into the dark. It works.
You barely have time to feel it. The ground gives a little under Milo’s hind feet as a wave of muddy water surges down from the slope, carving a new rivulet. He slips. The world tilts. For one insane, endless stretch of time you’re weightless, your body sliding sideways out of the saddle, nothing beneath your left leg, your boot scraping out of the stirrup. You grab for the horn and miss. The scream sticks in your throat. A hand clamps around the back of your jacket and your belt in the same instant. A flash of powerful muscle under you, a second horse right up against Milo’s side. You’re yanked upright with a force that nearly knocks the breath out of you. Mingyu. He’s so close his knee is almost under your thigh, his horse jammed right against Milo to give you something solid to crush into.
“I told you not to try to die in front of me,” he snarls, breath hot against your ear—even through the rain. You cling to the horn, chest heaving.
“I—I’m good,” you manage, even though your heart is beating like a trapped bird. He doesn’t let go of your jacket until he feels you sit back, heels finding the stirrups again. His hand lingers one second longer than necessary at your waist, a silent I’ve got you, you don’t have time to unpack. Then he pulls his horse away, running back to bark orders at Dino, who’s chasing a small group veering toward the creek.
For a moment, everything blurs. Rain. Noise. Cattle. You lose track of where everyone is, of which direction the house lies, of anything beyond the next step, the next shout, the next animal you need to keep from sliding into danger. This is where all those drills matter.
At some point the herd splits—Seungcheol whistles and drives a dozen toward the lower paddock, Seokmin and Vernon cutting them off at the gate. Wonwoo and Dino peel away to deal with another pocket. A knot of six or seven cows bolts left, away from the main mass, toward a rocky outcropping and a tangle of scrub. Mingyu is on the far side, trying to turn the bulk of the herd. There’s no time to wait. You veer after the strays. “Rookie!” someone shouts behind you. You don’t check who. You breathe, sink deeper into the saddle, and push Milo into a trot.
The ground is bad here—uneven, studded with rocks—but Milo is sure-footed. You give him his head, guiding but not fighting, keeping yourself centred while he does the work. The cows barrel toward the rocks. You angle wide, then cut in at an angle, blocking the path to the worst of it. Your voice comes out hoarse but loud over the thunder. “Hup! Move it! Turn!” You wave your arm, make noise, use every trick Mingyu and Seokmin have hammered into you over the past weeks.
For a terrifying second, they ignore you. Then the leader baulks at a flash of lightning on the slick stone, swings her head, and shoves back toward the open pasture. The others follow. You chase them, keeping yourself between them and the bad ground, pushing on the side, releasing when they pick the right direction. It’s messy and far from textbook, but it works. By the time you manage to shove them back toward the others, your legs are shaking, your teeth chattering, your throat raw from yelling.
Mingyu appears out of the rain, driving another group in. He sees you. Sees the cows you’ve brought back. You catch the flicker of surprise, then something like pride, before his face hardens back into business. “Gate!” he bellows. “Open the damn gate!” Hana and Tess haul it wide on the inner paddock as the herd finally surges through, hooves churning mud, bodies jostling. One by one, in ones and twos, they come in. It takes hours. Or it feels like it.
By dawn, the storm is staggering away across the plains, muttering thunder like an afterthought. You’re soaked to the skin, mud up to your knees, fingers pruned and raw. Your muscles shake every time Milo stands still for more than a minute. The herd is clustered in the inner paddock—wet, miserable, but alive. You help with the final count, moving through the fog of your own exhaustion as Seungcheol ticks numbers off on his clipboard, double-checking tags. “We missing any?” Vernon croaks, voice shredded. Seungcheol squints at the list, then at the cattle. “Just the steer that busted his leg last week,” he says. “Everyone else is here.”
Relief sweeps the yard. Someone whoops. Someone else laughs hysterically. Riley leans against a fence post and slides down it, sitting in the mud, utterly unbothered. “We did it,” she says, giddy. “Holy shit. We actually did it.” You lower yourself out the saddle and pat Milo’s neck, whispering thanks into his damp mane. He nickers, blowing warm air over your frozen hand.
“Hot showers, now,” Tess declares. “If any of you track this mud into my kitchen, I swear to God—” Her threat dies as she looks around at all of you, bedraggled and shivering and grinning like lunatics. Her mouth softens. “You did good, kids,” she says quietly. Hana limps over and bumps your shoulder with hers. “You look like hell,” she says fondly.
“You smell like it,” you shoot back. Riley flings an arm around your neck from behind. “You were amazing,” she crows. “Dino said he saw you cutting off those strays like you were in a movie.”
You flush. “I almost ate dirt,” you admit. “You didn’t,” Seokmin says, leading his horse past. “That’s what counts.”
You feel Mingyu before you see him. He walks up leading his gelding, hair dripping, shoulders heavy with a fatigue that goes deeper than the night. His gaze runs over the herd, the fences, the mud, the people. Then it lands on you. You brace for a lecture. For I told you not to go left, or you almost fell, or don’t ever break formation like that again. What you get instead is a short, rough nod. “Good work,” he says. “You kept those cows off the rocks.” The simple praise hits harder than half the thunder tonight. You blink. “I—thanks,” you manage. He grunts.
“Rookie can ride in a storm now,” Seungcheol adds, lips quirking. “I’ll stop telling Evie you’re our liability.”
"You told Evie I’m a liability?” you yelp. He smirks. “She called back-up insurance yesterday. She’s been worried about you.”
Evie, who has just arrived in rain boots and a borrowed coat from Hana, smacks him in the arm. “You say that like I’m the only one with a heart,” she says. Mae shows up a little later with coffee in thermoses and a box of day-old pastries from the bakery, shoved into Seokmin’s hands with a muttered, “Nora said you’d all look like drowned rats. She wasn’t wrong.”
You all crowd under the eaves of the big house, steam rising off your clothes as you peel off jackets and accept mugs. There’s laughter, and groaning, and the kind of quiet you only get when everyone in the room just did something hard together and came out the other side. You sit on the step, fingers wrapped around hot metal, watching the herd huddle against the wind. Home, a treacherous little voice whispers. Not a stop. Not a hiding place. Home. You don’t shush it.
Later, showered and in dry clothes, you slip into the small office off the kitchen. The storm knocked out the internet and half the cell reception, but the sat phone sits in its cradle, steady and alien among the ranch clutter. It’s usually for emergencies—vet calls, weather updates, real disasters. Your hand shakes as you pick it up. This is an emergency of a different kind. You punch in a number from memory you wish you didn’t have. It clicks, hums, connects. Your lawyer’s voicemail picks up first—urban background noise faint in the distance. On the second attempt, she actually answers, sounding surprised. “Hello?” You take a breath.
“Hi. It’s me.” You say your name quietly, the one no one here really uses. “I’m… I’m okay.” That feels important to say. “I’m somewhere safe.”
You glance out the office window. Through the glass, you can see the yard: the muddy tracks, the patched fence, the faint figures of Seungcheol and Mingyu checking the lines again just to be sure.
“I want to move forward,” you say into the phone. “With the divorce. Whatever we have to do to finalise it. I’m working now. I have a place to stay. I can sign whatever you need, send whatever you need.”
There’s a pause. “Are you sure?” she asks gently. Once, that question would’ve made you crumble. Now you think of the storm. Of Milo under you, steady. Of your hands not letting go. Of Mingyu’s shout and grip and grudging good work. Of how it felt to count yourself as part of we when Riley said we did it. “I’m sure,” you say. She doesn’t ask where you are. You’re grateful. “Alright,” she says. “I’ll move things along. There may be… resistance on his side. But if this is what you want, we’ll push for it.”
Fear curls in your gut at the mention of him. But for the first time, it’s threaded with something else. Resolve. “It is,” you say. “I don’t want to run anymore. I just… I want it to be over.” She promises next steps. Paperwork. Timelines. Things you barely absorb. When you hang up, the office is very quiet. You set the sat phone back in its cradle, fingers lingering on the plastic.
Outside, the sky is clearing in streaks of pale blue between torn clouds. The mountains gleam, washed clean. In the paddock, the herd shifts and settles, steam rising from their backs in the cold morning air. Mingyu crosses the yard below your window, head tilted back, scanning the fence line. For once, he doesn’t look like he’s waiting for the next disaster. Just… taking stock. You could leave, you think. You could take the bus back to nowhere, papers in hand, name still the same but unbound. Instead, you rest your palm flat against the cool glass, fingers splayed, as if you can feel the mud and wood and sky through it. You don’t know how long you’ll get here. You don’t know what will happen when the past catches up.
But for the first time, you’re not only thinking about surviving. You’re thinking about staying.
The sat phone rings in the middle of the afternoon.
You’re halfway through mucking stalls when Seungcheol’s voice cuts across the yard. “Rookie!” You look up, shovel mid-swing. He’s standing on the porch, shoulder braced against the post, the chunky phone in his hand. “It’s for you,” he calls. “City number.”
Your heart drops straight into your boots. You wipe your hands on your jeans, pass the shovel to Hana with a muttered “Sorry, two seconds,” and cross the yard, every step feeling too loud. The phone looks wrong here—ugly plastic, stubby antenna, all hard edges in a world of wood and dust and sun. You take it from Seungcheol carefully, like it might bite.
“You okay?” he asks, brow creasing. “Yeah,” you lie. “Probably just… family stuff.” He nods, not prying. “You can take it inside if you need privacy,” he says. “Signal’s better in the office anyway.” You swallow. “Thanks.”
You slip down the hall, heart banging, and duck into the small office. You close the door most of the way, leaving it just shy of latched, needing the illusion of air. You lift the phone to your ear. “Hello?”
"Hi,” your lawyer’s voice says, tinny but familiar. “It’s me. You okay to talk?” You exhale, sinking onto the edge of the desk chair. “Yeah.” Not really. “What’s going on?” Papers rustle on her end. “We’ve filed,” she says. “The petition’s in. The judge signed off on temporary orders. He’ll be formally served within the week.” The words make your throat close. Served. You picture your husband’s face—surprise, then anger, then that flat, dangerous calm that always came right before… You grip the phone tighter. “What does that mean for me?” you ask.
“It means the clock’s ticking,” she says. “If he doesn’t contest, this can move relatively fast. If he fights, it’ll take longer. But either way, the process has started. You’re not stuck in limbo anymore.”
You stare at the wall. The phrase not stuck feels almost as unreal as the storm did the night before. “Will he know where I am?”
"No,” she says firmly. “Everything’s going through my office. The orders specify no contact. If he tries to find you, we’ll deal with it. But I can’t pretend there’s zero risk. You knew that when you left.”
You nod even though she can’t see you. “I know,” you whisper. “I just… I want it over. I want to sign whatever I have to sign and be done being his wife.” The word wife tastes sour. “You’re doing the right thing,” she says. “You got out. You’re building something new. That’s not nothing."
“I’m working on a ranch,” you say, a little dazed. “I’m actually… okay. Mostly.” She laughs softly. “You sound different,” she says. “Stronger. Hold on to that. I’ll call when I know his response.” You hang up with your heart in your throat and relief and terror knotted tight in your chest. You’re still staring at the dark screen when the floorboard outside the office creaks. You look up. Mingyu stands in the gap. His expression is… blank. That’s worse than anger. “How long have you been there?” you ask, voice too quiet. He doesn’t answer that. “‘Done being his wife,’?” he says instead, quoting you back to yourself. "That’s what you said?”
Your blood runs cold. He pushes the door the rest of the way open and steps inside. The office feels smaller instantly. “How much did you hear?” you manage.
“Enough to know you left out a pretty important piece of your story.”
You set the sat phone down very carefully, like if you moved too fast, everything would shatter. “I was going to tell you,” you say.
He laughs once, but there’s no humour. “When?” he asks. “Before or after the divorce went through?” You flinch. “It’s complicated.”
"No,” he snaps, taking another step closer. “It’s pretty simple. You’re married.” Silence rings between you. “Technically,” you say, hating how weak it sounds. “On paper. I left him. I’m getting out. You heard that much.” He braces his hands on the edge of the desk, knuckles white. “Did you think that didn’t matter?” he demands. “Did you think I wouldn’t care that the woman I’ve been—” he cuts himself off, chest heaving. “That you still belong to someone else? Legally. Practically.”
"I don’t belong to him,” you spit. “I haven’t in a long time.”
"Except you do,” he fires back. “In every way that counts with the law. You signed those papers. You wore the ring. You knew exactly what you were when you climbed into my truck.” Your vision blurs.
“You want to talk about what I knew?” you say, voice shaking. “I knew I was running for my life. I knew if I didn’t leave that night, I might not get another chance. I knew I had to get far enough away that he couldn’t find me. I did not know I’d end up here, or that I’d be in your lap, or that—" your voice cracks; you swallow it down. “I’m trying to fix it.” He hears none of that. Or he refuses to. “You had plenty of chances to tell me,” he says. “Plenty of nights sneaking into my room. Plenty of mornings riding next to me. You could’ve said, ‘Hey, by the way, I’m still somebody else’s wife.’” You wince. The word wife cuts hearing it from his mouth. “I was scared,” you say. “Of him. Of losing this. Of how you’d look at me if you knew.”
"Like this?” he asks, voice dangerously soft. He talks about the way he’s looking at you now—like you’re a stranger, like you’re a bad call on a long list of bad calls. “I didn’t lie,” you whisper. “I just… didn’t tell you everything yet.” He snorts. “That’s not the defence you think it is.”
You feel something in you snap. “You are not seriously turning this into a morality play,” you say, anger finally finding you. “You, mister ‘no strings,’ mister ‘this is nothing.’” His eyes flash. “This is different.”
"How?” He straightens away from the desk, closing the remaining distance between you. You can feel his anger like heat. “Because I started to trust you,” he growls. “I started to—” he stops, teeth clenched.
You don’t breathe. “To what?” He shakes his head, jaw working. “Doesn’t matter.” He huffs out a bitter laugh. “I should’ve known better. I should’ve kept it where it was meant to stay. A distraction. A body. Something I could walk away from.” You flinch like he struck you. “Wow,” you say. “Glad to know what I am to you.”
"You’re someone else’s wife,” he spits, the cruelty landing before he can stop it. “And I’m the idiot fucking her.” The words suck the air out of the room. You stare at him, mouth open. For a second, he looks like he wants to take them back. He doesn’t. You swallow hard. “Don’t you dare reduce me to that,” you whisper. “What am I supposed to call it?” he throws back. “Because that’s what it is. That’s what we’ve been doing. That’s what I’ve been doing. Another bad decision I get to live with.” Your heart lurches. “Another?” you echo. His jaw tightens. “Forget it.”
"No,” you say, voice sharpening. “You don’t get to throw that out there and then act like I’m the only one with a past.” He looks away, muscles tense. You step around the desk, refusing to let him retreat. “You want to talk about trust?” you demand. “You never talk about your past. You never talk about anything real. You hide behind orders and grunts and ‘heels down, Rookie.’ You have a whole graveyard behind your eyes, and you won’t even let anyone know where it is.” His gaze snaps back to you, wounded and furious. “You’re deflecting,” he says. “Classic.”
"I’m asking why my papers matter more than whatever ghost you’re clinging to,” you shoot back. “Because that’s what this is, right? You’re pissed I didn’t give you the full horror story on day one, and also pissed because you started feeling something you promised yourself you wouldn’t. So now you get to shove me into the ‘bad choice’ box and retreat into your martyr kingdom.” His hands curl into fists at his sides. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
"So tell me,” you push. Silence. You think he’s going to walk out, slam the door, disappear. Instead, he laughs. It’s a terrible sound. “Fine,” he says. “You want the truth? You want context instead of excuses?” Your spine stiffens. He looks right at you, eyes suddenly very, very old. “I was engaged once,” he says. “We were together since high school. She was… it. Knew me when I had nothing. When I was a mess. When all this—” he gestures vaguely, taking in the office, the ranch beyond the window, “—was a fantasy and a thrift-store magazine.”
Your chest tightens. He goes on like you haven’t made a sound. “We fought,” he says. “About the usual shit. Money. Time. How much of me the ranch was taking, how much of her job was taking. She wanted me home more. I told her I was building something for us. She said she didn’t care about land; she cared about me not being a ghost in my own house.”
His throat works. “She walked out,” he says. “Got in the truck. Said she was going to her sister’s. I followed. It was raining. I was angry. I pushed too hard on a turn, and there was gravel and…” his hand makes a helpless skidding motion. “We went off the road.” Your heart stops. “Mingyu,” you whisper. He doesn’t look at you. “I woke up in the hospital with a concussion and a broken arm,” he says. “She didn’t wake up at all.”
The room swims. “You were driving,” you manage. He finally looks at you. “I killed her,” he says flatly. “I put the ring on her finger and then put her in the ground. That’s what I live with. That’s the ‘context’ you didn’t have.”
Your breath comes short and shallow. You should say you’re sorry. You should say it wasn’t his fault, that accidents are accidents.
Instead, something mean and hurtful in you speaks first. “So what?” you snap. “You decided you don’t get to be happy ever again? That you don’t get to want anything? That you’re cursed, so the rest of us have to live with the fallout of your martyr complex?”
His face goes white. “Don’t,” he warns. You don’t stop.
“You think clinging to her makes you loyal,” you say, words spilling now, sharp and unstoppable. “But all it does is give you an excuse. An excuse not to try. Not to risk. Not to actually show up. You get to punish yourself forever and call it grief.” He stares at you like he doesn’t recognise you. You’re not sure you recognise yourself either. “You’re not the only one who’s lost something,” you go on, voice rising. “You think I liked walking out of my life? You think I don’t wake up wondering if he’s found me yet? But I still got on that horse in a storm. I still picked up that phone. I’m trying. You’re just hiding.” He flinches, then bares his teeth. “At least I admit what I did,” he says. “You can’t even say his name.”
"He doesn’t deserve it,” you spit.
“He doesn’t deserve what you’re doing with me either,” he bites back, instantly regretting it and saying it anyway. “Maybe he had a point if this is how you treat commitments.” The words slam into harder than any of your husband’s fists ever did. You feel them in every old bruise. “Fuck you,” you whisper. His jaw locks, horror flickering in his eyes at himself. You don’t wait for him to take it back. “You know what?” you say, voice shaking. “You’re right. I made a mistake. Not in leaving him. In thinking you were anything safe. In thinking your ‘I’ve got you’ meant anything outside an arena.” He stares at you, breathing hard. You move toward the door.
“You’re not some tragic hero, Mingyu,” you say, hand on the knob. “You’re a coward with a saddle and a saviour complex. And I refuse to be something you can punish yourself with.” You walk out before you can see how the words land. The kitchen is a blur of sound and light as you pass through. You push out into the yard, into the cold air, blinking hard until the big house and the barn smear. You make it to the bunkhouse before you start crying. You slam the door harder than you mean to. Hana looks up from her book. Riley pauses mid-scroll on her phone. Tess lifts her eyes from the crossword.
You stand there, shaking, jacket half off, cheeks hot and wet, and you don’t even remember when you started. “Okay,” Tess says, setting the paper aside. “Who do I have to kill?” That almost makes you laugh. You don’t. You collapse onto your bunk instead, burying your face in your hands. Hana is there in a second, perching on the edge of the mattress, hand rubbing circles between your shoulder blades. Riley flops down by your feet, chin on your shin, eyes wide and unexpectedly gentle.
“Hey,” she murmurs. “Hey, Rookie. Breathe.” You choke out some mangled version of the story. Not all of it. You can’t. But enough. Paperwork. Husband. Overheard. Mingyu. The words. The fight. “He called you what?” Riley demands, eyes flashing. “An idiot,” you say hoarsely, editing, because actually repeating someone else’s wife feels like letting it carve into you again. “A bad decision.” Tess’s mouth presses into a thin line. “Well, then he’s a bigger one,” she says. “Man’s head is so far up his own guilt he can’t see daylight.” Hana nods, jaw tight. “He’ll regret it,” she says quietly. “It doesn’t make it okay. But he will.” You don’t know if you believe that. Right now, all you feel is hollow. “Maybe I should go,” you whisper. “Before it gets… worse.” Riley’s head snaps up. “Absolutely not,” she says. “You’re not running because some emotionally constipated cowboy can’t use his words.”
"This is your home now, too,” Hana adds. “You earned that. We want you here.” Tess nods once. “If anyone leaves, it’s him,” she says bluntly. “But I’ve known that idiot since he could barely see over a fence post. He’s not going anywhere. He’ll just sulk.” You let them talk. Let them build a small, noisy wall around you with jokes and insults at Mingyu’s expense and offers of chocolate and threats of physical violence. You curl into their warmth and let yourself believe, for a little while, that staying is possible.
Even if everything between you and him just cracked down the middle.
Seokmin finds Mingyu not long after. He’s in the shadow of the machinery shed, leaning against the tractor, staring at nothing. Hands limp at his sides, shoulders rigid. “You look like shit,” Seokmin says, trying for light. Mingyu doesn’t answer. He will later barely remember exactly what he and you said—only flashes, only the worst parts on loop. Someone else’s wife. Coward. Killed her. The words stick in his throat like barbed wire. “You gonna tell me what happened?” Seokmin asks, softer. Mingyu shakes his head once. Seokmin studies him, worry etched deep. “You’re gonna lose her,” he says quietly. “If you haven’t already.” Mingyu’s hands ball into fists until his knuckles go white. He says nothing.
Seungcheol catches his eye once in the doorway, the question clear. “Don’t,” Mingyu says, voice rough. Seungcheol sighs, but lets it go—for now. Mingyu tells himself he’s right to be angry. He tells himself this proves what he’s always known: that he ruins things. That anything he touches ends up broken. That wanting you was a mistake from the start. But when he hears your laugh float faintly from the bunkhouse later—thin, forced, propped up by Hana and Riley—something in him cracks anyway. He doesn’t go to you. You don’t come to him.
The fifty yards between the big house and the bunkhouse suddenly feel wider than the whole damn ranch.
Unbeknownst to you, the papers did exactly what they were meant to do. They found your husband.
He opens the door of his neat little suburban house in a shirt he hasn’t bothered to button properly, stubble dark on his jaw, a half-empty bottle of whiskey dangling from his fingers. The process server says his name and holds out the manila envelope. He laughs at first—too loud, a little slurred. Then he reads. The laugh dies.
His fingers tighten on the papers until the edges bend. His eyes start to move faster, back and forth, tripping on the words cruelty and fear for safety and protective orders like they’re accusations aimed at someone else. “You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he mutters. The server says something about signing, proof of service. He scrawls his name hard enough to tear the page, then shuts the door in the man’s face. He drinks. He reads the petition three times. The first time, he scoffs, taking a swallow after every sentence that paints him as anything less than a good husband. The second time, he mutters about lies. About exaggerations. About how you always twisted things. The third time, his face goes very still. “You think you can do this to me,” he says into the empty room, the bottle sweating in his hand. He doesn’t sleep that night. Or the next. Or the one after that.
He drinks instead, buzz humming under his skin, mind running circles around the same thoughts: you leaving, you talking to lawyers, you putting his name on paper with words like danger and harm. By the third day, his heart is jittery, and his hands won’t stop shaking. He throws clothes into a bag, doesn’t bother zipping it properly. He grabs the car keys, knocks over a chair, and doesn’t pick it up. The house door slams behind him, echoing down the quiet street. He drives.
Highways blur past in sun and then in neon and then in predawn blue. He nurses gas-station coffee with one hand and whiskey with the other, ignoring his own blinking reflection in the dark windows whenever he stops. He has nothing solid to go on. You cut cards, changed phones, ran. But he has your full name, and he has his anger, and he has three days of obsession carved into his nerves. It’s enough.
He hits a random exit in the middle of nowhere because his eyes are gritty, his fingers are tingling, and the gas light is on. The town is a handful of streets and a string of lights. It could have been any town. He walks into the first diner with its lights still on. The waitress can’t be more than twenty-two. Ponytail, tired eyes, soft voice. She sees the ring on his finger, the papers peeking from his jacket pocket, the desperate, frayed look of a man who hasn’t slept. She doesn’t see the bottle in the glove compartment or the way his jaw clenches every time he says “my wife.”
“Coffee?” she asks. “Have you seen her?” he blurts, sliding a photo across the counter—one from the early days, when you still smiled for his camera. The waitress hesitates, then covers her mouth with her fingers. “Oh,” she says. “Yeah. She came through here. Nora at the bakery took her in for a bit. Said she was sweet. She’s out at Longview now.”
"Longview?” he repeats. “The ranch,” the girl says, eager to be helpful. “Big place out past the highway. They hire everyone. Took her on right away, I think.” She blushes. “She looked… better when I saw her last. Happier.” His smile goes thin and sharp. “Did she,” he says. She doesn’t hear it. She writes Longview Ranch and gives rough directions on a napkin, placing it in front of him like she’s handing him a lifeline.
“Good luck,” she says kindly. “I’m glad you found her.” He tucks the napkin into his wallet beside that old photo. He leaves the coffee untouched.
Later, he stands at the edge of town, at the turnoff where pavement gives way to gravel and then to dirt, looking at the fence line disappearing into the distance. His eyes are bloodshot, lids heavy, hands buzzing with caffeine, alcohol and rage. “Found you,” he murmurs. And starts walking.
Days pass at Longview with a new kind of silence.
Not the easy quiet that settles after a long day, when everyone’s tired and content and too full of Tess’s cooking to do more than murmur. This is the brittle silence of two people orbiting each other and refusing to touch.
You get up before dawn, muck stalls, check water, ride your routes. You joke with Vernon, tease Dino, help Tess inventory feed. You help Seokmin with a loose latch, laugh at Riley’s ridiculous playlist, listen to Hana complain about a parent-teacher conference Evie told her about.
You do your job. You don’t go near the big house unless you have to. Mingyu works too. If anything, he works more. He takes the worst jobs—checks fence lines in the heat, hauls extra feed, volunteers for late-night rides to check the far pasture. He talks to Seungcheol and Seokmin when he has to, gives orders that are shorter and sharper than usual, and vanishes. He doesn’t look at you at breakfast. You don’t look at him at dinner. The others feel it. Conversations stutter when you walk into a room together. Riley watches you both with murder in her eyes. Hana oscillates between sympathy and barely restrained rage. Tess sighs a lot and mutters, “Idiots,” under her breath. No one says out loud what they suspect. No one knows the specifics. It doesn’t matter. Something broke. And no one knows how to fix it.
Tonight, you can’t sleep. You throw off your blanket and stare at the bunkhouse ceiling, listening to the soft sounds of breathing around you. Riley is out cold. Hana shifts, mumbling. Tess’s snores are a steady, comforting rumble. You slip out of bed, drag on jeans and a hoodie and boots, and step outside. Lights glow low in the barn, left on purpose for late checks. Seungcheol asked someone to make sure the new gate latch on the equipment shed is holding; you’d volunteered earlier, then forgotten. Now it feels like something to do with your hands.
You cross the yard, gravel crunching under your boots, breath fogging in front of you. The big house is dark except for one room upstairs. The far pasture is just a line of darker shadow against the sky. Mingyu is out there tonight. You know it without needing to check the rota.
You find the shed door slightly ajar, just like Seungcheol said. Inside, the shapes of tractors and mowers hulk in the half-dark. A single overhead light flickers. On the workbench by the door, another sat phone sits in its charging cradle, left there after the last weather check. You think about calling your lawyer again tomorrow. You think about the way Mingyu’s voice sounded when he said someone else’s wife, and tell yourself not to.
You’re still staring at the phone when a voice behind you says your name. Not the one everyone here uses. The old one. You freeze.
The sound of it is a fist to the gut, pulling you straight back to another town, another kitchen, another life. You turn slowly. Your husband’s framed in the doorway, lit from behind by the bare bulb above the shed.
He looks worse than he ever did at home. Eyes bloodshot, sweater stained, hands trembling slightly at his sides. There’s a sour tang of alcohol even from across the room, layered over stale coffee and three days of sweat. He’s vibrating with exhaustion and adrenaline, stretched thin and sharp. “Hey, baby,” he says, smiling like this is funny. “Been a while.”
Your heart slams against your ribs. Air becomes a suggestion. “How did you—” you start, voice barely there. He lifts a wrinkled napkin between two fingers—Longview Ranch scrawled across it in looping waitress handwriting—then lets it flutter onto the workbench. “You left a trail,” he says. “Bus ticket. Motel receipt. Little breadcrumbs. You always were careless with details.” He takes a step inside, hand bracing on the doorframe as if to hold himself upright. “Drove all night,” he adds, with a twisted chuckle. “Three nights, actually. Couldn’t sleep, not when my wife is out in the middle of nowhere telling strangers I’m some kind of monster.” You take a step back without meaning to. He notices. His smile tightens, goes brittle. “That’s not very welcoming,” he says lightly. “After everything I’ve done for you.”
"You… shouldn’t be here,” you manage. “You got the papers.” His eyes flash, a flare of humiliation and rage. “Yeah,” he says. “I got the papers. Imagine my surprise, finding out my wife has been running around playing cowgirl instead of coming home like she was supposed to.”
"I’m not your wife,” you say, voice shaking. “Not anymore.” He tsks. “On paper, you still are,” he reminds you. “You always did have trouble understanding vows.” Anger threads through the fear. “You broke them first,” you say. “You know you did.” His jaw twitches.
He steps closer, a sway in it now—not drunk enough to stumble, just enough that you can see how frayed the edges are. “I worked myself to the bone for us,” he says, voice tightening. “Provided. Paid the bills. Put a roof over our heads while you… what? Decided you were bored? That you deserved better? That filing papers behind my back was a cute way to get attention?”
"I did it to survive,” you snap. “You weren’t providing, you were controlling. You weren’t protecting me, you were hurting me.” He barks out a laugh, sudden and ugly. “There it is,” he says. “The drama. Survive. Hurting. You read a couple of articles online and suddenly you’re the poster girl for abuse.” Your stomach turns. You edge sideways around the workbench, inching yourself closer to the sat phone. “You hit me,” you say, low. “More than once.” He shrugs, jaw clenched. “You pushed me,” he fires back. “You nagged, you picked, you walked around like everything I did wasn’t enough. Sometimes I reacted. That’s marriage. You don’t get to rewrite our whole history because your feelings got hurt.”
"You broke my ribs,” you whisper. He doesn’t flinch. “You pushed me to it,” he says. “You always do. You make me the bad guy and then act shocked when I live up to the role you wrote.” He says it like he believes it. That might be the worst part.
You slide your hand along the bench, fingers brushing the cold plastic of the phone. His eyes flick down. He sees. “What are you doing?” he asks.
You curl your fingers around the device anyway. “Calling someone who can make you leave,” you say. He laughs again, but his voice is fraying.
“Who, your lawyer? You think she can drive out here and drag you home? Because that’s what should happen. We should go home, sit down like adults, and talk this through. You can apologise for overreacting. For embarrassing me.” The word embarrassing lands heavily.
“I didn’t overreact,” you say. “I left because if I didn’t, you were going to kill me.” He goes very still. “Don’t be dramatic,” he says softly. “You know I’d never hurt you. Not unless you gave me a reason.” You want to scream. Instead, you move. You snatch the sat phone off the bench and hit the call button on instinct, thumb slamming down on the emergency contact Seungcheol programmed. You don’t look at the screen—you just press and hope. The tinny ring sounds in your ear. Once. Twice. Your ex lunges.
He catches your wrist, knuckles whitening around your bones. The phone slips, dips. For a second, the screen is angled toward him in the overhead light. He sees a name. Mingyu.
“So that’s his name,” he says, voice dropping, all pretence gone. Something cold and possessive ignites in his eyes. “You ran halfway across the goddamn country to spread your legs for some cowboy named Mingyu.” Pain blooms along your wrist as your ex’s hand slams it onto the bench.
“You think he’ll save you?” your ex asks, voice low and dangerous. You look him in the eye even though your pulse is rabbiting. “I know he will,” you say. “He’ll be here any minute.” His lip curls.
“You always were a terrible liar,” he says. “That’s why it was so easy to keep you where you belonged.” He yanks you around the end of the workbench, dragging you into the deeper shadow of the shed. Your boots skid on the concrete. You wrench back, trying to twist out of his grip like you’ve practised in your head for months. You get halfway free before he shoves you back against the metal shelving. The impact rattles tools and jars; something clatters to the floor. Pain spikes through your shoulder. “Let go,” you gasp. “You can’t—” He slams his palm into the shelf beside your head, making everything jump and jangle. “I can do whatever I want,” he hisses. “You owe me. I worked my ass off while you sat at home and complained. And this is how you thank me? Running off to a bunch of hicks and sending me legal threats?”
Terror crawls up your spine. You try to slide sideways. He follows. His other hand clamps at your hip, fingers bruising, thumb digging into old ghost marks. “Nobody here knows who you really are,” he mutters. “Sweet little stray they all took in. You think they’ll keep you when they find out you walked out on your husband? That you made him look like some drunk who couldn’t keep his woman in line?”
You glare at him through the fear. “You made yourself look like that,” you spit. “Every time you picked up a bottle instead of listening to me. Every time you raised your hand instead of your voice.” His eyes flare, bloodshot and furious. “You drove me to drink,” he snarls. “Do you get that? You. Your nagging, your whining, your constant I’m not happy. I wouldn’t be like this if you weren’t the way you are.”
It’s so familiar it makes you nauseous. “You chose the bottle,” you say. “You chose to hit me. You chose to follow me here.” He lunges. You duck, but he’s still faster, still bigger and wired on three days of obsession and whiskey. His hands find your shoulders and slam you into the shelving again. Your head cracks back; stars explode behind your eyes. You shove at his chest. “Stop—”
"Look what you make me do,” he snarls, spittle hitting your cheek. “You always do this. You push and push and then act like I’m the problem when I finally snap.” His grip shifts, fingers bunching in the front of your hoodie, hauling you up onto your toes. You claw at his wrists. His mouth twists.
“If I can’t have you,” he says, voice gone frighteningly soft, “nobody else is going to. Not some cowboy. Not some ranch. Not anybody.” The words chill you more than the night air ever could.
His hands climb. Fingers around your throat. Pressure. Instant. Your body goes cold. Your hands fly up automatically, grabbing at him, nails scraping skin. You can’t get any air. The shed narrows to the span of his face above yours, eyes bright and wild, breath sour with alcohol. He squeezes harder.
“This is your fault,” he grits out. “Remember that. You make me like this.”
Your ears fill with a rushing sound, like standing under a waterfall. You try to kick. Your boot connects with his shin. He grunts, slams you harder into the shelving, metal biting into your spine. The world warps at the edges. You think of the barn. Of Milo’s steady eyes. Of Hana and Riley and Tess laughing over coffee. Of the herd moving like a river in the storm. Of Mingyu’s voice in the truck, saying I’ve got you like he meant it. Your vision tunnels. The overhead bulb smears into a bright, distant star. His face floats in front of you, red and blurred, mouth still moving—ungrateful, embarrass me, mine—but the words are slipping away.
You reach for his wrists one more time, but your fingers won’t close. Your knees go weak. The last thing you hear is your own pulse thudding slow and heavy in your ears, like hooves on packed earth.
Then even that starts to fade.
Mingyu almost ignores it.
He’s halfway down the northern fence line, reins loose in one hand, eyes on the horizon, when his phone buzzes in his vest pocket. The night is quiet—just insects, the occasional low from the herd, the creak of leather as his horse shifts. He fishes the sat phone out with numb fingers, glances at the screen. Your name. His chest tightens. He hesitates. You haven’t spoken in days. Pride whispers, let it go. Hurt adds she’s doing fine without you. Before he can decide to answer, the line dies. He pulls the phone back, frowning at the call ended message. No signal error. No dropped network. Just—gone. He stares at your name on the screen, thumb hovering over redial.
“Pocket dial,” he mutters, even though you don’t do that. You’re careful with devices in a way he’s only now understanding. He slips the phone back into his vest. Rides two more fence posts. His gut twists. He thinks of that night in the truck. The way your voice sounded when you said you were choosing him. The way you looked in the office when he threw those words at you like knives. He reins in, swears under his breath. “Shit.”
He turns the horse around and kicks him into a canter.
By the time he clears the last rise and the main yard comes into view, his pulse is hammering. The big house is dark. The bunkhouse is quiet. The yard looks… normal. No vehicles. No strangers. No obvious emergency. He almost laughs at himself. Then he hears it. A muffled crash. A high, broken sound that might be metal, might be a voice. The equipment shed.
He’s off the horse before he fully stops, boots hitting dirt in a spray of gravel. He tosses the reins over the fence rail, trusting the gelding to stay, and runs. The overhead bulb in the shed throws a weak halo over the doorway. Inside: shadow, shelves, machinery. And you.
Pinned against the shelving, toes barely brushing the concrete, fingers clawing at the hands locked around your throat. For a second, his brain doesn’t quite understand what he’s seeing. Then it clicks: a man’s back, shoulders bunched, forearms tight like cables, your face above his hand—eyes wide, mouth open in a sound that isn’t making it past your crushed windpipe. Something in Mingyu’s chest detonates. He doesn’t think. He moves.
He hits the man like a freight train, shoulder slamming into his ribs, hands tearing at his grip on your neck. The force rips him away from you; you crumple sideways, coughing, sucking air like it’s the first time. The stranger hits the concrete hard, breath leaving him in a grunt. He reeks of whiskey and sweat and something sour underneath. Mingyu doesn’t register the words he spits, just the sneer, the wild eyes, the flash of his hand reaching again. Not happening. Mingyu hauls him up by the front of his shirt and slams him into the opposite wall. Tools rattle. The man swings at him, fists clumsy but fueled by something ugly. A punch grazes Mingyu’s jaw. Good. He’d been waiting for an excuse.
Mingyu’s fists find bone and muscle and resistance; he drives through all of it. Every hit lands with the solid, sick thud of knuckles on flesh. He doesn’t count them. He doesn’t pace himself. All he can see is your face going purple. All he can hear is his own heartbeat roaring in his ears. Not again. Not again. Not again.
The man jerks and swings, but he’s slow—drunk, exhausted, winded. He gets one good shot in that splits Mingyu’s lip. It barely registers. Mingyu tackles him to the floor, knees pinning his hips, one hand fisted in his shirt, the other bringing his fist down again and again. Pain shoots up his arm. Blood—whose, he doesn’t know—splashes his knuckles. “Stop—” the man slurs, or maybe laughs. “What, you gonna kill, cowboy?”
The word kill hits a live wire inside Mingyu. He hits harder. The world narrows to red.
You drag yourself upright on unsteady legs, lungs burning, throat fire-raw. Every breath feels like scraping glass. The room swims. Mingyu is on top of your ex, straddling him, arm rising and falling in a relentless rhythm. Your husband’s head snaps with each blow, blood smeared across his face, his hands up in some pathetic attempt to shield himself. Mingyu’s face is something you’ve never seen before. Jaw clenched. Eyes wild. Teeth bared. You’ve seen rage. You’ve lived inside it. This is different.
“Mingyu,” you rasp, voice barely a whisper. He doesn’t hear you. You stumble forward, catching yourself on the edge of the workbench. “Mingyu,” you try again, louder this time, your vocal cords protesting. “Stop.” No reaction. His fist comes down again with a crack that turns your stomach. “You’ll kill him,” you croak, forcing the words out past your shredded throat. “Mingyu, please. Stop.”
He doesn’t look at you. He’s somewhere else, buried under years of guilt and two minutes of pure, blinding fury. All he sees is the hand around your neck. All he feels is the old sick weight of a ring and a steering wheel and the moment he lost everything. “You don’t get to touch her,” he spits, knuckles slamming into bone. “You don’t get to say her name. You don’t get anything.” You try to scream. It comes out as a broken, torn sound that makes your eyes water. Still, you keep going. “Please,” you manage. “He’s not worth it. Mingyu, please.” Your words bounce off the walls, thin and ragged against the heavy thud of fist on flesh.
Noise explodes at the mouth of the shed. “What the hell—” Seokmin’s voice, high and panicked. “Move—” Seungcheol, right behind him. A second later, they’re on Mingyu. Seokmin grabs his shoulder, hauling backwards. Seungcheol wedges both arms under Mingyu’s, locking him up in a full-body hold and dragging him off the man on the ground. Mingyu fights them on instinct.
He sees flashes: Seokmin’s shocked face, Seungcheol’s clenched jaw, your ex rolling onto his side and curling around his ribs. “Let go,” Mingyu snarls, straining. “He was choking her—”
"You’re done,” Seungcheol grunts in his ear, muscles bunching as Mingyu bucks against him. “You’re done, Gyu.” Mingyu twists, still trying to get one more shot in, hands clawing at the air now that his fists can’t reach.
“He doesn’t get to walk away from this,” he spits, voice breaking.
“He won’t,” Seungcheol snaps. “But you are not going to do this in front of her. Enough.” More footsteps. Tess in the doorway, hair loose, face white, phone already in hand. Hana and Riley behind her in pajama pants and boots, eyes wide with horror as they take in the scene: you clutching your throat, your ex groaning in a smear of blood, Mingyu trembling in Seungcheol’s grip, hands dripping red. “I'm calling the sheriff,” Tess says, already dialling. “Someone call an ambulance. Now.”
The following minutes are chaotic. Mingyu loses track of the order. He remembers being shoved outside, the cool air hitting his sweat and blood, his ears ringing. Seungcheol keeps a tight hold on him anyway, one hand clamped on his shoulder, as if he thinks Mingyu might bolt back in. He might have. He might, even now. He tries to look for you instead.
You’re sitting on the lower step outside the shed, Tess crouched in front of you with her hands fluttering uselessly before she finally settles one against your knee. Hana has an arm around your shoulders. Riley is pacing, swearing under her breath with impressive creativity.
You’re breathing. Shallow and ragged, but breathing. Dark marks are already blooming on your throat, fingerprints rising ugly and distinct. There’s a smear of blood at your hairline. Your hands shake. You’re still here. He doesn’t realise he’s moving toward you until Seungcheol’s grip tightens. “No,” Seungcheol says quietly. Mingyu jerks his arm out of his hold and crosses the space between you in three big strides. “Rookie,” he says, voice rough, reaching out before he can think, fingers stretching toward your face, your throat, anything to anchor himself to the fact that you are alive.
You flinch. It’s tiny. A flicker. A reflexive duck of your chin, a millimetre of recoil before you force yourself still. It’s enough. His hand stops in mid-air. The look on your face guts him more than any punch: you, trying to smile through pain, wanting to reassure him, but there’s fear there too. And he put it there. He knows it. He freezes. Pulls his hand back like he’s burned. “Don’t,” he says hoarsely—to himself, not you.
Hana’s gaze snaps between you two, eyebrows knitting. “We need ice and water,” Tess says briskly, standing up. “And towels. Go.” Riley bolts for the house just to have something to do. Seokmin hovers near the shed door, watching as the paramedics work in tight, efficient movements over the crumpled body on the concrete. Your ex doesn’t fight them. He doesn’t say anything at all. His face is a swollen, bloody mess; one eye completely closed, mouth slack, breath coming in wet, shallow pulls as they fit an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth. “BP’s low,” one medic mutters. “Let’s move.” They slide him onto the stretcher, strap him in, and lift. Sheriff Alden stands back to give them room as they carry him out. He doesn’t spare the man on the stretcher a word. His gaze is on Mingyu.
On the bloody knuckles, the split lip. On the bruises already rising on your throat. He’s not a tall man, but he’s solid. He steps closer, boots crunching on stray gravel, and looks from Mingyu to Seungcheol. There’s history there; Longview has been paying taxes and smoothing town trouble for a long time. “He came onto our land drunk and went for one of our own,” Seungcheol says, voice flat. “We found his hands around her throat.” He doesn’t dress it up as anything else.
Alden’s eyes flick to you—wrapped in a blanket on the step, a medic pressing gauze gently to your temple, Hana’s arm tight around your shoulders, Riley standing guard like she’s ready to bite someone. Alden nods once. “That’s what I’ll say I saw when I came in,” he says. He still asks questions, because he has to. Tess backs up the story, voice steady, jaw tight. Seokmin fills in what he heard when he came running. Hana and Riley add their details. You croak answers when you have to, every word scraping your throat. No one mentions the part where Mingyu didn’t stop hitting after the immediate danger was over.
Eventually, Alden turns back to him. “You got anything to add?” he asks. Mingyu swallows. His fists ache. His lip is split. He can feel blood drying under his nails, tight and tacky. He opens his mouth, ready to say I lost control. To ask if they need to take him in, too. To confess how good it felt to hit until he couldn’t see anything but red. The words lodge in his throat.
“He hurt her,” he says instead. “I stopped him.” Alden studies him for a long moment, then nods slowly. “We’ll write it up that way,” he says. “You might get a citation if someone downtown wants to make noise. Doubt it’ll stick. From where I’m standing, it looks pretty clear-cut.” Mingyu’s stomach churns. Clear-cut. Sure.
Nothing about how his knuckles enjoyed connecting is clear-cut. Nothing about how, for one second, he wanted the man to stop moving altogether is clear-cut. They lift the stretcher into the ambulance. The doors slam. Lights wash over the yard in red and blue, then fade as the vehicles head back toward town. Dust settles. Literally. Figuratively, not so much.
The others drift—Tess back to the house to make tea she’ll pretend is for herself, Riley and Hana to the bunkhouse where they can fuss over you more privately, Seokmin to check on the horses that spooked at the sirens. Seungcheol lingers with the sheriff a few minutes more, low-voiced, making sure everything is as tidy on paper as it can be. Mingyu is left standing in the yard, feeling like he’s not quite in his own skin. He flexes his hands. They hurt. He deserves it.
He looks toward the bunkhouse. The door is closed. The light in your room is on, a warm square spilling onto the dirt. He can almost picture the scene: you on the lower bunk this time, blanket around your shoulders, Hana kneeling in front of you with a bag of ice pressed gently to your throat, Riley tossing out half-serious ideas about going into town to slash tyres. He should go to you. He should say something—anything. I’m sorry. I came as fast as I could. I shouldn’t have kept hitting him. I was so scared. Instead, he stands there, rooted.
Because the image he can’t shake isn’t you gasping on the shed floor. It’s you, flinching from his hand. He hears his own voice, cold and cruel in the office: someone else’s wife. Hears you calling him a coward with a saviour complex. Hears the way his fists sounded on your ex’s face and overlays it with smashing glass, skidding tyres, the last scream he ever heard from the passenger seat of his truck.
What if it had been a second later? What if he’d hesitated longer on that call? What if he’d walked away? He sees your throat, bruises blooming in the shape of fingers. He sees his own hands. Maybe he was always headed here. Maybe this is who he is when it counts: a man who puts people in the ground, one way or another.
Seungcheol appears at his elbow like he’s read his mind. “Charges will be minor,” he says quietly. “Alden’s framing it as self-defence. Maybe disorderly conduct, maybe nothing. Guy came onto our land drunk and attacked someone. We’ve got witnesses. Your record’s clean.”
Mingyu huffs out a humourless laugh. “You sure about that last part?” Seungcheol gives him a long, steady look. “I’m talking about legal records,” he says. “The ones that matter to the sheriff.” A beat. “The other kind… you’re the only one who can do anything about those.” Mingyu’s jaw flexes. “She flinched,” he says, before he can stop himself. “When I reached for her.” Seungcheol’s mouth presses into a line.
He doesn’t say of course she did, or you’re covered in blood, or you scared the shit out of all of us. He just says, “Then you make sure, from now on, she never has a reason to do that again.” Mingyu looks back at the bunkhouse, at that soft pool of light. His feet stay where they are.
He is soaked in adrenaline and regret, and terrified that if he gets close to you right now, you’ll see all of it. He turns instead toward the barn. Toward a hose, a first aid kit, and a set of empty stalls where no one can watch him scrub blood off his skin and try not to see your face every time he closes his eyes.
Out in the dark, eyes burning, knuckles raw, Mingyu holds a thin, fragile truth like the only thing keeping him from going under: You called him. He almost didn’t come. He came anyway.
You don’t leave the bunk for four days.
The first morning you wake up, your throat feels like you’ve swallowed sandpaper. Every breath is a careful, measured thing. Your neck throbs in ugly pulses, each one a reminder of fingers that wanted to close around your life. You try to sit up. Your body says absolutely not. Hana is there before you can fall back, a palm at your shoulder. “Easy,” she murmurs. “You’re on medical leave, Rookie. Doctor’s orders. And by doctor I mean Tess, which is scarier.” You manage a half-smile, but it hurts.
They fuss. God, they fuss. Tess appears like clockwork with broth and tea and soft food that doesn’t make you swallow too hard. Riley pulls a chair up by your bunk and plays you stupid videos on her phone when the shaking gets too bad, pretending not to notice when your hands tremble.
Hana texts Evie, who drops off a stack of paperbacks and a set of ridiculous pastel pens so you can underline things if you get bored. Mae swings by one afternoon with a box of cookies and a card that says Congratulations on Not Dying in glitter pen. The boys come too.
Vernon hovers in the doorway with a potted succulent he stole from the windowsill in the mudroom. Dino sits on the floor and chatters about absolutely nothing of consequence until you stop staring at the wall.
Seungcheol pokes his head in once, clears his throat, and says, “You scared us,” like it personally offended him. Then he leaves you his favourite mug and a gruff pat on the ankle. Seokmin comes the most.
He never arrives empty-handed: gum, a new pair of socks, a stupid magazine, a handful of jellybeans he “taxed” from the office candy jar. He sits on the bunk ladder and fills the air so you don’t have to. They’re all here. Everyone but him. No one says his name.
On the third night, you wake up choking on your own breath. For a second, you’re back in the shed—hands on your throat, the world narrowing, the overhead light smearing into a star. You bolt upright.
Riley jerks awake in your previous bunk. “Hey, hey,” she mumbles, hanging over the side. “You good?” You nod too fast. You’re not. She doesn’t push.
She climbs down, slips under your blanket without comment, and lets you tuck yourself against her shoulder like you’re not both grown adults. Her hand rubs slow circles on your back until your breathing evens out. “You’re safe,” she says into your hair. “He’s gone.” You know which he she means. You still lie there with your fingers pressed to your own pulse, counting beats like they might vanish if you don’t pay attention.
On the fourth day, Seokmin comes in after lunch and doesn’t immediately start talking about something stupid. That’s how you know it’s serious. He knocks on the bunk post with two knuckles. “You decent?” You tilt your head toward him. Your voice is still mostly a croak, but it works. “Pretty sure.” He climbs onto the foot of your bed, careful not to jostle you.
For a minute he just looks at you. At the bruises creeping from purple to sick yellow-green around your throat. At the faint split near your hairline. His usual sunshine is dimmer today. “We can talk about something dumb,” you rasp. “I can handle your top ten cow rankings.”
He huffs a laugh. “You’re not ready for that debate,” he says. Then, softer, “I wanted to check in. And, uh… tell you some stuff. If you’re up for it.”
You pull the blanket a little higher and nod. “Okay.” He fiddles with the hem of your comforter for a second. “So,” he starts, “first thing: they’re not coming after you or the ranch for what happened. Sheriff filed it as trespass, assault, protective order violation. Your guy—” he makes a face; your guy is wildly inaccurate—“is in custody. Hospital first, then jail. Alden says the DA’s building a nice little pile on him.” Your stomach flips. You stare at your hands. “And Mingyu?” you ask, trying to sound neutral. You fail. “Self-defense,” he says. “They toyed with a charge, but Alden shut it down. Said if it ever sees paper it’ll be some bullshit misdemeanor that gets pled out. Cheol’s been on the phone with every suit in a fifty-mile radius.” You let out a careful breath you didn’t realize you were holding.
“Okay,” you whisper. Seokmin watches your face. “He beat him pretty bad,” he says quietly. “You know that.” Images flicker: Mingyu’s shoulders heaving, fist rising and falling, blood spattering his knuckles. You nod once. “How’s he doing?” you ask, not trusting yourself to say more.
Seokmin snorts softly. “Terrible.” He leans back against the wall. “He’s working like a maniac. If he’s not in the barn, he’s on a fence. If he’s not on a fence, he’s checking the herd. He hasn’t sat at the kitchen table in four days. I don’t think he’s slept much.” A bitter part of you wants to say, good. The rest of you just feels tired. “Is he… mad?” you ask. “At me?”
Seokmin gives you a look like you’ve grown a second head. “He thinks you’re gonna leave,” he says. “He thinks he deserves it.” You swallow around the ache in your throat. “He scared me,” you admit, voice barely audible. “Just for a second. When he wouldn’t stop.” Seokmin’s face pinches. “I know,” he says. “We all were. But he—” he breaks off, searching. “He saw you and something in his brain just—fried. It wasn’t pretty. But if he hadn’t come back when he did…” He doesn’t finish. He doesn’t have to. “He saved your life,” he says instead, simply. The words land strange. True. Heavy. You stare at the ceiling for a long moment. “He didn’t come,” you croak finally. “To see me.”
"He’s afraid to,” Seokmin says. “He said he doesn’t want to be another reason for you to flinch.” A pause. “He’s not handling that well.” You let that sink in. Your ex’s violence was always about control—about punishment, power, ownership. If he’d walked in on you with someone else, it would’ve been how dare you embarrass me, not are you okay.
Mingyu’s rage had been… different. Messy and terrifying and too much, yes. But underneath it was something else: panic. Fear. This bone-deep, desperate need to keep you breathing. He’d gone too far. He’d also gotten there because someone was actively killing you. Both things can be true at once. “Thanks,” you tell Seokmin. He shrugs it off. “Part of the job,” he says lightly. “Wrangling cows, fixing fences, providing emotional exposition.” You snort, which hurts, but it makes him smile. Before he leaves, he hesitates in the doorway. “You know you don’t have to decide anything right now, right?” he says. “About him. About staying. You nearly died. You’re allowed to just… breathe for a minute.” You nod. You also know something shifted the second you saw your ex on that stretcher and realized he wasn’t between you and the door anymore. You’re tired of letting men decide whether you stay or go.
On the fifth morning, Tess wakes you from a fitful doze with a knock on the bunk frame. “Mail call,” she says. You blink blearily. She’s holding an oversized envelope out at arm’s length like it might explode. Your name is printed in neat black letters across the front. The return address is your lawyer’s. Your heart does something weird in your chest. Your fingers shake as you take it. “Figured you’d want privacy,” Tess says gruffly. She taps the side of the bunkpost, then leaves without waiting for an answer.
The envelope feels heavier than it looks. You slit it open with a thumbnail and slide the documents out. Your eyes pick out the important words even through the blur: Decree of Dissolution of Marriage. Your name. His name. Filed, stamped, signed. Final. You read it twice to make sure you’re not hallucinating. Then a third time, just because you can. By the fourth, the letters stop meaning anything. They blur together, drowned out by the roaring in your ears and the strange, light feeling in your chest.
It’s done. No more waiting for a court. No more technicallys. No more arguments in your own head about whether you have the right to move on until the system catches up. You are not his wife. Not in any universe. A laugh breaks out of you, half-sob, completely undignified. Hana jerks awake in the top bunk and peers over the side. “You okay?” You hold up the papers with a trembling hand. Her eyes widen. “Are those…?” You nod. Her face crumples and brightens all at once. “Oh my God,” she breathes. “You’re divorced.” She corrects herself. “You’re free.” Free. You press the papers to your chest.
For a second you’re back in that first motel room, chair wedged under the door, heart beating out of your ribs. You had a bag, some cash, a stranger’s pity, and a vague plan. You have more now. A job. Friends. People who heard you scream and ran toward the sound. A man who answered your call even when he thought you didn’t want him anymore.
You think of Mingyu in the shed, the way his voice sounded when he spat you don’t touch her between blows. The way he looked when you flinched from his hand. Your ex’s violence had always come with you made me do this attached. Mingyu’s came with I’ll take whatever comes after written all over his face. You’re shaking again, but it’s not fear.
Mingyu spends the fifth morning digging a posthole he doesn’t actually need. The fence in this section is fine. It’s overkill. Redundant. He doesn’t care. He just needs his hands busy and his mind blank. He’s failing at both. Every time he blinks he sees it again: your face above that bastard’s hand, eyes wild, lips purpled. The way your body went slack when the air cut off. The way it felt when his fists finally found something they could break without consequence. And then the way you jerked away, just that fraction, when he raised his hand near you after. That’s the part that keeps him up. He drives the posthole digger into the earth and pulls, muscles burning. Dirt gives under the blades, clumps flying. Sweat runs down his back despite the cool morning.
“You’re gonna hit China if you keep going,” Seungcheol’s voice calls from the fence line. Mingyu doesn’t look up. “Fence needed checking,” he mutters. “Fence is fine,” Seungcheol says. “You did it twice already.” Mingyu sets the tool aside, chest heaving. Seungcheol hops the fence and comes to lean on a post nearby, arms folded. For a while, they just stand there. Finally, Seungcheol says, “Papers came this morning.”
Mingyu stiffens. He doesn’t ask which papers. “They’re final,” Seungcheol adds. “Evie texted. Alden called her; she called Tess; Tess told half the county. Your girl’s single.” Your girl. The words twist in his gut. He stares at the hole he’s dug. “Good,” he says, voice rough. “That’s… good.”
"You’re not going to talk to her?” Seungcheol asks. Mingyu’s throat tightens. “She was scared of me,” he says. “I saw it. I can’t—” he breaks off, jaw clenching. “I don’t want to be another thing she has to get over.”
Seungcheol studies him. “You almost crossed a line,” he says simply. “But you didn’t. You came back when she called. You stopped when we pulled you off. You’re not him.”
"You didn’t see me,” Mingyu mutters. “You saw the tail end. You didn’t feel—” He presses his palms over his eyes. “I liked it. For a second. That’s what scares me.” Seungcheol exhales. “You’re human,” he says. “You saw someone you care about being hurt and you lost it. Doesn’t make it right. Doesn’t make you a monster either. What you do with it now is what matters.” Mingyu drops his hands. Looks at the house. At the bunkhouse beyond. “If she leaves,” he says quietly, “I won’t stop her.” A half-smile tugs at Seungcheol’s mouth. “Maybe let her tell you what she’s doing before you decide,” he says. He pushes off the post. “Family dinner tonight. You don’t show up, I’m dragging you in by your ear.” He walks away, leaving Mingyu with the hole and his thoughts.
You’re divorced. Free. You owe him nothing. He knows, with a cold kind of certainty, that he’d rather pack a bag and disappear into some back forty than watch you flinch from him again. But he also knows something else. You called him. You could’ve dialed the big house, or the office, or the sheriff directly. You called him. Even after everything he said to you—you still reached for him when it mattered. Maybe he owes you the same courage. He wipes his hands on his jeans and starts toward the bunkhouse before he can talk himself out of it.
You’re sitting on the bunkhouse steps with the decree folded neatly in your lap when his shadow falls across your bare feet. You know it’s him without looking up. The air changes when he’s close—tighter, somehow, but not always in a bad way. Your heart kicks. You lift your head. He looks rough: dark circles under his eyes, jaw unshaven, split lip healing in an ugly line. There are faint yellow bruises on his cheekbone where your ex got that one hit in. His hands are clean now, but you remember what they looked like covered in blood. “Hey,” he says, voice low. You swallow. Your throat protests. “Hey.” He glances at the papers in your lap. “Is that…?”
You nod, holding them up a little. “It’s done,” you croak. “Judge signed. He did too.” For a second, something almost like a smile flickers over his face.
It doesn’t last. “Congratulations,” he says. You huff out a weak laugh. “Hell of a party,” you mumble. Silence stretches. He shifts his weight, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket like he doesn’t trust them near anything breakable. “Can I…?” he starts, then stops. Tries again. “Can we talk?” You look up at him properly. You remember Seokmin’s words: He thinks you’re gonna leave. He thinks he deserves it. You also remember the office. The things you both said. The way they sliced you open deeper than you wanted to admit. But you’re tired of running.
You nod once, then scoot sideways on the step, patting the space beside you. He sits, leaving just enough distance that his knee doesn’t quite touch yours. The yard spreads out in front of you—barn, fences, open sky. The spot where the ambulance had parked is just dirt now. You start. “He used to say it was my fault,” you rasp. “The way he was.” Mingyu goes very still. You keep your eyes on your toes. “That if I didn’t push, he wouldn’t snap. That if I was better—quieter, more grateful, more… whatever—he wouldn’t need to drink so much. Wouldn’t have to hit things.” You swallow. “Wouldn’t have to hit me.” His hands curl in his pockets. “None of that is true,” he says immediately. “You know that, right?”
"My head does,” you say. “My nervous system is still catching up.” You look at him. “So when you went for him… when you wouldn’t stop… for a second, it felt like being back there. I know it wasn’t the same, but my body doesn’t always know the difference.” The words hang between you. He doesn’t flinch away from them. His jaw flexes. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “For that. For how it looked. For losing it like that in front of you.”
You watch his profile. “I know why you did,” you say, equally soft. “I know it wasn’t about owning me. It was about… not losing me.”
He lets out a shaky breath. “I heard you,” he admits. “In the shed. I heard your voice but it was like—” he shakes his head. “I wasn’t hearing words. Just noise. And his face. And your neck. I haven’t wanted to hit something that bad since…” he trails off. You know how that sentence ends. “I didn’t stop when I should’ve,” he says. “I crossed a line. Or I was damn close. That’s on me. That’s not on you. It’s not because of you. It’s not something you caused.” You nod slowly. “You saved my life,” you say.
He looks like he doesn’t know what to do with that. “I also called you someone else’s wife,” he says, like he’s listing charges. “I threw your past in your face. I made your abuse about me. I punished you for being scared and for surviving. I have no defense for that.” You stare at your hands. “It hurt,” you admit. “Worse than the bruises.” He winces. “I know.”
"You made me feel dirty,” you go on, voice shaking. “Like I’d cheated on both of you by surviving. Like I should’ve told you everything upfront so you could decide if I was… worth the risk.” He sucks in a breath, eyes closing briefly. “You don’t owe anyone your trauma on a timetable,” he says. “Least of all some asshole rancher with a saviour complex.” He opens his eyes, looks straight at you. “You didn’t deserve that. Any of it. I’m sorry.” The apology is simple. No but. No if. No excuses.
“I was scared,” you tell him. “Of telling you. Of losing this place. Of losing you. I thought if I said the word husband out loud, it would somehow make him real again. You were starting to feel like… the opposite of that.”
“You are not her replacement,” he says suddenly, like it’s been burning a hole in him. “You’re not a second chance at the same story. You’re…” he searches for it. “You’re the first person who’s made me want anything since she died. That’s not small. That scared the shit out of me. But it’s not about putting you in her place.” You let that sink in. “You said you killed her,” you say quietly. He looks out at the pasture. “I was driving,” he says. “I was angry. I was stupid. That’s a kind of killing, in my head. I don’t know if that ever changes.” He flicks a glance at you. “But I don’t want to use her as an excuse anymore. To hide. Or to hurt you.”
Silence stretches. The breeze ruffles your hair. Somewhere near the barn, a horse snorts. “I’m not leaving,” you say. He goes very still. “You don’t have to decide that now,” he says. “I already did.” You turn toward him fully, divorce papers crinkling in your hands. “I’m not running again,” you say. “Not from him. Not from you. Not from this place. This ranch is home. These people are my family. I’m staying.” You take a breath. This is the hard part. “The question is whether I’m staying… just as a ranch hand,” you finish, “or as something more. With you.”
His mouth parts, then shuts. “After everything I said?” he asks, disbelief roughening his voice. “After what you saw in that shed?” "Because of what I saw,” you correct softly. “You came anyway. You’ll live with your own shit for the rest of your life. I see that. I have mine too. But I don’t feel owned here. Not by you. Not by them. That’s what matters.”
You search his face. “Do you want me here?” you ask. “Honestly. All of me. Mess and papers and bruises and everything.” His answer is immediate. “Yes.” He swallows. “I… want you here,” he says, like the words are heavy and precious. “On this ranch. In this family. In my life, if you’ll let me. But if the idea of being near me makes your hands shake, if you can’t trust me after what you saw, I will get out of your way. I’d rather walk off this land than be another man you have to heal from.” Your eyes sting. You don’t look away. “You scared me,” you say again, because you won’t pretend otherwise. He nods, accepting the blow. “I know.”
"But I wasn’t afraid of you,” you add. “Not the way I was with him. I was afraid of losing you. Of losing… this.” You gesture vaguely between you. “That’s on me to untangle. And I want to. With you. If we do this slow. If we keep talking. If you promise—”
"Anything,” he says, too fast. You almost smile. “If you promise not to disappear when it gets hard,” you say. “No more grunting across the yard and pretending you don’t care. No more punishing me—or yourself—for wanting things.” He lets out a breath that sounds like it’s been trapped for months. “I can try,” he says. “I’m gonna screw up. I’m probably gonna say dumb shit. But I’ll stay. I’ll talk. I’ll… try not to be an idiot.”
"That’s all I’m asking,” you rasp. “Well. That and maybe fewer bar fights.” One corner of his mouth lifts. “No promises if someone touches you again,” he says, then grimaces. “Kidding. Mostly.” You huff out a sound that almost passes for a laugh. Your throat protests. He sees it. Very carefully, like he’s approaching a skittish colt, he lifts a hand. He pauses midway between you. “Can I…?” he asks. “Touch you?” You look at his palm. Big. Calloused. Clean. You nod.
He moves slowly, giving you time to change your mind. His fingers brush your jaw first, feather-light, then tilt your chin so he can see the marks on your neck properly. His eyes go dark with something like grief. “I hate that I wasn’t faster,” he murmurs. “You were fast enough,” you say. His thumb traces your cheekbone once, then falls away, as if he doesn’t trust himself to linger. You miss the touch immediately. “So,” you say, voice raw but steady. “Home?” He frowns a little. “You want to call this home?”
You fold the decree neatly, slide it under your thigh like you’re putting it to bed. “I already do,” you answer.
He looks at the bunkhouse, the barn, the house, the stretch of land beyond. Then at you, hunched on the step in an old hoodie with a healing throat and divorce papers in your pocket. “Home,” he says, more certain this time. He shifts, just enough that his shoulder brushes yours, solid and careful. You let it. For now, that’s enough.
Later, there will be more work: lawyers and therapy and triggers you don’t see coming. There will be days when you still wake up choking on air, nights when he still dreams of rain on glass and metal twisting.
But here, on the bunkhouse steps with the sun starting to slide down and the ranch humming around you, you let yourself lean into his solid warmth. For the first time since you ran, the word home no longer feels like a trap. It feels like hope. Like a future.
You wake to the soft tick of the old clock in the bedroom, to the weight of a warm arm slung over your waist, to Mingyu’s slow, even breaths ghosting across the back of your neck.
“You’re staring again,” he mumbles into your shoulder, voice rough with sleep. “I’m thinking,” you murmur. He nuzzles closer. “About feed costs or about what you’re doing to me, leaving this bed at five a.m.?” You smile, rolling just enough to see him. His hair is a mess, sticking up in every direction. His eyes are half-lidded, soft in a way you still haven’t fully gotten used to—like he trusts the day to be kind. “Both,” you say. “In that order.”
“Tragic,” he sighs. He leans in and kisses you, slow and unhurried. It still hits you somewhere deep, the way he can make a five a.m. kiss feel like a promise and not a goodbye. “Up, Rookie,” he murmurs against your mouth. “Herd won’t move itself.” You groan. “You’re the one keeping me here.”
“Yeah,” he says, lips quirking. “That’s on purpose.” He steals one more kiss for good measure, then lets you go. Your boots wait by the bedroom door. So do his, a little bigger, a little more scuffed. Your hat hangs on the same hook as his. Your side of the dresser has a mess of hair ties and chapstick and a small ceramic dish Mae gave you for your birthday. There’s a framed photo of the three owners and you at the last county fair, all of you sunburnt and grinning like idiots. Evie swears it’s the only time she’s seen Seungcheol smile that wide in public.
Downstairs, the big house smells like coffee and toast and Tess’s cinnamon something. Hana is already at the counter, ponytail looped through the back of her cap, lunchbox open, stealing bacon off a plate. “Morning, boss,” she says, bumping your hip. “Don’t call me that,” you say, stealing a strip of bacon right back. “You’re the one with your own coffee mug in the main house,” she points out. “That’s, like, official rank.” Your mug does sit by the kettle now, nestled between Mingyu’s chipped one and Tess’s floral favourite. It says Rookie in big, hand-painted letters. Riley made it. Of course she did. “Speaking of useless titles,” Riley says, shuffling in behind you with sleep in her eyes and one sock half-off her foot, “who’s taking bets on Seokmin actually asking Mae out on a real date before we all die of old age?”
“He asked,” Tess says, sliding a plate onto the table. “She said yes. Friday. Real restaurant and everything.” Riley gasps so hard she almost drops her coffee. “Shut up.”
“What the hell, Tess,” you say. “You didn’t lead with that?” Tess smirks. “I enjoy watching you all suffer,” she says. “Also, sit and eat before I start throwing things.” You sit. You eat. You listen to Hana complain about a parent who tried to argue fractions with Evie (“She almost got herself arrested,” Hana says, grinning proudly), and to Riley brag about how many calves she can rope in under an hour. Tess rolls her eyes and mutters that if anyone breaks anything, she’s not nursing them through it again. You laugh. You do it without worrying about who hears.
By mid-morning, you’re in the saddle, out in the middle pasture, the sun finally up and burning off the last of the haze. The grass is high, the herd spread wide, heads down. You ride like you were born to do it. Milo moves under you with easy confidence, your body matching his without thinking. Your hands are steady on the reins, your posture relaxed, eyes sweeping the herd for limps or stragglers. There’s a new kid riding a borrowed mare on the far side of the field. She’s nervous, all hunched shoulders and white-knuckle grip, legs too stiff. “Heels down!” you call across the distance, voice carrying clean and easy. “You’re not choking a chicken, let your hands breathe!” She laughs, tension easing.
Somewhere along the way, you stopped being the one needing the constant corrections. Somewhere along the way, you started giving them. Seokmin rides up on your left, hat tipped back, smile bright as the sky. “Look at you,” he says. “Bossing people around. What would Truck-Sex-You think of this?” You groan. “I hate that you call me that.”
“I hate that the horn squeaks when I hit it,” he says. “I will never forgive you for that.” You shove at his arm with your boot. Ahead of you, Hana whoops and takes off at a gallop, cutting around a pocket of cows in a smooth arc. She yells something back about you two moving your asses or eating her dust. “Rookie,” Seokmin says, eyes glinting. “Race you?” You arch a brow. “You sure you want to cry before lunch?” He gasps. “Mingyu’s rubbing off on you. I hate it.” You grin. Then you nudge Milo into a run.
Wind whips at your face, your hat brim, your hair. The herd blurs at the edges as you and Hana and Seokmin weave through them, guiding, not scattering, whooping and laughing. You’re aware of your scars—the faint ache at your throat when you breathe too hard, the old bruises that sometimes still twinge when the weather changes—but they don’t define the moment. You do. You and the horse beneath you, the land, the people yelling insults and encouragement in equal measure. You don’t notice the two figures on the porch. They notice you.
From the porch of the big house, Mingyu watches you ride like it’s the only thing worth looking at on the whole damn horizon. You look different now than the day you stepped off that bus. He still remembers that girl—eyes jumpy, shoulders tight, heart wrapped in barbed wire. The one who flinched if someone opened a door too fast, who counted exits without meaning to. The woman down there now laughs with her whole body.
You lean into the turn as Milo cuts ahead of Hana and Juniper, whooping as you beat her by half a length to the makeshift finish line near the creek. Seokmin throws his head back in exaggerated despair, nearly falling out of his saddle.
“She’s gonna be insufferable,” Seungcheol says beside him, taking a sip of coffee from his World’s Okayest Rancher mug (Evie’s joke, still his favourite). “She already is,” Mingyu says, but there’s no heat in it. Seungcheol follows his gaze. From up here, the ranch looks like the picture they used to tape to the inside of the truck—dream version of a future they weren’t sure they’d ever reach. Fences in good repair, barns freshly painted, herd fat and glossy. Workers moving with the easy rhythm of people who know what they’re doing and know they’re valued for it.
Business is good. The new irrigation pivots on the south field, which went in last fall. The winter calving season was their best yet. There’s talk of a small direct-to-consumer beef line; Tess is already experimenting with spice blends in the kitchen. They’re expanding the bunkhouse next year. They’re talking guest cabins the year after that. There’s a spreadsheet open on Mingyu’s phone with numbers that don’t make his stomach hurt anymore—just his brain a little, in a way he’s learned to like.
“We’ll need another hand if we take that east pasture, though,” Seungcheol is saying. “Somebody good. Vernon’s already stretched, and Dino’s gonna burn out if we keep throwing every night check at him.” Mingyu makes a noncommittal sound. He hears him. He’s just a little busy. His right hand is wrapped around a mug. His left is tucked into the back pocket of his jeans, fingers brushing the small, square box that’s been living there for the past three weeks. The metal corners press against his knuckles every time he shifts. It grounds him. It also makes his heart attempt weird gymnastics.
Seungcheol follows the line of his arm, the way his shoulder’s just a little too stiff. “You gonna tell Rookie what you’ve been carrying around,” he asks mildly, “or you gonna make us all suffer another year watching you hover?” Heat crawls up the back of Mingyu’s neck. “You could pretend you’re not observant for once,” he mutters. “No fun in that,” Seungcheol says. “Ring burning a hole in your pocket isn’t subtle, man. Seokmin almost sat on the damn box when you left your jacket on the couch last week.” Mingyu winces. “He see it?”
“Nah,” Seungcheol says. “I moved it. Almost had a coronary doing it. Felt like I was picking up contraband.” He glances at him. “You waiting for something?” Mingyu cups his mug with both hands now, box momentarily forgotten. He thinks of everything between then and now.
Of papers and court dates and the day Alden called to say their problem was going to be someone else’s problem for a very long time. Of the first time you raised your voice and he didn’t flinch from it, just listened. Of the way you still sometimes wake up breathing too fast—and how, more often than not now, you fall back asleep with your hand in his. He thinks of the storm and the shed and the hospital and all the ugliness that brought you here, yes. But he also thinks of the morning you called the bunkhouse “home” like it was nothing. Of the afternoon he found you on the couch in the big house, arguing with Tess about his grandma’s biscuit recipe and claiming it as your own. Of the picture on the mantel of all of you last Christmas, Riley wearing antlers, Seokmin mid-sneeze, you laughing so hard your eyes are closed. “I was waiting to make sure you weren’t gonna fire her,” he says dryly. Seungcheol snorts. “You’re the only one we’d fire,” he says. “She’s the reason we’re in the black.”
Mingyu smiles. He can’t argue that. He looks back out at the pasture. You’ve dismounted now, hat tipped back, face turned up to the sun as you talk with Hana and Seokmin. You gesture toward the outer fence, probably arguing over which route is fastest for the afternoon rotation.
You look like you belong here. Like you’ve always belonged here. His hand finds the box again, thumb rubbing over the seam. “I’m waiting to make sure I’m not asking her to sign up for something she’s still healing from,” he says finally. “Marriage, I mean.”
“You’re not him,” Seungcheol says, no hesitation. “I know,” Mingyu says. “But. Still.” Seungcheol is quiet for a beat. “You know what she did on the anniversary of her divorce papers this year?” he asks. Mingyu arches a brow. “No?”
“She baked a cake,” he says. “Ugly thing. Pink frosting. Riley wrote ‘Happy You Day’ on it. She cut the first slice and said, ‘I’m not celebrating the end of something, I’m celebrating that I was dumb enough to try. Means I can be dumb enough to try again.’” He tips his mug toward the pasture. “That sound like someone afraid of you asking?” Mingyu stares at him. “You were listening from the stairs again, weren’t you?” he says. “You two aren’t subtle,” Seungcheol replies.
Mingyu laughs, low and a little disbelieving. His heart… doesn’t feel like it’s trying to crawl up his throat anymore. It beats steadily. Solid. Like it’s already decided.
Down in the field, you throw your head back and laugh at something Seokmin says, reaching out to smack his arm. Milo nudges your shoulder impatiently, and you turn to scratch his nose, all easy affection. Mingyu watches you for another quiet moment. Then he sets his mug on the railing. His fingers close fully around the box. “You gonna go?” Seungcheol asks, though the answer’s written all over his face. Mingyu exhales. “Yeah,” he says.
He steps down off the porch, boots hitting the packed earth of the yard with a familiar thud. The big house looms behind him, the barn off to one side, the bunkhouse farther out—every piece of this place stitched into him now. He walks toward the pasture. Toward you. You spot him when he’s halfway there. Your whole face changes when you see him—it always does, even when you’re pretending it doesn’t. Your smile is small at first, then bigger when he approaches closer and closer. You swing up into the saddle again to meet him at the fence, hat tipped forward, eyes bright.
“What’s up, boss?” you call, teasing. He grins. God, he loves you. “Got a question for you, Rookie,” he says.
And for the first time in a long time, there’s no panic under the words. No, what if screaming in his head. Just this. You. The ranch humming around you both. Something solid under his boots and building under his ribs. He reaches the fence, hand already moving toward that back pocket, toward the small square box that isn’t going to live there much longer.
You lean down from the saddle, curiosity and affection written clear all over your face, and whatever he was about to say settles, sure and steady, on his tongue. He’s ready. To ask. To stay. To build whatever comes next—with you.
A/N: Okay so, I know this is crazy. Writing 50K words after just finishing a 61K story and telling you all I was going to disappear for a while. Good time for me to let you all know I suffer from major hyperfixation, and when I obsess over something, I literally CANNOT not finish it. Like, sleeping two hours and writing through the night. So, surprise (I guess?) Hope you enjoy. 💟
Taglist: @igetcarriedawaywithyou
Send me your thoughts - feedback/fangirling is always welcome. Want to be tagged in future works? Let me know.
(Collage created by me. Credits to owners of the pictures taken from Pinterest.)
"You’re tired of letting men decide whether you stay or go"
so good... i've collapsed to my knees along a solemn beach and am scraping up piles of sand into my hands... i gen-you-winely loved every word of the fic oh em gee 🥹 you have such a gift for threading the most perfect words together to create your scenes! everything was so smooth, so well paced, the characters were strong, individual, and i fucking love that you didn't just shovel the reader's story at us from the jump. like you built it up section by section, letting us get more and more familiar with her fear so that when we finally reached the Big Moment the impact was undeniable!
n then the friction between mingyu and reader GOOD LORD ‼️ it was so tasty D; i've actually never read mingyu portrayed this way. he's a lot more serious, stern, jagged - so at first i was a little disoriented cuz usually his character doesn't have that kind of weight but you pulled it off!! i ❤️ characters that you can be angry with n confused by but also so drawn to cuz you know there's smth deeper that's pulling strings. there's a lot i want to say but i'll BP:
alrd luv the descriptions of the towns n scenery n mountains so pretty it makes me feel like i'm reading a painting
nora serving more than just coffee n rolls (employment)
seokmin is going to be so sweet i can just tell!!
"then we don't need her" GIRL STFU AND AGREE 4 PLOT 💔
omg the bunkhouse girls are so precious i love riley's spunk n that they all have their own roles pLUS they're so supportive like i just know they're gonna be her f4l ugh
TWO WEEK TRIAL SUCCESS 🥰 country girls make dew
i wont peach cobbler.... 💔
OMGRJENB SEOKMIN TEACHING HER TO RIDE N MINGYU'S JEALOUS LURKING ASS... 🥹 THE TOUCHES THE TENSION A HHHHH SCREAM he's actually so demanding n orderly and liek i never want a man speaking to me that way but in this instance i'm kinda folding,,,,, but pretend i wrote that in invisible ink ;) but i think that sort of directness is good for her
ugly aggressive loser man at the bar trigger warning 💔
UNHAND HER U TROGLODYTE!
OMG mingyu throwing reader over his shoulder lord help me i know wuts abt 2 happen i've seen this road b4
the trucks scnee... wot if i threw up n then fainted... 🥹
like how tf am i supposed to move on GUYS WHAT ARE WE (inserting myself delusionally into their moment)
okay she ate so hard during the storm (milo too obvs) i'm acc so proud of her 🥹 JUST LIKE THEM HORSES 🐴
nOW WE'RE GETTING MORE LORE ‼️ i know it won't be true but i want her loser ass husband to sign those papers
NOOOOO mingyu D; okay i'm actually glad reader didn't get docile or back down to mingyu like she stood her ground!! she didn't forfeit! like bro u don't know what she's been through LEAVE HER ALONEEEEE RAHHHHHH 👹 i mean obvs mingyu is interpreting this a certain way bc of what he experienced in his past but like reader was hitting every nail on the head.
GET THIS MAN IN PRISON LIKE PLZ TELL ME UR LEWSER ASS DID NOT FIND HER ALL THE WAY OUT IN HICK TOWN BRUH like please get a hobby go to behavioural therapy try reading a book that doesn't have pictures in it drink non-caffeinated tea before bed like gawd damn this terrible man 😡 i support mingyu 🤓 i'm so glad he came back 4 her but the flinch.... 😔 let's all heal 2gether...
the girls comforting her omg sisterhood momentttt
YAYAYAYYA YESS YAYYYYYY MY RANCH QUEEN ‼️ IT'S SO OFFICIAL WOOOOOOO that moment of them tgth on the steps that was so tender and careful and real and uuhuhuthirhg
THEIR BOOTS SITTING BESIDE EACH OTHER FQEIUWRFHKWERUFG I'M GOING KRAZYYYYYYY
ending was everything...... HE'S BEGINNING AGAIN SHE'S BEGINNING AGAIN WHY DON'T WE ALL BEGIN AGAN?!?!
written for the AJU LEAGUE collab hosted by @/sailorsoons and @100vern !!
impossible
kmg x reader
exes to ???
SFW but minors are not welcome on my blog
summary: Mingyu, the city's star pitcher, is everywhere. His face is on the city buses. His interviews play on the televisions in the waiting room at the doctor’s office. His stupid social media videos are constantly in your face. As a non-sport girlie, this would be annoying. As his ex, it's downright painful.
You can't escape your past with Mingyu. Not in this city. It'd be nothing short of impossible.
wc: 14k
general warnings: language, drinking, injury and hospital scenes, allusion to past sexual activity, legal use of prescription pain medications, hurt feelings, not miscom-miscom but poor communication or lack of it in the past, kissing
a/n: he's finally here!!! please enjoy this fic and the rest in the collab as they are posted! thank you to the collab hosts <3 this is unedited and unbeta'ed so any mistakes are my own
--
Your ex smiles at you and your stomach turns over, a single motion as clean as flipping a pancake. His eyes crinkle and his stupid little fang peeks at you and you clench your hands into fists, lowering your eyes to the slightly sticky cafe floor under your feet.
His voice reaches you anyway, yapping a mile a minute in that distinct and unmatchable Mingyu way, talking excitedly about the upcoming playoff game.
“Personally, I don’t think the pressure will be a negative factor. If anything, it helps us to focus -”
The line moves, the two college-aged girls in front of you putting their phones away as they step up to the barista to order their matcha lattes or whatever, and Mingyu’s voice blessedly falls silent.
Because he’d been smiling at you from one of their phone screens. They’d been watching soundbites of his last interview on tiktok while they waited.
It happens to you all the time - Mingyu’s face on the city buses as they pass. Mingyu’s interviews playing on the televisions in the waiting room at the doctor’s office. Mingyu’s stupid social media videos in your face. Everywhere you go, no matter the time of day or night - you’re never safe, not unless you save up enough money to move far, far away.
Unfortunately, you live in a baseball city, and even more unfortunately, Mingyu is their star pitcher or something.
(Okay, you pretend not to know, but you dated him long enough that you do know the specifics. He’s the closer, not a starter. You can talk extensively about what that means, but… why would you want to?)
Even if you did move out of the city, you wouldn’t escape him. He’s turned into the team’s precious social media darling, because he’s cute and charming and positive. Even the anti-sport girlies know his name. He’s everywhere. You can’t escape your past with Mingyu. It’d be nothing short of impossible.
You get your coffee and grab an express bus to work, surviving still more Mingyu conversation on the way. (“They’re going to need to expand the bullpen eventually,” the business bro standing behind you on the bus says emphatically into his airpods. “What happens if he gets hurt? They’ve got no one.” A curse upon this godforsaken baseball city!)
When you slam your purse onto your desk, your cube-mate Wonwoo turns in his swivel-chair, his expression somehow both flat and indulgent.
“What’s the count today?”
You sigh. “Only three. But one of them was an elderly lady shoving a magazine cover in my face and asking me if I don’t think he’s so handsome. That should count for five just because she invaded my personal space.”
Wonwoo grimaces on your behalf.
“Sure,” you say, voice laced with sarcasm as you drop into your chair and wiggle your mouse to bring your screen to life, “he’s good-looking. But did you know, random bus stop grandma, that his farts can clear a room? And that he breaks at least three coffee mugs a month? And that he doesn’t rinse his toothpaste out of the sink no matter how many times you nag him about it?”
Did you know that he’ll tell you he wants a life with you, and then watch it burn to ash?
“She does not know all that,” Wonwoo deadpans. “Maybe you should do an op-ed. The public deserves the truth.”
“Shut the fuck up,” you grumble, but a laugh threatens to tip out of you. You pull up your email, fingers already flying across the keys. “I either need a work-from-home assignment, or I need to cross the city with blinders on like a damn racehorse.”
“We still on for tonight?” Wonwoo asks, entirely ignoring your tirade.
“Yeah,” you tell him glumly. “I still can’t believe you’re abandoning me.”
He laughs, a bit of exasperation in it. “We’ve been over this.”
You huff, your eyes on your screen, half of your attention on your work and the other half on your conversation.
“I’ll be back in no time.”
“Months, Wonwoo, you’ll be gone for months.”
“You’ll be fine.”
“I will be bored. You better bring me back so many presents.”
In all honesty, you are happy for Wonwoo and his opportunity to take a project abroad. And you know you’ll still talk, and when he comes back you’ll have your Work Bestie back. But it doesn’t change that your day to day will inevitably be a little lonelier without him.
It doesn’t change the fact that, ever since your breakup with Mingyu, Wonwoo is basically your only friend.
The night, despite being Wonwoo’s big going away event, ends up just like a hundred nights before: you and Wonwoo side by side at the bar, separated by the pitcher of beer you’re sharing, bitching about work.
It isn’t long before you’re also separated by his girlfriend, Seona, who joins you for after-work-drinks about half the time. She squeezes between you, already reaching for the pitcher of beer and the empty glass you’d saved for her.
“Hey,” she greets you, even as her arm snakes around Wonwoo’s waist, her body automatically leaning into his. “What’d you do today?”
“Worked,” you shrug. “FaceTimed my mom. Ate dinner over my sink like a rat. Came here.”
“How’s your mom?” Seona asks, gracefully ignoring the rat comment.
“She’s good,” you say. “Living her best sugar baby life.”
Wonwoo chokes on his beer, spluttering into his glass and coughing twice, wiping at his mouth as Seona pats unhelpfully on his back.
“Your mom is not a sugar baby,” he objects.
You shrug again, nonplussed. “Well she’s being taken on a two-month-long overseas adventure by her rich boyfriend and I am here, third-wheeling after a day at my very boring, soulless job, so. I think I can describe it however I want.”
“Did they leave yet?” Seona asks, again stepping cleanly around your nonsense. She’s got it down to an art at this point - you say whatever bullshit, and Seona neatly picks out the one piece of actual information and chases that.
“They leave Sunday,” you say. “When I called her today, she was, like, drowning in piles of clothes. Trying to decide what to pack, you know how it is.”
Your eyes scan the bottles behind the bar as you chat, eventually falling on the television screen behind the bartender’s head. Your stomach sours and you feel the smile fall off your face.
You sip at your drink, making a concentrated effort to ignore the baseball game, but now that you’ve noticed it’s on, you’re noticing everything else too - the many jerseys being worn around you, the shouts and cheers, the way you’re crowded more tightly against the bar tonight, because the sports fans are here.
Wonwoo notices you have this little realization and grimaces at you over Seona’s head.
“Sorry, bestie,” he says quietly. “It’s the play-offs. If they lose tonight -”
“I know how play-offs work,” you snap. You feel bad for it before it’s even completely out of your mouth. “Sorry,” you add. “I get very…”
“We know,” Seona says, placing a forgiving hand on your arm. “You’re a very nice girl when Kim Mingyu isn’t on the television.”
You try to do better through the rest of the night. You turn sideways so you can look straight at your friends and keep the television more firmly behind you, but you can’t help but glance at the score every now and then. The game is close.
You haven’t had to care about baseball in over a year, and back when you used to “care” it was only by proxy from dating Mingyu. Of course you wanted your boyfriend’s team to win, back then.
When he broke up with you, you’d thought you’d be stepping blithely away from the baseball world, happy to exist in ignorance again. And mostly, you have - you don’t turn the games on, don’t listen to the radio broadcasts, don’t seek out the clips or interviews. But fourteen months away from Mingyu haven’t been enough to completely chase the habit - you catch yourself watching the numbers in the corner of the screen, some tiny part of your brain trained to pay attention.
To distract yourself, you talk to Seona about her upcoming relocation - she works fully remote, so she’ll be joining Wonwoo when he leaves for his project in Europe. The distraction works well for a while, as you listen to her talk about the apartment they’ll be leasing, the restaurants she’s already scouted, the museums she wants to get to first.
But when the stadium’s lights go out on the screen - Mingyu’s dramatic entrance - you stop mid-sentence to turn and watch.
Most of the people around you do, too. The tvs are muted, so you can’t hear Mingyu’s bass-heavy entrance music, but you know it by heart and it rings in your head as Mingyu strides onto the field.
His team is down by one in the final inning. The opposing team has two runners on base. Mingyu’s job as the closer is to get three outs without allowing either of those runners to make it home.
He’s good at it.
He’s amazing at it, which is why he got signed to this team about a year before your breakup, why his salary is more than years of your own, why everyone in the whole country seems to know his name.
Pride and bitterness wage war behind your ribs - the first one coming unbidden and unwanted, followed by the belated recollection that he isn’t yours to be proud of, not anymore. The bitterness churns through the beer in your stomach, but you still can’t tear your eyes from the screen as Mingyu stands astride the pitcher’s mound.
It burns you up to admit it… but the deepest, most secret place in your heart is still rooting for him. Hoping he does well. Hoping he leaves tonight feeling proud, not dejected.
You want to hate him - you should hate him. But you never really could.
The whole bar seems to hold its collective breath as Mingyu spins the ball in his hand, narrows his eyes, leans forward to peer at the catcher’s hand signals.
The first pitch is a ball, too high.
“Come on, Mingyu,” Wonwoo mutters beside you. You shoot him a sideways look, but you can’t blame him. Not when your own inner dialogue said the same thing. Not when you catch yourself clenching your hands into nervous little fists.
“He’s getting too old for this,” someone behind you says, and Seona grabs your elbow before you can turn around and glare. You shouldn’t be fighting to defend his honor, anyway, not after he left you.
Mingyu’s next two pitches are strikes. The umpire’s shout rings in your head even though you can’t actually hear it. Then, another ball - outside. It’s followed by, thankfully, a third strike.
You exhale. Try to look casual, sip at your beer. Remind yourself that this man broke your fucking heart and you shouldn’t even be watching, let alone feeling anxious for him.
The next batter hits a slow roller towards first base and gets easily tagged out, the first baseman jogging lazily back to his spot after the tag.
Two outs, but the runners who were out there have advanced, meaning now there’s someone on third base eyeing home plate hungrily. The camera pans the crowd, who are going bananas. Mingyu needs one more out, and then his team will have a turn to bat and hopefully score the necessary two runs to pull ahead.
The crowd around you presses closer as the next batter walks up. Conversations hush slightly. The guy’s a big hitter.
Mingyu walks him intentionally, four balls in a row. Smart, probably. A good call. But now the bases are fucking loaded.
The woman to your left covers her eyes with her hands and mutters, “I can’t look.”
Ah, play-offs season. A uniquely beautiful time.
The fourth batter approaches home plate. The camera shows Mingyu’s face for a second, focused and serious, then switches to a wider view just in time for him to throw the first strike.
Two more. He only needs two more.
Your hands tighten around your beer glass as the next ball goes skyward at the sharp crack of the bat- but it lands foul, which counts as a strike.
You bounce on your feet nervously, watching intently as Mingyu lines up the next pitch. He only needs one more strike and he’s done his job. Your body thrums with tension and nerves - the whole room does.
The next pitch zips straight down the middle and the batter swings. The camera tracks the ball up and left, and you find yourself holding your breath.
The third baseman gets underneath it and - that’s it. That’s three outs. Grinning wide and wild, Mingyu returns to his dugout amidst back-thumps and butt-pats from his celebrating teammates.
All the tension leaves your body, replaced with the heady waves of relief. You turn back to your friends, lighter, ready to chat again - but the rest of the room has not relaxed. They all still care - very much - if their home team will score the needed two runs to win.
It turns out, you don’t really care if the team does well. You only care if Mingyu does.
–
You don’t always miss Mingyu, but you do always miss the apartment you’d shared when you lived together. High ceilings, big windows, and the best part: in-unit laundry.
Your new place - the one you rent alone - isn’t bad. It’s cosy, affordable, and conveniently located. Your main complaint is that it’s a third floor walk-up, and the laundry room is in the basement. Which means you have to haul your hamper up and down four sets of stairs every weekend.
You’re distracted today as you make your way down Set of Stairs Number Two with your hamper. You’d seen Wonwoo and Seona off at the airport earlier, and now you’re in a funky mood - a little blue, a lot sorry for yourself.
Wonwoo wasn’t always your only friend. But you’d lost a lot of them in the break-up, and the few that remained had grown distant in the months that followed. It was your fault, not theirs. It turns out when you isolate as a coping mechanism, there are natural consequences or something. Wonwoo had made it through the Dark Ages simply because you saw him at work every day - you couldn’t shut him out, not from 9-5 on Monday through Friday.
For a second, you let yourself miss your old life - lots of friends, laundry nook adjacent to the kitchen, your best friend kissing you goodbye each morning before you left for work. Then you shove the missing down, remind yourself that things are fine now and to stop looking back all the time -
And then you miss a stair.
–
Things seem to happen in a blink. Mrs. Lee in apartment 1F hears you scream and finds you crumpled on the first floor landing surrounded in dirty clothes. An ambulance ride, a clipboard of paperwork, time passing marked by the shift change and a new nurse introducing himself.
You wait for x-ray results, crying on and off - from pain, from frustration, from helplessness. You’re trying to picture what your next few weeks will look like if you end up on crutches. Your apartment is on the third floor. How will you get groceries up there? How will you make food? How will you stand in a shower long enough to get clean?
You have no one to call for help. Your mom is on her little love cruise, and Wonwoo and Seona are somewhere over Europe by now.
Just be a fracture, you plead, eyeing your ankle. It’s already bruised purple and black, and swollen twice as big as the uninjured one. Just be a fracture so they can put me in a walking boot and send me on my way.
The emergency room physician really psychs you out, too, when she pulls back the curtain and says cheerily, “Good news! You won’t need surgery!”
It isn’t the good news you were hoping for.
The bad news, she informs you, is that you have a bimalleolar fracture, meaning two bones are broken in there. Apparently the majority of bi-mal fractures need surgery, so you were lucky.
“Do I get a cast?” you ask. You’re afraid to be hopeful. You just want to hear a medical professional tell you that you can go home, that you’ll be able to navigate the next few weeks independently, that things will be okay.
The doctor grimaces like she knows you won’t like the answer. “I’m recommending a closed reduction,” she tells you, but this means nothing to you. She interprets your blank face correctly, adding, “Basically, I’m going to adjust the bones so they line up and heal in the right spot.”
Your stomach jolts. “That sounds… not painless.”
She nods seriously. “You’ll be numbed up in that area before the procedure, and given a light sedative.”
You frown. “So I’ll be awake?”
She nods again. “Awake, but groggy. You’ll need someone to help get you home,” she informs you, and your heart sinks heavily. This is what you were afraid of.
How do you explain to this stranger that you have no one you can call?
She taps the end of your bed with the clipboard in her hand and promises to return soon, leaving you to puzzle out what to do.
You’re almost considering calling Mrs. Lee, who called the ambulance for you - but you don’t have her number. You were too frazzled and in pain to think of it when the paramedics came. You’ve only ever said hello to her in the hallway a few times since you moved in, anyway - you don’t have the kind of relationship where you feel comfortable asking for this much help.
For a short moment, you consider calling your boss. He’s in his sixties, has a daughter older than you. But the idea of him bringing you to your apartment and helping you up three flights of stairs makes you cringe so hard that your jaw makes a popping noise.
Could you call an Uber and then go up the stairs on your butt, one step at a time? Even if you made it to the top, then what? You have to call someone. You’re going to need help with everything, especially at first.
Your gaze falls on your television screen across the emergency room. It’s playing clips from last night’s play-off game.
Heartbreaking loss, the closed captions read. Apparently the team hadn’t earned their two runs, didn’t pull out the win even after Mingyu’s heroic inning.
Which means his season is over. Which means he’s done traveling, done with interviews, done with team activities and daily practices.
You hate the idea viscerally, even before it fully forms in your mind.
But you know this for sure about Mingyu: no matter how he feels about you these days, no matter what went down between you two… he’ll help. He’ll make sure you’re okay. He’ll make sure you’re safe, that you have what you need.
He might be the fucker who broke your heart, but Mingyu is a good person.
With a sigh, you pull up his contact info. You never blocked him - didn’t need to. Once he ended things, you never spoke again. No petty subtweets, no late night texts, no drunken phone calls - nothing to indicate that he ever thought of you again.
You’re nauseated by the time the call connects and the rings start sounding in your ear. He picks up after the third ring, saying your name like a question instead of hello.
You press fingers to your eyes, suddenly close to crying again. Because this sucks. It hurts - your ankle, and your pride, and your heart.
“Mingyu?” you say, though of course it’s him. His voice sounds exactly the same as it always did - low and calm and steady. “It’s me. I’m… sort of at the hospital.”
–
Mingyu arrives after the closed reduction, which means you are high as a kite from the sedative when he enters your room. He’s got a ballcap pulled low and a mask on - to shield his identity at least a little, you know from past experience - but even drugged up, you know those shoulders anywhere.
Your face breaks into a loopy smile. “Mingoooooo,” you croon, and he winces but steps closer, adjusting his expression to something more polite.
“You’re a mess, huh?” he asks, wryly.
He’d asked you the same question when you’d first moved in together.
“You’re a mess, huh?” as he peered at the laundry draped over your desk chair, washed and dried but never put away. As he picked up the collection of empty water glasses next to your side of the bed. As he learned that you liked to let dishes soak before tackling them.
You’d just blink at him, each time, all innocence. “I’m so cute, though!” you’d joke, at the beginning, and he’d cave and kiss your head and assure you that you were, despite the clutter.
You got better about it after a few months of living with his freakishly clean influence, of course. One of the many ways you’d changed for the better, with him.
Sometimes, since the break-up, you’ll leave things untidied on purpose, just to cosmically spite him. One of the many ways you’ve gotten worse, since he left.
You’re heavily drugged from the procedure on your ankle, so you think nothing of it when you lean into the old joke again. “But I’m a cute mess.”
You miss his second wince.
“I take it she’s got something still in her system?” he asks the doctor dryly. The doctor chuckles, so you laugh, too. It must be funny.
“The sedative will wear off within the next three hours, but the pain medication should last another five. We’ve run another x-ray to confirm that the bones are in the right position,” the doctor tells him. “Once we confirm that they are, then we’ll get her into a cast. Then you can sign her out and take her home.”
The doctor talks over you - to Mingyu - and little snippets of their conversation reach your ears: keep it elevated and dry, here’s the prescription for -, you might also want to get -, six weeks for the cast, follow up in two weeks, she can call to make the appointment…
You don’t remember getting the x-ray results, nor the placement of the cast. You don’t remember being wheeled back down to the lobby, nor Mingyu lifting you and buckling you into his giant SUV.
You’re still groggy when he pulls into your building’s parking lot, but you’re way more coherent.
You blink at the building, a little befuddled. “Did I give you my address?” you ask, because you don’t remember it happening.
“You unlocked your phone for me,” he shrugs. “How do you feel? Does it hurt a lot?”
You shake your head. “It did, but right now I don’t feel it.”
He nods. “Good. That’s good. Let’s… let’s get you inside.”
He gets out of the SUV and walks around to your door. When he opens it, you just stare at him, wide-eyed.
“What?” he asks.
“It’s… my apartment’s on the third floor. No elevator.”
It takes him a second to realize this means he’s carrying you up three flights of stairs. He closes his eyes for a second and exhales, resigned, but when he opens them again to speak he sounds perfectly pleasant.
“We’ll go slow,” he assures you. Then he reaches across you, unbuckles the seatbelt, and lifts you out of the car like it’s nothing.
The first time he’d carried you, it was because your shoes were hurting your feet at the end of a night out. You still remember giggling into his shoulder, your heels dangling from your fingers as he pretended to huff and puff his way to the front door.
You’re not sure when the last time he carried you was. You hadn’t known it would be the last time, hadn’t paid special attention to it, hadn’t known you would want to remember.
Currently, still groggy, you wrap your arms around his neck and hold on tight, but Mingyu doesn’t falter the whole way up.
No one giggles, this time.
He unlocks your front door with one hand - when did he get the keys? - and steps inside, using his shoulder to turn on the light in the entryway. You have no idea what time it is, but it’s dark outside.
“Where’s your bedroom?” he asks quietly, and you are forcibly yanked back in time.
Four years ago, unlocking your door - a different door, a different apartment - unsteadily after a few drinks, Mingyu’s kiss pressing you into the entryway wall, his hands cupping your ass and lifting you until you wrap your legs around his waist. Mingyu murmuring against your jaw, where’s your bedroom? for an entirely different reason.
You swallow back the memory. Your heart thuds, and the nausea has returned. “Past the living room. On the right.”
Mingyu sits you on your bed, leaning you back against your pillows. He adjusts you carefully, then leaves the room wordlessly. You stare at your empty doorway, completely baffled. Fear starts to trickle down your arms like errant raindrops. Is he just leaving you here? Where did he go? Are you alone?
Knowing that your thinking is still a little confused from the sedative and painkiller doesn’t make it any less frightening, and you hear yourself sniffle.
Mingyu’s gone? He left you? Your ankle hurts. Your head hurts.
Large hands are cupping your cheeks, tilting your face back up. You blink away tears and warm thumbs brush them off of your cheeks.
“Hey,” a voice is saying, a bit frantic. “What’s wrong, why are you crying? What happened?”
You squeeze your eyes shut, and your head swims wildly. You’re confused, you’re in pain, the nausea is overwhelming, and the emotions are taking over even if they make no sense.
“Y-You left,” you manage through hiccuped breaths. “I got - I got scared.”
His arms wrap around your shoulders, enveloping you. The hug is awkward - he’s standing and you’re sitting, and he’s clearly trying to not jostle your leg around - but you feel yourself calming. He’s always had that effect on you. You close your eyes and lean into him, letting him hold you up, breathing his familiar scent deeply. It works, your breaths coming less and less as gasps, your exhales shuddering less and flowing more smoothly.
When he pulls away, he tells you, “Hey, look at me.”
You do, hazily. He holds your gaze steadily, one hand remaining against your cheek.
“I’m not leaving you alone,” he tells you seriously. “I will not leave you alone. Okay? Do you understand?”
You nod.
He steps back. Your cheek is warm where his hand had lingered.
“I’m going to your kitchen to get you some water,” he tells you seriously, keeping eye contact like he wants to make sure you’re paying attention. “I’m going to sing the whole time I’m out there. Just listen to my voice, okay? Keep listening, and you’ll know where I am.”
You don’t register him taking his hand from your face, or him leaving the room again, or even the sounds of rummaging in the kitchen. Drugged and exhausted, the confusion takes back over immediately, hitting you with a fresh wave of fear.
Alone. Alone, alone - hungry, in pain, confused, tired, and alone.
Mingyu’s voice finds you, singing something slow and crooning. You turn towards the doorway, following the sound.
Just listen to my voice, okay?
You nod even though no one is there to see you. You listen to his voice - familiar, comforting, able to wreck you and your heart - and after a moment you hum along sloppily, barely catching the melody.
When he returns with your water bottle, he finds you smiling slightly as you join his song.
He smiles at you affectionately as he passes the bottle over.
“You good?” he asks, after you take a long drink. “Need anything?”
“Sleep,” you tell him definitively. He bustles around for a second - plugging your phone in for you, turning off the lamp on your desk - then hovers by the bed again, hesitating.
You’re mentally present enough to catch it.
“Mingyu?”
He grimaces a little. “I’m afraid that if I go sleep on the couch, you’ll wake up scared that I left again.”
That sounds like something you would do, considering the last twenty minutes.
“Can I stay in here with you?” he asks tentatively. “That way, if you wake up, you aren’t alone? I’ll sleep on top of the comforter and just use my own blanket.”
Your heart had lifted and then sank in the same sentence; it feels like whiplash. It feels like a hot air balloon managed liftoff and then got pierced by someone’s slingshot, plummeting to earth again.
“Good idea,” you say, and you hope that if your voice wavers Mingyu chalks it up to your two broken bones. “Spare blankets are in the -”
“Top of the closet,” he guesses, and you scowl at him.
“You don’t know me,” you protest, only teasing a little - a bit you used to do as a couple when you’d read each other’s minds.
He crosses his arms and lifts an eyebrow. “Are they at the top of the closet?”
Your scowl darkens. He laughs at you as he heads into your walk-in to get one.
–
The truth is, Mingyu does know you. Better than anyone else alive - even now, even after over a year of being broken up and not talking. You haven’t changed enough to make that untrue, haven’t let a single soul get close to you the way he once was.
You were together about three years before the end - and they were good years. There’s no other way to put it. You and him… it just worked. You complemented each other in some ways and matched perfectly in others. The balance was just right.
Like the baseball thing. You didn’t give a fuck about baseball, or even sports in general. But Mingyu had brought you around to the world of it. Over time, you’d reached a point where you could enjoy yourself at a game, could lead a conversation about batting averages and free agents. And Mingyu learned about your interests, too - went with you to concerts, book signings, even the occasional convention.
Or, he had, until he’d gotten called up to his current team. The beginning of the end, in terms of the relationship. Just the beginning in terms of his career, his fame, his legacy. The beginning of a life that had no room for you. You both knew it, even if neither of you had ever been brave enough to face it head on.
The first time he’d joined you at a music festival was also the last, because you’d ended up in the tabloids together. It hadn’t said your name, and the photograph the paparazzi snapped didn’t show your face, but the headline had questioned whether his female companion was getting him into trouble.
“We just have to be more careful,” he’d said easily, trying to placate you.
“We weren’t doing anything wrong,” you’d repeated, for what felt like the tenth time. “You weren’t breaking any laws or contract stipulations by going to hear live music.”
He’d shrugged. “We all know what people do at festivals, though, right? We just have to be aware of my image -”
“Your image?” You’d echoed on a laugh, bitterness on your tongue like the ashes of the cigarettes you hadn’t had at the festival - thank god, because that would have been a contract breach, especially if there was photographic evidence.
You don’t remember how the argument got resolved. Maybe it had just fizzled out, set aside as something you both knew couldn’t be untangled. But you do remember that you stopped going out as much, that Mingyu had gotten a little paranoid over the next few months - constantly watching over his shoulder, checking his phone for alerts or messages from his manager.
That wasn’t what killed the relationship, though. Certainly, it helped. But you’d held on through his first year, even when he started essentially hiding your existence because he didn’t want your name in the papers. You’d held on when he was gone for months during the season. You’d held on when he’d had to miss your birthday for a team event. You’d held on through videos of sports interviewers flirting with him in front of the whole world, the microphone held up to their perfect, lipsticked smiles. None of those things were enough, alone, to ruin it. You loved each other - so much. It would take more than that.
It had taken more than that. But it had still happened.
Ironically, it was a night that he chose to bring you into his world that changed things too much for you, that altered the timeline where you’d live happily ever after together.
He brought you to a banquet, a team thing. You’d rented a dress because you hadn’t owned anything nice enough. (Still don’t.)
He’d held your hand, smiled down at you, so handsome. He’d introduced you to the partners of some of his teammates, had squeezed your arm and murmured that he was going to the bathroom (him and the hot girl stomach problems, god) and left you at the bar with them.
“Did he bring you home any gifts yet?” one of them asked you, and you’d started to answer - it wasn’t a gift but you’d gotten a car for the household just last month - when the woman behind her bumped her elbow in playful reprimand.
“Don’t be like that,” she chided, and they both cackled - and you realized, your whole body going hot, that you were the butt of a joke that you didn’t even understand.
“I - uh -” you spluttered, looking around like someone might rescue you.
“Don’t tease her, she’s new here,” another wife or girlfriend or whatever had said, coming up beside you. When she saw your baffled and embarrassed expression, she ducked her head and whispered, “They’re asking if he’s come home with an STI yet.”
Your face grew even hotter, your mouth dropping open in outrage and indignation. You tried to formulate an answer - the word stigma was involved - when the first one spoke again.
“We made it through two seasons before it started,” she mused. “So maybe you’ll have another good year before the shit starts!” She said this with cheerful positivity, like she was saying something good and not predicting when exactly your relationship would devolve into lies and infidelity.
You didn’t have to ask what shit. You’d heard the horror stories.
“Mingyu doesn’t do that stuff,” you’d murmured.
“Yet,” one of them had said, giving your hand a sympathetic squeeze, and then Mingyu had returned, oblivious, sending them scattering like bowling pins.
But the words had snaked beneath your skin anyway.
Not that you thought Mingyu would go full-tilt crazy. You knew his character - he wasn’t a liar, wouldn’t get out of control.
But it was undeniable that his life was about to change drastically. The money, the recognizability, the party scene - they wouldn’t do nothing to him.
Was being with you going to hold him back? Would he start giving you little white lies to make things easier? At what point would it be too many, too much?
Should you even waste both of your time when a checkered finish line was inching closer and closer towards you?
In the end, you hadn’t had to answer a single one of those questions. Mingyu had ended things before you could try.
“Things are changing too much,” he’d said - exactly what you’d been afraid of. He was just brave enough to call it before it happened, whereas you’d been prepared to watch the whole thing burn to ash before finally walking away.
Hurt like hell, even if you’d thought the same thing he had.
Still does, actually. Hurts like hell.
–
Your ankle fucking hurts, but that’s not what wakes you. You wake up because you have to pee, and as soon as you roll over it comes crashing back - the pain is immediate, and your blankets trap you because your ex is asleep on top of them, and you can’t go pee because you can’t walk to the bathroom.
Even sleepy, you feel mentally clearer than you had all day, and the reality of your situation slams into you as hard as you’d slammed into the first floor landing twelve hours ago, bringing angry tears stinging into your eyes.
“Fuck,” you hiss, suddenly furious - furious at yourself for getting hurt, furious at your mother for going on her late-in-life romantic adventure, furious at Wonwoo for leaving you here, furious that you have to ask Mingyu of all people for help - when you hate asking for help in the first place.
“What’s wrong?” His voice cuts through the dark, groggy, and resentment rises in you, as sharp as the pain radiating up your leg.
All you manage in response is a growl.
His hand pats around on the blanket, trying to find you in the dark, until it lands on your thigh. He gives it a quick pat. “What’s wrong?” he repeats. “Is it hurting a lot? You might be able to take more -”
“Shut up,” you command, your jaw clenched, your voice tight with the tears you’re trying to hold in.
Mingyu falls silent, but the energy in the room shifts - he’s awake, now, not groggy and affectionate but watchful and wary. He stares at you through the dark as if he can see you perfectly. It’s like he knows you’re about to lash out at him. It’s like he knows you, knows how you respond to things. Because he does - he knows everything.
And fuck him, honestly. Fuck him for leaving you behind, fuck him for shattering your heart and the life you were building together and walking away from it, fuck him for showing up now when you’re down, fuck him for getting to look like such a good guy helping his ex -
He says your name through the dark, and then you hear him fumble for the lamp.
“Turn that shit off,” you snap, but he isn’t listening. He’s peering at your face, squinting through eyes puffy with sleep.
“Why are you crying?” he asks, a little exasperation creeping into his voice.
Because I hate that I have to ask you for help. You, specifically. I hate it I hate it I hate it I hate it -
“Because I hate you.”
What comes out isn’t the truth, but you’re glad for it, even when you watch him go stiff beside you, his face going carefully blank.
The silence stretches, a thing alive, curling up between the two of you like a lazy cat, rolling to show its belly just so it has an excuse to bite your hand.
“Well.” He turns away from you for just a second, and you watch his throat work. You don’t feel bad. He gives a tiny cough, turns back to you, and deadpans, “Glad we cleared that up.”
You watch him sullenly. You have to tell him. It can’t be helped. “I have to pee.”
He nods, jaw tight, and then he stands and makes his way to your side of the bed. You push the blankets off and he bends to pick you up. You wrap an arm around the back of his neck instinctively - like muscle memory. It makes your breath jump, the pain of it, the agony of your body knowing what it’s supposed to be doing when it’s close to him.
Getting you on the toilet takes work, but eventually Mingyu gets you seated.
“Don’t put weight on that leg when you’re handling your pants and everything,” he warns.
You glare up at him. If you can’t have your dignity, you will have your rage. Or something.
“I’ve got it,” you tell him sourly.
“Clearly,” he snips back, sarcastic, but before he closes the bathroom door he adds, “I’ll be right out here when you’re ready.”
After he gets you back in bed, he picks up the blanket he’d been sleeping under. “I, uh, I think I could probably move to the couch, now,” he says to the floor. “The drugs from the hospital have clearly worn off, so you won’t be confused if you wake up. ‘Kay?”
You blink, breathe, don’t feel rejected.
He doesn’t wait for you to answer, and he doesn’t look back. He closes your bedroom door and leaves you alone with the taste of I hate you on your tongue.
–
The sound of clattering pots and pans wakes you in the morning. You cover your eyes against the bright sunlight streaming around your curtains, taking stock of your situation.
Ankle, still broken, still throbbing in pain. Head, much clearer. Eyes, puffy from crying so much yesterday. Stomach, growling with hunger.
And clearly your ex is still in your apartment, because you can hear him cursing out in the kitchen.
“Hello?” you call, sitting up and trying to fix your hair a little bit. Not like Mingyu didn’t see you with bedhead for three years and change, but still. “Are you robbing me?”
The clattering stops abruptly, and you hear Mingyu’s footsteps approach your bedroom doorway. You can hear the indignation in just the cadence of his footfall.
“No,” he snaps at you, as soon as he’s within eyesight, but there’s no real heat behind it. “I’m making your ungrateful ass breakfast.”
“Well,” you say blithely. You deserve the dig after what you said to him last night, and you know it. You can’t even be mad about it. “My ungrateful ass is starving, so I appreciate that. If you help me out to the table, I can tell you where things are so you don’t have to dig through my cabinets like a grizzly bear at a campsite.”
He rolls his eyes but does as you say, and soon you’re sitting back on a kitchen chair, your ankle propped on a pillow on the chair next to you.
You watch Mingyu work, breaking the silence only to help - “The whisk is in the third drawer”, “the good pan’s buried in the back” - until he busies himself at the stove and you decide to have a conversation with his back. (It’s a nice back. You had always thought so.)
“I’m sorry about last night,” you say. It’s easier, this way - easier to apologize when you don’t have to look him in the eye. The back you’re speaking to tenses.
“For what, exactly?” he asks thinly. He doesn’t turn around, doesn’t even glance over his shoulders at you.
“You know.”
“Apologies don’t count if you can’t say what you’re sorry for.”
You exhale, an unpleasant tingle flooding your body. He’s just parroted one of your own relationship rules at you.
“Don’t quote the old magic to me, witch,” you quip, and now he does turn around, his face stormy.
“Okay!” You hold up your hands in defeat. “I’m sorry I said I hate you. I hate this situation a lot, I hate asking for help, I hate needing someone, and I hate that it’s my ex - but I do not…. totally hate you.”
He watches you for a long moment, and then turns to stir whatever is in the pan. “Not totally? So, what percent?” he asks.
“Ninety-seven.”
“Hmm,” he says, mock thoughtfully. “Even after I carried you up three flights of stairs?”
You pretend to consider this. “Ninety-six.”
“Harsh.”
Him making you laugh makes something in you soften a little. “I’m sorry I couldn’t articulate that the first time,” you say, and this is your real apology, the one he wanted. “I was coming down from all those medications, and I was just feeling a lot and -”
“I know,” he says softly. This means I forgive you. You can still translate him, and you aren’t sure how this makes you feel.
You shrug innocently, as Mingyu comes and places food on the table in front of you, taking the seat across from you and starting to eat.
The first time he’d cooked for you, it blew you away. You hadn’t seen it coming - this big guy, athletic, math-minded. It never occurred to you that he might cook - and well. He’d asked you to his place, and as soon as his front door opened it hit you - the smell making your stomach growl, the candle-adorned table making your heart flutter, the mischievously pleased smile on his handsome face making your knees weak.
No wonder you’d fallen for him, fast and heedless and stupid.
You eat in silence. You’re overwhelmed, feeling too many things. Your ankle throbs - you need to take your morning dose of painkiller. Your head still hurts a little - maybe from stress, from crying yesterday, from the medications.
And your ex is sitting across from you eating breakfast like you’ve stepped back in time three and a half years, when things were still good, like everything is fine between you. Like he didn’t basically leave you for dead, emotionally, a little over a year ago.
It hurts to sit and talk with him, to laugh at his jokes and try to parry them back; it hurts because you had this and living it again feels amazing, feels like actual weight is lifted from your chest, feels like everything you wouldn’t let yourself want for the last three years - but you know it isn’t real.
It’s like all the times you’d dreamed of him - ordinary dreams, nothing exciting at all, but he was there, you were together, he was yours. You’d wake up from them freshly devastated, feeling like you’d lost something all over again.
Now, at your kitchen table, you know this is just an act. You know that when you’re healed enough he’ll go back home and back to baseball - and you’ll be here, alone, with an ankle that twinges when a heavy rain is coming through.
You wonder if this hurts for him, too. Maybe, you think. Maybe it does.
After a bit, Mingyu stops eating, leans back in his chair and looks at you calculatingly. It’s dangerous, that look - it means he’s figuring you out, usually in ways you’d prefer he didn’t.
“I do wonder,” he says thoughtfully, and you fight the urge to roll your eyes as you hear him slide into logistician mode, “why you called me.”
“Mom’s traveling.”
He quirks an eyebrow at you.
You sigh. “She got this new boyfriend? Apparently he’s, like, richer than you, even. He whisked her off on this six-country lovefest. I don’t know. In fact, I try to know very little about it.”
He’s cackling across the table, and you want to be irritated, but you feel yourself smiling.
“Love that for her,” he jokes. “I always knew she had it in her.”
“Mingyu!”
“What?” he laughs. “Good for her! I hope I have that much game in my sixties!”
You scoff at this, but he’s a little right.
“What about Seungcheol?” he prods, once he’s done laughing. “He would have helped, no questions asked.”
Your breakfast suddenly tastes like sand. You try to keep your face neutral as you say, “Haven’t talked to him in a while. Any of the guys, really.”
Mingyu’s too sharp for this kind of evasion. His eyes narrow. “In how long, would you say?”
If your leg wasn’t broken, you’d kick him. He knows the answer. He just wants to confirm if he’s right.
“Little over a year,” you mumble, eyes on your plate.
Mingyu goes quiet.
“It’s fine,” you say emphatically, protesting to something he hasn’t even said. “I didn’t expect them to take my side -”
“There shouldn’t have been sides,” he growls, and you watch him, trying to work out what he’s angry about. That your friends dropped you when he did? That he didn’t know about it? Both?
“It’s fine,” you say again, more gently. “Normally I have Wonwoo and Seona, but he took a work trip and she went with him -”
“Who?”
“Oh.” It occurs to you that Seona came after Mingyu left your life. Only by a few weeks, but still. “She’s been with Wonwoo… about a year. She’s great. You’ll like - I mean, you’d like her. If you met her.”
This slip startles you both into silence. You shovel another bite into your mouth and chew, even though it still tastes like crap - which is not a reflection of Mingyu’s cooking, just your own emotional state.
Being together like this again, sitting down to breakfast like it’s any regular Saturday morning, feels like you’ve both just slipped right back into your old roles, old routines - muscle memory of the heart, or something.
Remembering that it’s nothing like it used to be, that Mingyu isn’t yours and you are certainly not his, is like being doused in cold water.
You eat in silence for a bit, until Mingyu sighs and says, “You’re lucky we lost the playoffs or I’d be across the country right now instead of cooking you breakfast.”
You grimace. “I’m sorry you guys lost. Wasn’t your fault, though.”
Mingyu freezes, his dark eyes meeting yours. “You watched it?”
You feel yourself flush, caught. “I was at the bar with Wonwoo and Seona,” you try to explain. “It was on the tv.”
He watches you silently, taking a bite of his food, waiting you out. He knows how you work.
You lower your gaze, play with your food a little. “Yeah,” you amend. “I watched. You did great. We… we were rooting for you. You had us nervous.”
Something changes on Mingyu’s face; it’s hard to read, even for you. “Well,” he says, and you can hear a bit of bashfulness in his tone, “I appreciate the support.”
“Of course,” you murmur, but you can’t look at him as you say it, your eyes on your plate. “Anyway… I’m sorry. That you didn’t get to move forward to the championships or whatever.”
You hear him huff out a laugh; he knows you know how the tournaments work, knows that your indifference is an act.
“It’s disappointing,” he says. “But we’ll just get ready to tackle next season.”
Now you do look up at him. “This isn’t a presser, Mingyu. You don’t have to give me the hot-mic answer.”
His smile goes sideways. “Fine,” he says, then taps his fork against his plate a few times, as if he needs a second to give himself permission to be honest. “It fucking sucks. I’m pissed off about it.”
Now you smile. “There he is.”
You’d thrown the same line at him when you broke up, this isn’t a press conference, and you wonder if he remembers. But he’d been careful, clinical, diplomatic in ending your relationship, in telling you he was moving out, and it had infuriated you.
This isn’t a press conference, you’d hissed, hands curled into fists at your sides, like you could fight off what he was telling you. You can say the real reason.
He’d shrugged, collected and unreadable, as if the cameras were on him even then, the perfect picture of their Mingyu - the team’s, his coaches’, the adoring public’s. Not yours. Hadn’t been, for a bit.
Now, in your cramped kitchen, he looks like your Mingyu again, cute and pouty, his frown extra pronounced in case it gets him extra sympathy.
The rest of the meal passes in silence. When you’re both done, Mingyu rises and takes all the dishes, stands and washes them at your shitty little sink. You watch his back again, trying to read the tension in his shoulders.
“I’d offer to help,” you say over the sound of running water, “but it’s kind of a task that requires standing.”
He flicks a look at you over his shoulder, just a quick acknowledgement, but doesn’t answer - just keeps washing and drying until everything is done. Then he settles back in the seat across from you, his face pensive.
“Thanks,” you say quietly. You have a feeling you’ll be saying this a lot over the next few weeks. Might as well lean into it, so as to get past the sour taste of it sooner.
You look at each other in silence, both serious.
“So,” you say uneasily, after a few minutes of quiet, “I just wanted to say that I really appreciate you coming to get me from the hospital.”
Mingyu cuts a look at you that means you have a weird way of showing it, but he blessedly keeps his mouth shut.
“Really,” you insist. “You were really nice to me, and made sure I was okay. But I’m good now, not all loopy from the meds, so you can go back home to your real life whenever you want. I’m okay here.”
He stares at you for a minute, that problem-solving look on his face. Right now, you’re a math equation to him, and you fight the urge to squirm.
“Alright,” he says slowly, but you can tell from his tone you aren’t going to like what follows. “So let’s say I go home right now. What are you going to do when you need to go to the bathroom?”
“Hobble.”
“Ma’am.”
You smile despite yourself. It’s so easy to fall back into teasing him.
“Okay, so I need… crutches?”
He nods. “And a shower chair, probably. But even once you have that… even once you can hobble around the apartment… what are you going to do about food?”
“The microwave and I have a beautiful relationship.”
He says your name so flatly it makes you cackle.
“What do you propose, then?” you ask. “I’d be fine here most of the time, it doesn’t make sense for you to stay. You have… a life. I don’t need a babysitter. Honestly, if you could just bring my groceries up once a week, I can figure the rest out -”
His brows furrow. “I don’t like that idea.”
You falter. “I know it’s not the most convenient for you, especially with the stairs… but what else could we do?”
He gives you a look you know well - he’s going to say something he knows you’re going to hate.
“My place makes more sense.”
“Absolutely not,” you say, the words rushing from you with force.
He says your name, a reprimand laced with affection. “Hear me out,” he argues. “I have empty guest rooms on the ground floor - no stairs. Okay, one stair. And I have security, and staff to help us -”
“From the baseball millions.”
“Yes,” he snaps, the first time he’s actually sounded a little pissed. “Yes, I know, my dirty baseball money - how dare I earn a living, how dare I have enough for a housekeeper, how dare I need security systems, how dare I choose a life that isn’t this!” He throws one arm out, indicating your rinky-dink, three-foot long kitchen, and you feel yourself flush hot.
You’re surprised it took this long for an argument to devolve and turn into what you’re really fighting about: the breakup.
“I never said that,” you say darkly, your voice low and coiled.
“You did,” he counters, the heat gone from his voice now that his outburst is over, replaced with something sullen and almost pouty. “Maybe not in those exact words, but you did. You hated seeing my life start to change and you made it very clear.”
You stare back at him, something hot and angry fluttering behind your ribs. “Is that why you left?” you ask, full of venom. “Because I wasn’t being nice enough about your sudden celebrity status?”
He laughs silently, humorlessly - a single puff of air through his nose. “Kind of, yeah,” he says, a bit of hateful laughter still present in his tone. He stands and walks into your living room, and you watch him pull his hands through his hair in frustration, his back to you.
You had meant it as a barb, not as an actual question. But you’re wondering if he’d given you an honest answer anyway.
Focus. Neither of you can afford to do this, to deconstruct the breakup, to autopsy the relationship.
“I’m not going to live in your house, Mingyu.” You say it with as much finality as you can muster.
He sighs, frustrated. “Let me stay here, then.”
“I’d rather chew glass.”
If you’ve hurt his feelings again, he doesn’t show it. “I’ll leave you alone as much as possible,” he offers. “I’ll just pop in once a day, or something. It would just give me some peace of mind to know that if you have an emergency… someone’s around.”
“I won’t have any emergencies.”
“You’re so stubborn,” he mutters, speaking to you less than he’s speaking to himself. Then, addressing you, he adds, “Humor me until your follow-up appointment. It’s just a few days. If everything looks good then, we can revisit the topic.”
Revisit the topic. It makes your insides swim, the formality of it, the way he’s talking to you like you’re a business deal.
You stay silent, giving him neither a yes nor a no.
He gives you an exasperated look that used to be wielded only when you provoked him on purpose.
You deflate. “Fine,” you mutter. “We revisit the topic after my follow-up.”
He nods smartly, pleased, but doesn’t smile about it. “Great.” He pulls out his phone and starts typing. “I’m going to head out for a while and pick up some stuff for you. Crutches, shower chair… groceries? Text me what food you need.”
Something twinges in you, even as he stands, ready for action, ready to start fixing things.
“You’re being really nice to me,” you mumble, eyes on the worn carpet below you.
Mingyu lets out a quiet, breathy laugh. “Maybe it’s penance,” he says.
Your eyes shoot up - you want to ask him what that means - but he’s already clapping a hand against the top of the chair he’d been sitting in and heading away.
After he gathers his things - he used to tease you by reciting keys, wallet, phone every time you left the house because you’d always forget one - and tells you goodbye, you stare around your empty apartment as if looking for a witness to this madness, this sitcom of your life.
Maybe it’s more of a tragedy, actually.
You listen for his footsteps to disappear down the steps out in the hall. You count to a hundred. Then you pull out your phone and call Wonwoo.
“It is six in the morning where I am, in case you suddenly can’t do math.”
“I broke my ankle and had to call Mingyu to get me from the hospital and now he is insisting on continuing to take care of me. He is out buying my crutches right now.”
Silence on the line. You pull the phone away from your face to check that the call didn’t drop. It didn’t.
“Wonwoo?”
“I left you alone for a day,” he laments, disbelief coloring his tone.
“I know,” you whine. “Come save me.”
“Not only can I not do that, I also don’t want to. Now go back to the beginning and tell me what happened.”
–
It takes Mingyu three trips to get everything upstairs - though, to be fair, the shower chair by itself took one trip.
He unloads the groceries, putting everything in its place, leans your new crutches against the end of the couch you’ve been trapped on, and then disappears into your bathroom to put the shower chair in your tiny shower.
(“Does it fit?” you call to him.
“I’ll make it fit,” he grunts back, and you go hot from head to toe and thank every god, universe, everything that he can’t see your face.)
When he emerges, sweaty and huffing, you ask him, “What do I owe you for all that?”
He waves a hand at you. “Don’t worry about it.”
You hate that.
“I will worry about it,” you retort. “I’m not letting you just buy all this shit for me, Mingyu, I am not your problem -”
“I know you’re not,” he cuts you off, not really arguing, but still somehow arguing - a skill you two have always had with each other. “But the cost doesn’t… affect me the way I know it will affect you and I -”
“I’m not your charity case, either!” you snap, suddenly defensive. “I can buy my own groceries, I don’t need my rich ex to swoop in and -”
“I know you resent the baseball money,” he interrupts again, “but I want to do this for you. It makes me happy to do this for you. Please let me.”
You fall into sullen silence. He lets you sulk, knowing you well enough to wait it out. Knowing you well enough to know that when he’s right and you’re wrong sometimes you just need to sit with it for a minute before you let it go.
“I don’t resent that you make good money,” you mutter eventually. “I know I said some bratty things about it, but… that isn’t the problem. I’m happy you’re doing well.”
He makes a face like he doesn’t quite believe this.
You sigh, knowing you have to explain this, but hating the vulnerability it requires. “I don’t resent the baseball money,” you explain. “I resent the baseball life.”
Mingyu’s face is blank. He does - says - nothing, just waits.
You rub your hands over your face.
“Because,” you say, as if he’d asked, which he didn’t, technically, “as much as we both wanted me to, I didn’t belong in it. Okay? I know it’s been a long time, and I’m over it and everything, but does it make me feel better to be petty and bratty about the career that took over and bumped me out of your life? Yes. It does.”
He turns and heads into the kitchen, his back to you once again. You stare at him, wondering at his reaction. You aren’t sure what you’d expected from admitting this - defensiveness, maybe even an argument. Not a shut-down. Mingyu isn’t usually an ice you out type of guy.
Or, he hadn’t been, until the very end.
But he doesn’t respond to what you’ve admitted at all, doesn’t challenge you or press you for more - just continues bustling around your kitchen with a tense, crackling energy that makes you both nervous and itchy to soothe, the way you used to.
The way you slip into old habits with each other fucks with you, lets you forget that you lost him, and then shatters you with the memory of him walking out. Not to mention it’s becoming more and more clear that you’ve both harbored some feelings - anger, resentment, blame, guilt, who knows what else - and the more time you spend in the same room, the more of it bubbles to the surface.
You watch tv and Mingyu cooks you dinner early - “So it’s here later, when you’re hungry” - before getting ready to go home.
You don’t talk about anything else, don’t bring up your past or his present. Mingyu just flits around your apartment until he’s sure you won’t die tonight, and then he tells you goodbye and goes on his way.
Later, after you’re done eating, alone, you make your way on crutches back to your bedroom. You try to read, your mangled ankle propped up on a stack of pillows at the end of the bed, but your eyes are heavy and it isn’t long before you fall asleep.
You must have slept fitfully the night before, because you knock out for hours - when you wake again, it’s dark outside. You blink, then grab your phone to check the time.
Two texts from Mingyu wait to be read.
Call my cell if you need anything tonight. Ringer’s on.
And then, below that, clearly added as a forceful afterthought, Even if you don’t want to. Do it anyway.
–
Of course, falling asleep after eating dinner and waking up near one in the morning means your body had a great nap, and now you’re wide awake.
You try your best to get comfortable and sleep again, to no avail. Sighing in defeat, you click on your bedside lamp and settle in for a long scroll on your phone.
You’ve scrolled just long enough that you’re starting to find yourself in a strange corner of the internet when a DM notification pops up.
Mingyu: i can see youre online
You: 😬
You: well you see… lol
Mingyu: 🤨
You: i fell asleep at like… 8
You: so now my body thinks i just had a very refreshing nap
You: and i am wiiiiiiiide awake
You: whats your excuse?
Mingyu types, then deletes, then types, then deletes. Your eyebrows raise, curious.
Mingyu: couldnt sleep. tried jogging to see if it helped and now im just sweaty and awake. tragic.
You: why cant you sleep?
Again, Mingyu seems to choose between responses, the little dots appearing and disappearing multiple times before his response comes in.
Mingyu: a lot on my mind ig
You: want to share with the class?
Mingyu: lol
Mingyu: not this class
You: ouch
Mingyu: 🤷
It’s strange, feeling rejected by your ex - someone who already left you in every way a person can. When he broke up with you and moved out, Mingyu went from your best friend, the biggest part of your life, to a stranger - leaving emptiness clinging to the corners of your home, your routines, your heart like spiderwebs and dust.
You don’t answer him. You feel weirdly stung, and the feeling is compounded by the fact that you know - logically - it isn’t fair. Mingyu isn’t yours. Mingyu doesn’t owe you his thoughts. Mingyu made it very clear, over a year ago, that he wants to exist without you.
All he’s doing is sticking to the plan. You don’t get to feel hurt by that.
You don’t answer him; you don’t know what to say. But your phone buzzes in your hand again anyway.
Mingyu: how is everything over there
Mingyu: you good right now? need anything?
The hurt softens.
You: i’m fine. just bored lol
Mingyu: you sure? i could swing by with food if you need it
You: its almost 2am mingyu
Mingyu: my phone tells time too
Mingyu: im offering
You take a moment, trying to work out how you feel. Confused, you think, by the way Mingyu seems to push you away and pull you back in the same moment.
It’s almost two in the morning, and the liminal space of late-night-early-morning makes you bold.
You: i dont really understand why youre doing all this
Silence spools out. You wonder if you’ve pissed him off. You wonder if he fell asleep.
When his answer comes, words on a screen, you can hear the tightness in his voice, can hear the dare in it.
Mingyu: doing what, exactly
You take a bracing breath.
You: taking care of me, i guess
No waffling over words this time. His answer flies back.
Mingyu: because the alternative is you do this all alone
So what? you shoot back. So let me. And then, when he doesn’t answer, you add on, I’m not your responsibility, and that’s YOUR choice that YOU made so I just. dont understand.
Just like before, his answer comes in hot.
Mingyu: are we really doing this?
Your pulse jumps, adrenaline spikes.
You: doing WHAT?
Mingyu: pretending that IM the one that left YOU
You’re dizzy, that’s how strongly your fight or flight has kicked in - and it wants you to fight, bad.
You: pretending??????? im sorry, i dont remember packing up MY shit and moving out
You: nor do i remember saying the words “i’m done” or “dont call me”
You: who could that have been???
You: ohhhh right.
You: that would be you.
You wait, blood boiling, furious and dying for a response because sitting alone with your anger feels worse than if this fight were happening in person, where you could see his reaction, yell about it instead of just typing harder.
His answer is glacial.
Mingyu: so we ARE pretending. got it.
Mingyu: thats fine.
Mingyu: call me if you need help. otherwise, i’ll see you tomorrow.
Sleep doesn’t come for you until the sun creeps over the horizon outside your windows, tinting your room pale blue into dandelion yellow.
You’ve only been asleep for about two hours when your front door slams shut, startling you so badly that you jolt in your bed, sending waves of stinging pain up your leg from your shattered ankle.
“Ow,” you hiss. You can hear the telltale clatter and footfall in your kitchen that means Mingyu is whipping up your breakfast. You wait for the throbbing in your ankle to abate to something closer to ignorable, and then reach for your crutches.
It’s a familiar sight, as you lower yourself onto your normal kitchen chair: Mingyu’s back, shoulders tight, his body language letting you know that yes you’re still fighting. But he’s there, even though he’s angry. He still showed up.
“It was just a question,” you say instead of hello. “I think it’s a fair question, actually.”
“My question,” he retorts, whirling around to face you, spatula forgotten in his hand, “is why you would want to antagonize the only person who seems interested in helping you through breaking your leg. Do you see a line of willing friends, lovers, family, or neighbors? No?” His voice is sarcastic and acidic, and you will yourself not to wince. “In that case, maybe you should consider not being such a -”
He cuts himself off. You don’t name-call, even when you’re mad at each other. It’s one of the Old Rules.
You let it slide. Softer, you say, “It was a real question, Mingyu, not an attack. You walked out on me. You told me to stay out of your life. And it’s wonderful that you’re helping me, because you’re a good fucking person, but I just… find myself feeling confused by how much you’re taking care of me.”
His hands lower, the spatula resting near his thigh, but he doesn’t answer this.
You lower your eyes to your hands. You never could look at him when you had to say the hard stuff. Hadn’t been able to look at him the first time you told him you loved him. Hadn’t been able to look at him when you told him goodbye. Can’t look at him now.
“Maybe this just doesn’t hurt you like it hurts me,” you try to reason. “I think that’s why I’m… angry. Antagonizing. It just sucks that it’s easy for you to be around me when I’m… the ankle is nothing. Having to sit across the kitchen from you, acting like everything is normal, like we’re roommates, or friends? That shit hurts.”
Quietly, Mingyu murmurs, “Should I cancel the World’s Best Roommate cake, then?”
“God, Mingyu!” You hate that you’re laughing. “I’m trying to be serious. I’m trying to have a real conversation about this.”
He turns back around and flicks the knob to turn the stovetop off, sets the spatula on the counter, and calmly takes the chair across from you, his long legs stretched out sideways because they barely fit under your table.
“It isn’t easy for me,” he admits. You let yourself look at him again, emboldened. He laughs, a little self-depricating. “I can’t even be normal with you, I want to just bundle you up and bring you home and… and… fix everything. It’s awful. It’s not allowed. But I can’t seem to stop.”
You watch your hands on top of the table, watching your fingers grasp each other tightly. “Why not?” you ask.
It’s a dangerous question. The tension shifts around you like oil in water, seeping into the empty spaces, pushing to make room where it needs to.
“You know why,” Mingyu says quietly. Your heart stops. Or, well, that can’t be possible, but it feels like it. Your chest feels so tight that inhaling seems like a herculean task.
“No I don’t,” you say, your voice thin and tiny. “That’s why I’m asking.”
He says your name, flat, calling you on the lie.
Frustration claims you. “No I don’t,” you insist. “Because it seems like you’re saying some version of you still care about me - or something like that -”
“Something like that,” Mingyu murmurs, like it’s a joke he wants to repeat.
You barrel over him. “But that can’t be right, Kim Mingyu, because if you still felt something like that, that would make absolutely no sense considering that you are the one who left.”
He rolls his eyes and you slap your hand on the table, leaning forward, fury carrying you as close as you can get to leaping to your feet, considering the broken ankle.
“God, you’re impossible!” you snap. “What is that reaction? Am I wrong? Am I telling a lie? Did you or did you not pack up and move out?”
“I did,” he says, so evenly and lightly that it makes you angrier.
“Okay!” you burst out. “So you can see why I might be confused.”
Mingyu eyes your ceiling, exhaling lightly. “Yes, I think I understand why you’re confused. I’m just not sure we should really be having this conversation right now.” He looks at you in that familiar way of his, like he’s solving puzzles you can’t even see.
“Why?” you demand.
He shifts his mouth guiltily. “I think it’s just going to… hurt. To dredge everything up. To talk about… the end.”
You’re still bristling with annoyance, but you try to consider what he’s saying. He watches you carefully, his manner still a bit cowed, like he’s regretting this entire topic.
Finally, you tell him, “Listen, I’m already hurt. I was hurt when you left, and having you around is somehow worse. So if you don’t want to talk about this for your own sake, then fine. But I’d rather hear what you have to say, if it was up to me.”
He wiggles his mouth around, regretful in advance.
You tap your knuckles on the table absently. “Maybe understanding better will help me… feel better,” you say quietly, eyes on your hands again.
His expression flutters like he very much doubts this, but he reins it in. Then, he looks at you flatly, displeased with the decision you’ve made, displeased with laying this at your feet.
“Fine,” he says, brittle. “Yes, I’m struggling with this because I still have feelings for you. Yes, I was the one who left. But if we’re having an honest conversation right now, then we both know that maybe I said the words… but I did that because it’s what you wanted.”
Your temper flares - calling you to demand he explain himself, calling you to defend yourself against the claim. But Mingyu’s words are heavy - weighed down with years of the truth he’s held by himself. He isn’t saying them lightly. He isn’t playing a game. Whether you agree with him or not, they’re true to him, and this version of the truth has hurt him, and you owe it to him to hear it.
You bite back whatever retort your temper queued up. “There’s no world in which I wanted you to break up with me,” you say hollowly. “So, I’d really like to know why you thought I did.”
His expression falls, his eyes close for a moment. “We don’t have to do this,” he says, pleading, his expression taut. “We can just let it go.”
Too late for that, you think. You shake your head instead, not trusting your words to be soft, to come out like solid bedrock and not like flint, ready to spark.
He heaves a heavy, defeated sigh. “You pushed me out,” he says simply. “I tried for months to fight you on it, to push back. You shut me out, and eventually I realized I was clinging to… ashes.” He demonstrates, open a fist, and you almost expect to see the ruined sands of your dead relationship slide between his fingers. “You didn’t want to be with me anymore, but you didn’t have the heart to end it. So I did the hard thing for you. Like I always have. Like I always will.” His voice is raw as he says this. It is clear he has thought these words many times, late at night when he’s alone and reviewing the footage of the collapse in his mind.
You don’t know what to say, what to address first. “That’s not true,” you whisper finally. “That’s not what happened.”
Mingyu’s gaze flits to you for only a second, and then he pushes himself out of the chair and stands.
He slides his hands into his pockets and stares at you, his favorite math equation. “I know you pushed me away,” he says again, like it’s so simple. He gives a tiny shrug. “If you say that wasn’t what happened… maybe the truth falls somewhere in the middle.”
He steps backwards, away from the table.
“Don’t go,” you beg. The words burst from you without warning; you would have never let them out if you’d known they were coming. You hadn’t begged when he left the first time. You hadn’t fought for him at all.
Maybe that was part of the problem. This is the first piece of evidence that maybe he’s right.
He shakes his head. His throat moves, and his gaze hovers around your broken ankle. “I need to,” he says, and his voice is tight. “I’ll come back tonight to make sure you have dinner and everything. Okay?”
“Mingyu,” you say. It’s still a plea. It’s desperate, but it’s years too late.
“I’ll be back tonight,” he assures you, one hand on the doorknob, his gaze still nowhere near your face. You ache, suddenly, in a way you hadn’t even when he left the first time.
“Don’t,” you whisper, but the word is barely audible because you’re fighting tooth and claw to hold it in. You’re not sure your lips even part for the word.
He leaves without looking back, just like he did over a year ago.
–
Once he’s put it in your head, you can’t stop thinking about it. You can’t stop turning over every moment in your last year together and examining its underside.
It looks different than it ever did, now.
All the nights that you went to bed before Mingyu came home from work, and pretended to be asleep when he checked on you. All the events he’d invited you to that you’d begged out of, claiming work was too hectic. All the phone calls you’d let go to voicemail, had answered hours later with only a text. All the mundane, daily stories about your life that you’d stopped sharing with him. All the times you’d rolled your eyes or made bratty comments as his fame and salary started creeping higher.
All ways to prepare yourself to lose him, eventually. All ways to make yourself need him less, so when it happened, you’d be ready.
Had they added up to Mingyu feeling like you’d placed him on the outside?
A tenderness behind your ribs, like a bruise in a place that finds every piece of furniture as you walk, answers you with how could it not?
He was right - you’d pushed him out, made him feel so outside that he thought you didn’t want him there at all.
“Crap,” you murmur to your empty apartment.
When he returns, a bag of take-out in his hands for dinner, he enters the apartment quietly, with audible trepidation.
You look at him over the back of the couch, baleful eyes wide. He smiles when he catches sight of you, like the affection he feels has caught him by surprise.
“What?” he asks, mouth quirking.
“I’m sorry,” you mutter into the crook of your arm.
He places the bag of food on the table and raises an eyebrow. “Excuse me? I didn’t catch that.”
You huff. “I’m sorry,” you repeat, just slightly louder. “I’m sorry that I… didn’t know you felt that way.”
The smile falls from his face. “That’s what you’re sorry for?” he asks, like he wants you to check your work before you turn it in.
“No,” you admit sourly. “I’m also sorry for making you feel that way in the first place.”
“So, why did you?” he asks easily, head cocked.
You cover your face with your hands, peeking through your fingers at him. “Because it just felt inevitable,” you tell him. “You were hiding me from the press, your life was getting so much bigger, your name was all over the internet… it just felt like something that was going to happen no matter what. Your life was going to move on to a place I couldn’t follow. I just… I was looking ahead and…”
You trail off, but Mingyu picks up your sentence.
“- and making up monsters in the shadows that maybe weren’t there,” he fills in, his voice still affectionate even as it inches towards cutting.
You grimace. “Well, yeah,” you admit. “That’s what I do.” Then, you add a bit petulantly, “You used to slay those monsters for me.”
Mingyu crosses the room slowly, perches on the arm of the couch. “So maybe it’s a little bit my fault,” he muses. “For conjuring up more. For not being there as much as I should have.”
You shrug. “Maybe fault doesn’t really matter right now.”
He meets your eyes. “Maybe. But I… I wish you had told me you were scared.”
You look away. “I didn’t want to say it. I knew you didn’t deserve my doubts, but I couldn’t stop having them. So I… kept them to myself. Tried to make it only my problem.” This is the truth you couldn’t face for over a year since losing Mingyu. But you’d known it, somehow.
He mutters something under his breath that sounds like hard-headed.
“I’m sorry,” you say again. “I handled it all wrong.”
He meets your gaze. “I am, too. For my part in it.”
You stare at each other, at a loss.
“Well, now what?” you finally ask. “You’re having… feelings… again?”
“I don’t know if again is very accurate,” he murmurs, voice low.
You swallow, eye your ceiling, seeking strength. “Do you… want to act on those feelings or… are we just… acknowledging them?”
He watches you steadily. “What do you want?”
You huff an exasperated laugh. “You’re so impossible,” you mutter. “Throw me a bone, here, Mingyu. You left me - I understand your reasoning and my own fault in it, but do I really have to be the one to beg, now, after all that?”
A delighted smile takes over his face. “Are you begging?” he asks, like he’s so pleased to hear it.
You growl at him. “I am rethinking -”
“Okay, okay!” he laughs. “I’d be open to trying again if you wanted to.”
Trying again. What would that look like? Starting over? Starting where you left off?
Maybe it doesn’t really matter, right this second. Maybe there’s time for that later - time to say you can’t hide me from the world this time, time to say I promise to tell you when I’m feeling nervous about something, time to say I know this is hard, but I’d rather do the hard stuff with you than anything easy without you.
“You gonna stand over there and look at me, or are you going to do something about it?” you ask in a grumble.
“You didn’t actually tell me you want to,” he points out.
“Mingyu, I am this close to coming after you with my crutches.”
He laughs again. “You’re too easy to rile up,” he says, sauntering closer. Something familiar, long-dormant, simmers in your belly. “I kind of missed that.”
“Hmm,” you say, the frustration and anger and months of hurt ebbing away as he approaches. “Tell me what else you missed.”
He sits heavily on your wooden coffee table to be eye-level with you again, leans forward, and catches your mouth with his. It is just how it used to be. It is like no time has passed at all. It is like saying welcome back.
It is everything.
–
Mingyu’s face is on the tv again.
It’s an old interview, from back before the season ended. You’ve seen it before. Still, your physical therapist leans closer, whispers conspiratorially, “Isn’t he dreamy?”
You smile back, but don’t say anything. You and Mingyu’s rekindled relationship has been steady, but slow - neither of you wanting to rush it, mess it up by being sloppy.
She sets you up with ice and puts the timer where you can see it; when it goes off, you can remove the ice, put your ankle brace back on, stop at the front desk to pay your co-pay, and order your ride home.
As you stand, babying your healing ankle, waiting for the receptionist to hand you back your debit card, the physical therapy room goes silent and then erupts in hushed whispers. Alarmed, you look around.
Mingyu stands in the doorway, sending you one of his most bone-melting smiles.
“Would you like a ride home?” he asks, pretending to be oblivious to the reaction in the room.
“Uh,” you say, eyes wide, not even noticing that the receptionist is pushing your debit card back into your lifeless fingers. “Yes?”
You hobble closer, looking at him nervously.
“Mingyu,” you whisper, casting a glance over your shoulder. Everyone is staring at you, even the old ladies on the stationary bikes. “Everyone here knows who you are. We’ll be a headline.”
He nods, looking thoughtful, like he’s considering the weight of your words. “Guess we better make it a good one, then,” he muses, and then he sweeps you off your feet - literally - and carries you bridal style all the way to the car.
“I can walk,” you hiss, your face aflame, but your smile is a thing alive and you can’t tamp it down.
The headlines come before you're even awake the next morning, your texts and social medias flooding with messages from old friends and acquaintances alike:
Star Pitcher Kim Mingyu Puts Dating Rumors to Rest - “Yes, we’re together.”
(where the ex-boyfriend who broke your heart shows up as your new coworker after 4 years)
pairing: lawyer!chan x lawyer!fem!reader
genre: lovers to exes to coworkers to ?? | angst, fluff, smut
rating: explicit, minors DNI
wc: 20.1k
warnings: aged up chan (he and reader are about 29), this story vaguely uses the american legal system, some flash backs/time jumps (for the lovers to exes part), they were both kinda idiots, poor communication, ambiguous relationships (reader), eating, drinking, soooo much kissing, teasing, fingering, oral sex (f. rec), nipple play, implied/kinda fade-to-black sex, that's it i think
a/n: endless thanks to @haologram for her patience with me because i really don't know why this took me so long. this is part of her amazing don't hate, litigate collab. i love you so much alta! we'll call this a happy birthday month present. thank you to my bby @joshujin for creating this amazing banner (and 6 other options because she's insane).
Your assistant knocks on the frame of your office door and pokes her head in. She’s got a concerning smile on her face that instantly makes you nervous about whatever she’s about to say. You and her had connected the second you hired her and you can read her facial expressions well. Right now, it’s giving news that’s going to make you mad. She, on the other hand, doesn’t look apologetic about the news at all.
“Why do I feel like I’m about to hate whatever you’re about to say to me?” you ask, leaning back in your chair.
“Because you’re good at reading me,” she offers without any apology.
“I swear to god if you tell me that client rescheduled again, I will fling myself from the roof,” you say with a sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose.
Taylor lingers in your doorway without losing her smile. Which is a good indicator that whatever she’s about to say isn’t that. “No, but it might be worse. So, the stairs to the roof are down the hall, second door on the left.”
“Funny,” you bite. She comes into your office and closes the door behind her.
“We’ve got a new hire starting on Monday,” she carries on without you asking.
“And that concerns me, why?” you ask, returning to your computer and falsely figuring she got this one wrong. The closed door seems like overkill for a new hire, but what do you know?
“Because he’s going to be in our division. Everyone is whispering about him. About how good he is at closing cases and how attractive he is,” she offers, still keeping at least something to herself.
You fix her with an unimpressed stare. “Don’t tell me you’re already drooling over another attorney that you haven’t even met yet.”
“No, I know we have a no-dating…” she starts and you roll your eyes.
“I could not possibly care any less about that. Date whoever you want,” you say without looking up at her. “But, dating an attorney is exhausting. 0/10, would not recommend.”
“You know, I’m so interested to learn more about why you feel that way,” she says. This, finally, makes you wonder where she’s going and makes you meet her eyes again.
“It’s been a long week, Taylor, I’m going to need you to start connecting some dots,” you relent.
“Oh, you know, I was just thinking you always talk about how you’d never date another attorney and I just think it’s so…interesting that we have someone else from your law school starting at the firm on Monday,” she says.
That’s enough to make your eyes go wide and your blood run cold. “What’s the name of the new hire? The partners never mentioned it.”
“Lee Chan,” she says with a knowingly sympathetic look. For a second, you think you forget how to breathe. And then you’re a million miles away.
What the actual fuck is Lee Chan doing accepting a position with your firm after all these years? What kind of game is he playing? It seems cruel to be doing this now. Or maybe you’re overthinking it. Maybe it doesn’t have anything to do with you. After all, isn’t it a bit conceited to think that Chan coming to one of the best firms in the country has anything to do with you? What you do realize is that you have a lot of unresolved emotions to get over. There are probably just as many unanswered questions.
Of course, this would all be a lot easier if the person joining your firm wasn’t the same one you still thought about. Your hypothetical one who got away.
This definitely makes work a lot more complicated.
Offers are starting to come in for all the 3Ls and everyone is nervous. Everyone wants to know that they’re going to have something lined up for after graduation. Everyone wants to get their top choice. It’s competitive, but so is everything else about law school so it doesn’t really feel surprising. You and Chan manage to navigate it as well as two people in a relationship during a stressful time can. Neither one of you really talks about how you both applied to some of the same places. Or how the two of you are competing for your top option. What you do talk about, though, is how you plan to navigate the potential distance.
“What happens if we get jobs that put us on opposite sides of the country?”
The question makes you look up sharply at your boyfriend. You’re lying on the couch with your feet in his lap, reading a book for fun. A welcome change for the law books you’re normally reading. His book sits discarded on the arm of the couch and he’s watching you intently. You mark your own page and sit up so that you can have an actual conversation.
“I thought we were mostly applying in the same areas,” you begin, dipping that toe into the water.
He frowns for a second. Like somehow this is a test and you don’t have the right answer. “Well, we did. But, we both need to take the best options before us, right?”
“I’m not asking you to put me above your career, Chan,” you say with exasperation.
“What does that say about our relationship if you’re not asking that?”
“That we both understand what’s at stake in the next few years of our lives. That we both know how important our placements are in the first year after finishing law school.”
“Or that it’s not built to last,” he says under his breath.
There’s no malice in the statement and you can hear it for what it is. Apprehension. Nerves. He’s worried about your future, both together and individually, as professionals. You’ve watched the way other relationships between law students have played out during your first two years at school. It’s easy to bond over shared experience. But, the reality remains. Everyone in law school is competitive or you wouldn’t be there. Everyone is at least a little bit Type A. In a field that is, theoretically, built on compromise, sometimes compromising in personal relationships is the hardest part.
It’s not time to get quite that serious, though. Not in your eyes. You slide over on the couch so that you can cross your legs and have them press against Chan’s thigh. With one of his hands in yours, you give him a look full of feeling.
“I love you, Chan,” you say and watch the way some of the tension melts away. Like he needs to hear that reassurance. Even though the pressure of the program should feel familiar, it’s still nice to remember that you have each other.
“I love you, too.”
“I know everything is kind of up in the air right now, but we’ll figure it out.”
“But, what if that means that there’s a country’s worth of distance between us?”
The unsaid words are plain as day behind the question. Your law school classes aren’t small, but it’s also not like university. You know everyone. Hear everything. Have too many stories of former classmates in the years ahead of you. The first year after graduating is tough. Important. There’s just over two months between graduation and sitting for the Bar exam. Then, you have to actually figure out how to practice. Depending on your area, that can mean insanely long hours as the lowly first year associate. There’s barely enough time to sleep or eat a balanced meal. Add in long distance and, well, you can see why Chan looks the way he does.
“Can we cross that bridge if we get to it?”
“Yeah, of course,” he says, but you see some of the tension return. You run your thumb along the back of his hand you’re still holding.
“Whatever happens, we’ll figure it out,” you assure him, speaking more to his hand because the emotions are hard. “You’re my best friend. I never thought I would feel this way. It’s like you slid into my life so quietly I didn’t realize. We’ll figure this out because we’re us.”
“I knew you’d fall for me,” he jokes. When you look up, his eyes sparkle in that way you love. In the way that makes the worries slip away, even for just a second.
“You’re persistent,” you concede with an eye roll.
“Come here.”
He pulls you into his body. You settle into his side like you have countless times before. At least for the time being, things feel like they’re going to be okay. Like you really can figure it all out as long as you have each other. The road ahead may be difficult. It may have cost countless relationships before. Maybe it’s naive, but you feel like you’ll be the ones who really can figure it out.
Some of the initial optimism about you and Chan fades once the offers start to trickle out. Everything about your future depends on where you end up after graduating. At least, that’s how it feels when you’re in the thick of it. When you hear from your top choice and it’s the equivalent of being put on the waitlist for a university, it crushes you. It’s competitive, you know that. Yet, you felt so sure. Your summer positions and letters of recommendation are top notch. It’s also in the exact right area that you and Chan think would be perfect for post graduation.
Of course, you have other options. You’ve worked your ass off in classes, sacrificed free time. All the while knowing that the end would justify the means. Now, you have to decide if you should wait to see if you end up getting an offer or just accept another choice. It’s everything you want and part of you thinks that it’s worth waiting. But, you also know that if you wait, you risk losing out on a guaranteed position. It’s hard to talk it out with Chan, too, because he says that he hasn’t heard from your top choice at all. You know he applied. Know that he’s an excellent option for them to hire as well. It feels cruel to talk to him about something that he wanted as well. If the positions had been reversed, you try to wonder what you would tell him. Try to wonder if you could be happy for him getting your dream position. You want to think you could.
Ultimately, you do talk to Chan about it because he’s your best friend and your biggest confidant. You want to know what options he has heard from and he wants to know the same as you. It makes your heart drop to know that one of the best offers he’s gotten really is across the country from your dream firm. Not that you didn’t know he applied, because you did, but he didn’t seem to think he would get it. Things feel even more real when he encourages you to not make any immediate decisions. He knows you can’t wait too long. Just thinks that it’s worth really thinking things through. Surely, people will be making their own decisions soon and maybe it means that your dream spot opens up.
It ends up being eerily prophetic. Two days later you get a call offering you the position. You know that you should tell them you need to consider it. Know that you shouldn’t make it obvious this is what you’re waiting for. Know that you should remember you weren’t the first choice.
You don’t.
Everything goes out the window and you accept the position right then and there. At least the person on the other end of the phone seems friendly. Not overly judgmental at your enthusiasm. It’s probably a good thing, after all. You’ll get your formal offer via email and more information closer to graduation.
Chan has his computer on his lap when you get back to your shared apartment. It’s still a bit of a weird feeling, sharing a space with him for your last year of school. As soon as he hears the front door shut, he looks up. Sees your face and it’s like he knows. Only smiles and asks if you got it. All you have a chance to do is nod enthusiastically before he jumps up and collects you into his arms. Peppers kisses all over your face and declares that the two of you need to celebrate. Everything feels light and easy again. Like you really can take on the world.
There’s another bump in the road when the high of getting your top choice wears off. Chan talks to you about which firms he’s gotten offers from and you realize what post graduation is going to look like. You encourage him to accept the position that puts him a plane ride away from you with a smile. With assurances that you’ll be fine, which you’re not sure either of you really believe. One thing is certain, though. Although he has options that put him closer to you and your firm, he can’t take them. Can’t even think about them. Because if he takes one of them, it’ll only be so he can stay close to you. It might seem fine at first. Maybe it seems fine forever. You just can’t take the chance it ends up causing resentment.
So, you have the conversation you didn’t want to have earlier. Realize just how much better life is with each other than it is separate. It’s going to be tough, but people survive distance in their relationships all the time. There’s FaceTime and you can plan trips. Can even do a lot of work remotely. That’s one thing you can thank the pandemic for. And before you actually start the positions, you can be each other’s support systems while studying. The prep courses all have online options. Who better to watch your mental breakdown over studying than someone else going through the same thing?
It all feels cautiously optimistic. It’s going to be hard, but you’ve already been together since your second semester of your first year. Going on two years already. And you have until the summer to be together every day. To iron out any of the details. To make plans for after graduation. And, most importantly, just enjoy the time where it’s easy to be by each other’s side.
You spend your last weekend before Chan becomes unavoidable wondering how to move forward. Although you don’t work with anyone else you graduated with, the legal community is small. Everyone knows where you went to school and what year you graduated. Even your assistant is able to put it together that you know Chan. Admittedly, she does know you better than most at the firm. At times she’s kind of like a diary. Still. Nobody at the firm knows about your history.
Four years ago, at the end of your final year of law school, Lee Chan took away a future for the two of you that seemed all but certain. That’s why you avoid being anywhere that he is at all costs.
Whoever says that time heals all wounds obviously doesn’t know what they’re talking about. Dulls them, sure. Teaches you how to get on with things. Teaches you what to look for in the next relationship. You’re not sure you’re healed, though.
Proving she knows you far better than she should, your assistant guesses correctly. Chan is the reason you don’t date other attorneys. Yes, it’s an ex relationship from law school before becoming attorneys. Still, the rule applies. After all, school isn’t what caused things to fall apart. You can’t help but think about when things were still good. Full of that cautious optimism that you could face whatever comes next together. It’s funny, in hindsight, how typical it all feels now.
As they say, though, the only way out is through. You try to keep hold of that energy as you prepare for a new week where you’ll get (re) acquainted with a new coworker. Try not to overthink that he’s going to be joining your team. Really, how else could it go? It’s not like the universe could take it easy on you and at least send him to another team. Not like you can fault him for wanting to come to a firm with so much name recognition. A firm, you remind yourself, that he also wanted four years ago.
When you wake up before your alarm, you figure you might as well do something with the nervous energy that won’t leave you alone. You don’t usually put a lot of effort into getting ready on the days you know you’ll just be in the office. It’s also the first Monday of the month, which means that the day starts with a team meeting run by your senior partner. You’ll be seeing Chan first thing in the morning. That’s definitely not the reason you take a little extra time picking out your outfit and doing your makeup, though. And definitely not the reason you woke up early.
Another positive about waking up a little earlier is that you have plenty of time to go to the good coffee shop. It’s not out of the way. It’s just popular. While you’re waiting in line, you fire off a quick text to your assistant telling her that coffee and a treat is on you, but she’ll have to wait to see what it is. You at least bring her coffee frequently, a fact that apparently makes some of the other assistants envious. Unfortunately, there’s not much you can do about the other attorneys beyond encouraging them. Taylor saves your ass on a weekly basis and you would be completely lost without her. Coffee seems like the very least you can do.
(When you actually get to the office and find her desk, you’re regretting your decision a little. Taylor wouldn’t be the best assistant imaginable if she didn’t know you inside and out. Of course it’s too much to ask that she let you live. No. Instead, she’s roasting you for looking so nice for the monthly meeting before she even thanks you for the coffee and pastry. Doesn’t actually thank you until you’re turning around to go into your office.)
Once it’s time for the meeting, you head over to the big conference room with Taylor since the first part is for the full staff before just the attorneys meet to catch up on the month ahead. You can feel Chan’s presence when you walk into the conference room before you see him. Or maybe it’s that you can feel a different energy. Others on the team are interested in meeting the new addition, which makes it easier to just quietly grab your seat. Taylor, thankfully, keeps her face impassive. For all the times she clowns you privately, she never does it when others could be involved. It’s part of why you love her so much.
You can’t stop yourself from glancing over at Chan, though. He looks exactly the same and somehow entirely different. His warm eyes still light up in the same way you remember when he smiles. Older though. Maybe a little bit wiser. But, his eyes still crinkle in the same way when he laughs. He’s still got that smile that makes everyone around him want to smile. His style is still mostly the same, just more expensive. Designer suits replacing something off the rack. Yet, he does it in a subtle way. Something unassuming that makes him seem quietly confident rather than arrogant. His hair isn’t dyed anymore, which makes sense in the situation. You’re just glad to see that he hasn’t cut it too short either.
It takes a moment to clock that he notices you looking at him. You spare him a small smile. One that would only seem forced to someone that knows you. Then, you cast your eyes down at the agenda on the pretense of finding it interesting. Ignore the way Taylor shifts from her position next to you. You can do this. There isn’t a choice. You’re going to get through this meeting and then continue to get through it all one day at a time.
The first part of the meeting is the same as always. Nothing remarkable. Nothing worth noting. Well, except for the senior partner praising Taylor for stepping up to help with a few cases. You had already taken her out to say thank you (on the firm’s dime), so this just feels like a way to boost her confidence even more. The next month doesn’t seem to be out of the ordinary, all things considered, so the first portion of the meeting runs quickly.
The second half is a little more difficult to get through. Once it’s only the attorneys, it’s harder to ignore Chan’s presence. Especially given that a large part of the meeting focuses on him stepping into his new case load. He’s replacing another associate, Henry, that decided to quit the legal field entirely out of the blue. Too burnt out. Not enough work-life balance. Just not his speed. It’s the usual list of reasons. He had, at least, stayed on long enough to tie up loose ends enough for the firm to find a replacement. That’s where Chan gets to come in. If he minds, he doesn’t show it. Only seems eager to prove himself. Your senior partner seems delighted. You wish that you had someone to turn to for support.
By the time the meeting winds down, you think that you might have managed to get out relatively unscathed. You still have to work with your ex. His office is still going to be right next to yours. But, you don’t have to interact with him beyond the niceties. Then, the senior partner calls your name as everyone gathers their things and your heart sinks.
“Yes?”
He turns to Chan with almost a fatherly smile. Of course. There’s always a familial smile when another man joins the team. You almost bite the inside of your cheek to help keep a neutral expression. To turn off the subtitles that your face comes with, as Taylor would put it. It’s a perfect mask when your boss turns back to you.
“I hear you and Chan were in the same class,” he starts and you feel the forced smile slip into place.
“That’s right,” you say in a falsely cheery tone.
“Why don’t you show our new ace around?”
“Oh, I…”
“I wouldn’t want to be a burden,” Chan interjects and throws you an unreadable look. “I’m sure everyone here is busy.”
“Oh, nonsense. Nobody here knows Henry’s case files better than her. Those two were always putting their heads together. My best duo on the team.” the senior partner says. “His assistant will be able to get you to a point, but it’s good to have another set of eyes. What do you say?”
“Of course,” you answer after a moment. “Anything for the team.”
“Great,” he says and claps Chan on the back. “I’ll just leave the two of you to catch up.”
“So,” Chan says as soon as the door closes. Sticks his hands into his pockets and looks down. Like he’s the one who’s got the right to feel anything here.
“Henry kept things really organized and his assistant is actually great if you want to keep her,” you say.
“Oh, yeah. Well, I said I would.”
“Great. Your new office is this way.”
You walk past him without a second glance and trust that he’s following you. A moment later, he falls into step and you point out the different areas he might need. Conference rooms, a room with physical law volumes and past case law if he wants hard copies, one of the break rooms that’s closest. He nods along, but doesn’t say much.
When you reach his office door, you push it open and indicate for him to step in before you. It’s relatively sparse since Henry moved out of it. He left behind the desk, chair, and wooden cabinet that the firm paid for, as well as his own couch and coffee table.
“I’m sure the partners spoke to you about a budget if you’d like to replace anything,” you say, casting your eyes over the space. It feels empty, cold. Henry kept so many personal touches and reminders of life outside the office that you weren’t surprised when he shared that he was leaving. Your boss also hadn’t been lying. It’s hard to make friends at work, but Henry definitely qualified.
“They did,” he confirms as he looks around. His eyebrows knit together and he frowns a little. “I like what’s already here, actually. It feels…”
“Functional?”
“Familiar.”
“Oh.”
He turns to look at you and it’s the first time you realize you’re not the only person struggling in this situation. You take a deep breath before you can meet his eyes again.
“I, uh, I helped him pick it out,” you say and Chan raises his eyebrows. “The furniture.”
“Makes sense why it feels familiar.”
Part of him looks uncomfortable at the conversation and it takes you a minute to realize why. You’re speaking before you can even consider why it matters for him to know you were only friends.
“His partner absolutely vetoed taking it with him when he quit. Said they didn’t need reminders of the office,” you say with a fond laugh. Watching Henry meet his partner and fall in love had been wonderful.
Chan seems a little lighter, yet still unsure. “Sounds like he found what he was looking for.”
Your final year of law school hasn’t been easy, by any stretch. What they say is true, though. Your first year scares you to death. Second year works you to death. And third year bores you to death. So it hasn’t been easy, exactly. But, you feel like you’re sitting well with a job locked in (as long as nothing crazy happens with final grades), classes that feel more manageable, and a boyfriend that you love more than anything by your side. Every once in a while, you get a nagging feeling in the back of your mind. Like there’s something you should know or something you missed. You chalk it up to nerves about the future. As someone who likes a plan and likes to know what’s coming, it’s a little unnerving at times. Even with as prepared as you are. It’s impossible to plan for everything.
That becomes painfully obvious when you’re meeting with your advisor at the end of the year. She’s been a pillar of support for you over your time as a student. It’s been a different relationship to the ones you’ve had with previous advisors. Probably because she knows that you’re about to be an equal and treats you like one. That’s how all three years of school have been.
Just as you’re finishing up lunch, she turns the conversation to post graduation plans. Something you’re expecting, but not quite prepared for.
“Are you getting excited about getting into the legal world?”
“I think so,” you say. “Nervous and I hate that I’m going to be so separated from Chan, but I feel really fortunate to have gotten my top choice firm.”
“It was incredible that he did that for you,” she says and your brow furrows. Chan has been an incredible help throughout school, but you’re not sure what he has to do with you getting an offer. Your confusion must be plain on your face because your advisor continues. “I heard about him turning them down. He found out if he turned it down, then you’d get the call next.”
“He…what? He turned down the position so I could…”
Your brain is spiraling out of control trying to process the information. A million thoughts fight for dominance at the speed of light. Why would he do something like that without even telling you? Did he think that you couldn’t get a good position without his help? Did he think you would try to talk him out of doing it? He would probably have been right about that, at least. There’s no way you could have let him turn it down if it was something he wanted as well just so that you could have it. Not only because it’s not fair to him, but also because now it feels tainted to you. Undeserved. Like something you almost want to turn down even though you can’t this late in the year. Not now when plans are in place and you don’t have a fall back option.
Then, there’s the fact that you feel betrayed by the person you love the most in the world. Maybe that’s not fair. It’s still how you feel. He’s kept this from you for months. Told you that he didn’t get the position at all and focused on a position across the country. Didn’t even discuss what would make the most sense for the both of you as a couple. He decided something that impacted both of you. If he hadn’t turned it down, he could have accepted. Sure, part of you would have been envious. The other part of you knows you had another offer waiting that would have kept you both in the same area. It feels like the walls are collapsing in on you.
“I’m so sorry. I thought you knew…” she begins and you just shake your head. Try to blink back the tears of too much information pouring in at once.
“It’s fine. I have to go.”
The only thought you have is to get back to your apartment to find Chan. He should be home because he’s got the afternoon off from classes and he doesn’t like staying on campus if he doesn’t have to any more than you do. Too much tension. Too much stress.
He clocks that something’s wrong as soon as you come in the door. At first, he assumes it’s just that you’re sad about the end being so close and saying goodbye to your advisor. When he tries to offer a hug as comfort, you shrug out of it. Hurt flashes across his face and it makes your heart constrict. He’s the last person in the world you ever want to hurt. The last person in the world you ever thought would hurt you.
He did, though. Whatever his intentions were, he hurt you and has been keeping a secret for nearly the entire school year. It throws all your trust issues right back into the forefront of your brain. One-sided conversations chase each other around. Each worse than the last. Only one thought breaks through, though. And it’s probably the wrong decision. Yet, you’re going to make it anyway.
“I can’t do this,” you say to him without meeting his eye.
“Can’t do what? Graduate? Study for the bar exam?”
“No, this, Chan. You and me. I can’t do it.”
It’s obviously the last thing he expects. He steps back from you like he’s been slapped. And there’s the downside of knowing someone as well as you know him. You watch as the gears turn in his brain and he cycles through a million thoughts or feelings. Feel everything along with him.
“What?” is all he manages to say.
“I think we’re just fooling ourselves,” you say. A lie. A total and complete lie. You’re a coward. It’s easier for you than the truth, though. Easier than giving him a chance to justify a decision he made for both of you without asking you.
“I don’t understand…”
“We’re going to be so far apart. This first year after school, it’s so important. We’re going to be killing ourselves to make an impression. There’s no way we’re going to be able to figure out once a month weekends and working remote. I don’t even think we’ll be able to commit to regular FaceTime calls with the time difference.”
“Where is this coming from? We’ve talked about…”
“I know what we’ve talked about,” you cut through. It comes out sharper than you intend and you take a breath to steady yourself. “I know. I just also know how this could go. One of us misses a call from the other. Texts get more staggered. It’s harder to hold space for someone who’s not there while trying to make connections in a new position.”
“I’m not saying it’s going to be easy, but we love each other.”
“Is that enough?”
It’s the second time he pulls back like he’s been slapped. If only you could tell him that you’re hurting yourself just as badly, maybe worse, than you’re hurting him.
“I think it’s enough. We’ll never know until we try though.”
“You took the position across the country.”
“Because you encouraged me to take it!”
“Of course I did!” you shout back, tears spilling over now. Chan goes to wipe them away before pulling his hand back. The tension hangs thick as you gather your thoughts. “I wouldn’t ever ask you to sacrifice your career or mine. I couldn’t.”
You see it. Just for a second. Know he’s wondering about a double meaning to your words. He shakes his head. Clears the look off his face.
“I didn’t see anything as sacrificing my career. We knew this was going to be complicated and I just figured we’d work through it together. If I’d have known the distance would be a deal breaker, I never would have accepted that job.”
“And I never could have lived with myself if you missed that opportunity,” you say softly. It’s an impasse. You’re picking a fight on an issue you know he’ll believe because it’s easier. Cleaner.
“It would have been my choice,” he says, eyes trying to convince you of the things he can’t say.
“I don’t want to end up hating you, Chan. I don’t want to end up resenting you because the distance is too hard.”
“So you’re going to break up with me instead?”
The question is a little derisive and the emotion looks all wrong on his face. That’s not the soft, kind, caring face you know. But, you’re the one that put that look on his face. Maybe it’s your punishment for being too scared to have the real fight.
“I know how it sounds. I still have love in my heart for you. I just think this is what’s best for us so that we can…I don’t know, save some of this.”
“Some of what?”
“This. Us,” you say and he just shakes his head.
“I don’t get you,” he admits and that hurts more than anything else. How could he feel that way after all this time?
“I just think…”
“I heard you,” he says sharply. And then he looks at you with another face you don’t recognize. One that’s hard and cold. “If you don’t think this is going to work, I know better than to try and change your mind. You’re one of the most stubborn people I’ve ever met…”
“I’m not stubborn.”
He smiles despite himself at that. So on brand for you. “It’s always been one of the things I loved most about you. But, because I love you as much as I do, I can’t pretend to be less than this with you. I can’t go back to some semblance of a friendship when I know what it’s like to love you and be loved by you.”
Your heart stops for a second. Even though you started this, you’re not sure you want to finish it. Can’t imagine a life that doesn’t contain Chan at all, even though you’re so hurt by him. “Are you saying it’s all or nothing?”
“Yes.”
The simple answer says far more than you expect. You look down so that he can’t read the conflicting emotions on your face. It doesn’t matter. He still closes the distance, finally, and puts a finger under your chin to lift it up. Wipes the tears away from your face so gently. Presses a kiss to your forehead that only makes you hurt more. For a second, you reconsider everything.
“I don’t understand, but if this is what you want. What you really want. Then, okay. I just can’t go back to only being your friend. I need to protect my heart, too.”
There’s nothing left to say. You just wrap your arms around Chan and consider it’ll be the last time you feel his warmth enveloping you. It’s somehow the most dramatic and least dramatic break up that you can imagine. It feels both settled and unsettled. That’s probably what happens when you don’t have the strength to have the real fight. When you pick something that’s still real without being the whole picture.
It’s a little frustrating to watch Chan charm literally everyone in the office so quickly. Especially because his office is right next to yours and you can see the stream of people that pop in and out. Especially your coworkers who go to him to talk through cases now. Instead of you. Which is extra annoying because you’ve been here longer. Worked your ass off to prove yourself from being a junior associate to now. Whereas Chan benefits from a good reputation right off the bat. Granted, it’s not entirely the same thing. He’s new to the firm, but not the practice of law. So, it tracks that he doesn’t need to go through the same things you did joining straight out of school. The rational part of you knows he probably dealt with that at his original firm. Doesn’t make it any less annoying, though.
Everyone just instantly likes him. And that’s not really that surprising, either, is it? In so many ways, he’s still exactly the person you knew and loved in law school. The person that could make anyone feel comfortable. The one that liked to be at the center of things. Always happiest surrounded by people. It’s no different now, which makes it hurt that much more. So much of him still feels so familiar to you years later. It makes the memories harder to keep tucked away in a little box. He’s grown, sure, like you know that you have as well. He’s still inescapably Chan, though. The time since school hasn’t hardened him. Hasn’t made him jaded. Wiser, maybe. A little more cautious in things, sure. Still upbeat despite that. When you put aside all the pain it brings back to the front, you can admit that you understand why people accept him so immediately.
After a day filled with too many meetings and phone calls, you decide to stay late to catch up on some cases. Even though you know you can also work from home, sometimes it just feels easier to stay at the office. You know yourself. Once you settle down on your couch with your laptop and the TV in front of you, you’re far less likely to be productive. Far more likely to scroll or talk to friends or watch something. So, you close your door, put some headphones on, and get to work.
By the time you look up again, it’s just after 8 o’clock and you’re not sure when it got so late. If not for the grumble of your stomach, you may have just kept working. As it is, you consider if there’s anything in the break room that can hold you over. You’re so close to feeling caught up that it feels like a shame to go home and break the flow. You stretch out your limbs and stand to go on what feels like a pointless mission. There’s so rarely anything worthwhile in the breakroom because it gets snatched up immediately. What you’re not expecting, though, is to open the door to your office and nearly run into a very surprised looking Chan.
His eyes go wide and he steps back, hand falling to his side. It seems like he was about to knock on your door. The surprise of not being alone in the office turns into surprise at seeing him outside of your office. There’s a bag in his other hand that looks like some kind of takeout. You pull your headphones off your head and the silence of the office washes over you. That same silence stretches awkwardly between you and your ex.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” he starts.
“It’s fine. I didn’t realize anyone else was still here,” you say. Awkward. It’s so awkward and stilted between the two of you now.
“Ah, yeah, I still feel like I’m trying to get a handle on some of these cases,” he says. He rubs the back of his neck with his free hand. It’s a stark contrast to the confident Chan you know and see around the office. “I saw your light on under your door.”
“I was just catching up on some cases. It’s always something,” you say and he chuckles a little in agreement.
He holds up the bag of food and you finally realize it’s from a place around the corner that you love. “I figured you probably hadn’t eaten either and there’s nothing good in the break room.”
“That’s where I was headed.”
“I ordered something for you when I was ordering for myself and I was just gonna drop it off so I didn’t bother you…”
You sigh in resignation and step to the side to make room in the doorway. “Come on in. We can eat together.”
“Really? I don’t want to…”
“It’s fine,” you say and cut it off before he can make it more awkward. Can’t fully resist making a joke. “I know how much you hate to eat alone, anyway.”
“Which is very reasonable,” he retorts and you roll your eyes. He sits down at the small table you have and you put your headphones on your desk. Then you settle down at the table with him.
“This place is good.”
That makes him look up from his task of pulling containers out of his bag. Seems to surprise him a little. “You eat here?”
“Not all the time. It’s just close so I’ll order it sometimes for lunch or if I’m staying late.”
“Huh. I’ve only had it once so far, but figures it’s a place you like,” he says and chuckles. It puts you a little on edge, though.
“What does that mean?” you ask, more bite than you intend. He looks like a deer in headlights for a minute and you remember being 1Ls together. Fight the urge to apologize.
“Oh, just, nothing,” he says and quickly regains his composure. “I just meant…never mind.”
“No, sorry,” you say. Let the tension go from your shoulders. “It’s just that this is…”
“Hard?”
“And a bit weird, yeah,”
“We work together now and I get it’s weird. I’m not going to bring personal stuff into work, but I also can’t pretend I didn’t know you better than anyone in the world when it’s after hours like this and we’re the last two here,” he says and you look down into your lap.
“I didn’t realize everyone else had already left,” you say because it’s easier than what’s on your mind.
“Seems like we’re the only hard workers,” he jokes and you roll your eyes. At least it feels like you can look up again to take in the food.
“What did you order, anyway?”
In response, Chan pushes some of the food over to you. Of course, it’s one of your go-to orders on the menu. Something you’re not sure you can admit to the ex sitting across from you. Some things really don’t change.
“If you don’t want that, I also got…”
“No, it’s…exactly what I usually get.”
You pull the food towards you, realizing that you are kind of starving now that you’re sitting down to eat something. Once again, Chan seems to follow your lead. Lets you set the pace and tone. The two of you eat for several minutes in silence that doesn’t feel that comfortable. Once upon a time, it would have felt as natural as breathing. Now, for all the ways he’s the same, he’s also a stranger to you. When you meet his eye, you wonder if he’s thinking all the same things as you. Wonder if he’s thinking about your relationship and when it all fell apart. Wonder why he came to this firm when he probably could have gone anywhere. Wonder how you’re going to get through all of this.
“We can’t keep acting like we don’t know each other,” he says softly. So much for the silence.
“I’m not acting like I don’t know you, Chan,” you say. Tired. This whole thing takes up entirely too much space in your brain.
“No?”
“Of course not. Everyone knows we went to the same school. I’m not pretending we didn’t know each other. I’m just pretending we weren’t…”
“In a relationship?”
Same old Chan, you think. There’s just something about him that always cuts through everything to the point. Which, of course, makes a good lawyer. But, he also manages it in a way that doesn’t sound arrogant. Makes it sound like he just cares about the answer.
“I guess, yeah,” you admit. “I don’t really need the partners clued into my personal life like that.”
“Is that the reason?”
There’s something unreadable on his face. Something you can’t place no matter how hard you try. Maybe it’s a hardness. A sense of the walls going up. It feels foreign when he still looks so much like the person you loved.
“I don’t really want people to know that the person who broke my heart now has the office next to me. So, yeah, I’d say it’s the reason,” you say and watch the shock take over his face. Maybe it’s too honest. Maybe you shouldn’t…
“The person who broke your heart?” he asks and it stops your spiral short.
“Yes?”
“I broke your heart?”
“That’s what I said.”
“That’s some bullshit revisionist history you’ve got going on there.”
That brings you up short as well. Revisionist history? For saying he broke your heart? It occurs to you, then, that you didn’t ever give him the real reason. Surely, though, after all this time he must know. Must have worked it all out. He’s always been one of the smartest people you know.
“I’m not sure how…” you start.
“You broke my heart. That’s how I remember it. And I’m still here trying to follow your lead and bringing dinner because I know you forget to eat when you get too focused,” he says and your eyes widen.
“I am sorry that I broke it off so suddenly back then. I guess I just figured after all this time that you’d…”
“Be over it?”
“Have figured out why I really broke up with you.”
Now it’s his turn to look a little surprised. You hate it though because it makes him look younger. Reminds you of the person you fell in love with. “You could have talked to me about whatever was going on.”
“Funny, I could say the same of you.”
“We talked about everything.”
“Yeah, I thought so too,” you say and hate that it still comes out sounding bitter.
“What are you talking about?”
For his part, he does look confused. Does genuinely seem like he’s not sure what you mean. You’re not sure if that makes it better or worse. Probably worse, you think. Maybe he doesn’t dwell on the relationship the way you do. Or maybe he didn’t know you as well as you thought to be able to work out your thought process. Maybe you just should have had the real fight.
Enough. It’s been long enough. One of you needs to bridge this gap and it’s long past time for a candid conversation. Even if nothing else changes, the two of you need to clear the air. “I thought we talked about everything. I thought things were good.”
“They were,” he insists. “It came totally out of the blue when you…”
“Did you think I would never find out?” you ask suddenly, cutting across him. You look around the office and take in all the signs of your hard work over the past four years. Before he can answer, another thought escapes. “I thought this firm was everything I wanted back then.”
“I know,” he says softly and you look back at him.
“How could you do that without talking to me? How could you think I wouldn’t find out?” you ask and see the realization hit him. Watch the moment that his whole body slackens. Watch the way his mouth opens and closes. The way he frowns in thought. The way he leans back in his chair like he’s buying time to figure out what to say. There was a time, years ago, that he would just say something right away. This new, more thoughtful version of him is a sign that you’re both older now.
“What was I supposed to say? You would have tried to talk me out of doing it,” he says as if that’s a valid reason.
“Of course I would have!”
“See?”
“How is that a ‘see’ moment?”
“Because it was your dream position and you wouldn’t have let me make this decision if you had known.”
You frown. Take a beat to collect your thoughts. If you’re having this conversation, it needs to be right. You need to say the things you should have said back then. It takes you a moment to gather your thoughts, during which Chan is, thankfully, silent.
“I know I wanted it, but you wanted it too. It shouldn’t have been something you decided without me,” you say and hold up your hand when he opens his mouth. He falls silent again. “It was a conversation. If you still decided to give up the offer, then that would be your decision. I still deserved to know, though. I had other options I was nearly as excited about close by. You didn’t.”
Chan waits for a moment. Probably to see if you’re done speaking. Or possibly to weigh his next words. “Are you telling me that you would have let me give this firm up if I had told you?”
“I don’t know,” you say with a shrug. It’s honest, at least. “I just know you can’t make decisions like that on your own. We were supposed to be a team. Then to just get blindsided with the information at the end of the year…”
“Yeah, how did you find out?” he asks and you give him a withering stare. He throws up his hands. “Sorry, I’m just curious.”
“My advisor mentioned it in our meeting and that was another whole level of feeling betrayed because there were all these people who apparently knew. Who thought that I knew.”
“I am sorry for causing you to feel betrayed,” he says after a moment.
“It was just…a lot,” you admit. “Like, I felt like you didn’t trust me. Then, I felt like you thought I couldn’t get in here without a leg up from you. And I felt like our relationship wasn’t that important because by giving up this offer, you took one that took you clear across the country.”
“I don’t think there was a right answer to that, honestly,” he says and you raise your eyebrows. “Even if I had talked to you, I’m not sure if there was any right answer. If I took the position and you took one of your backups, I would worry you resented me for getting it over you. If I still ended up turning it down, I’d worry you wouldn’t feel like you could enjoy deserving it. Or we would still break up because of the distance.”
“I guess that’s a fair point,” you concede.
“I am sorry,” he reiterates. “I didn’t stop to consider how you would feel if you found out. I just wanted you to have everything you deserved.”
“I appreciate that,” you start. Take a deep breath because you know you have something to say as well. “I’m sorry, too. I was so hurt that I never stopped to consider that I was also hurting you by not talking to you.”
“We kind of fucked that one up, huh?” he asks and you chuckle.
“We really did,” you agree.
“So, friends?” he asks, eyes hopeful. You roll your eyes again, though there’s less irritation behind it now.
“Don’t push it.”
Things mostly feel easier after clearing the air with Chan. Outwardly, nothing really seems that different apart from the two of you working together more. Then again, most of the firm doesn’t know you’re also exes. Taylor notices the shift in interaction, of course, but doesn’t comment on it beyond giving you a look when she clocks that you’re being nicer. It’ll probably be one of those things that she keeps in her back pocket until the right time. A complete demon and yet you know there’s nobody better out there.
The following weeks pass in kind of a blur. Work carries on. Cases move forward. It’s actually kind of nice to be on speaking terms with Chan again because he’s an incredible sounding board. One that knows how your brain works. One that can point out the flaws in your thought process without you ever voicing them because he’s seen you work through countless case studies before. And one that’s equally willing to reassure you when you’re already on the right track with handling a case. It’s not that you really question it often. Sometimes, one little detail throws the entire plan off and it can be difficult to tell if that detail actually matters or if it’s just something to downplay.
That’s when other attorneys on the team start to notice what they assume is a growing friendship with you and Chan. Without knowing the history, it looks like the two of you bond quickly. Sure, most reason it away. Assume that you must have at least hung out sometimes going to the same school. A couple wonder if there’s something else going on. Something Taylor assures you that she shuts down quickly. According to her, it comes from a couple of the other assistants and paralegals that find him attractive. Can’t fault them for something that is obvious and, objectively, true. You still have eyes even if you’re trying to navigate a friendship with your ex in very unusual circumstances.
The man in question pops his head into your office one Friday afternoon. You’re expecting the usual case question. Although, sometimes he does switch it up and say something just entirely off the board. Every few days he seems to just come up with something ridiculous to ask you to catch you off guard.
“Are you going to the happy hour after work?” he asks. Apparently, today it isn’t either of the usual suspects. It makes you look up from your computer. “Joshua just asked if I wanted to come and he said you’re usually hit or miss.”
“Of course he did,” you say with a shake of your head. Joshua is the team lead for your group and probably on track to be a partner down the line. Despite that, he’s still incredibly easy to be around. The kind of guy you probably wouldn’t realize is an attorney without knowing. He’s also perpetually trying to get everyone out together to unwind outside of work. Thankfully, he also keeps everything within the team and never repeats it to the partners. Too good for a place like this, you think. “No, I’m not going. Not this time.”
“Oh is it…is it lame?” Chan asks after he steps into your office so he can drop his voice.
“What?” you ask, surprise evident. “No, not at all. I really like Joshua. He just loves to gossip within the team when I don’t show up for the happy hour.”
“Ah,” Chan says and smiles. He looks behind him and then drops his voice again. “So, it’s safe to go, then?”
“Oh, definitely,” you say softly in return. “Honestly, you can trust going whenever he invites you because he’s intentional about it.”
“Good to know,” Chan says and straightens back up. “Why aren’t you going then?”
“Oh, uh,” you say. Hesitate. The actual reason is that you’re going on a date. Is that something you share with your ex, though? Probably, if you’re trying to navigate a friendship. It’s not like he’s waiting for you to give him another chance. You’re coworkers and working back to some kind of friendship. It’s the kind of thing you would share with Joshua if he asks.
“Sorry, I wasn’t trying to pry.”
You shake it off and put on a smile. “No, it’s fine. I just have a date tonight.”
“Ah,” Chan says and it sounds different from the earlier one. That face that was once an open book is unreadable now. Then, a bright smile. “First date?”
“Uh, no, actually. We’ve been out a few times,” you say and Chan nods along. You’re not sure why you carry on. That’s really all he needs to know. “It’s tough with our schedules, though, you know?”
“Yeah, dating is hard. I haven’t been on a date in ages,” he says and then seems to cringe a little. Maybe a little unsure why he’s sharing that with you of all people.
“Maybe you’ll meet someone at happy hour,” you say awkwardly. Chan looks at you for a moment to process the last comment and you want to kick yourself.
“You never know,” he says with a falsely bright smile and a shrug. “Maybe I’ll see you at it next time.”
“Yeah, for sure,” you agree.
Just like that, he’s out of your office and you want to crawl under your desk to die. No such luck when Taylor walks in and shuts the door behind her under the guise of talking through the upcoming schedule. It’s not unusual. In fact, it’s something you do multiple times a week. It’s not her reasoning this time, though. This time, she informs you that she heard the entire conversation with Chan (because she was intentionally eavesdropping outside the door). Naturally, she shares her thoughts after hearing you call her a demon for the hundredth time.
Then, because the universe is fair, Joshua pops his head into your office just after Taylor leaves to mention happy hour. It’s a small comfort that he doesn’t know you have a date because it means that Chan isn’t talking about it. But, you have to share the date news with Joshua as well and deal with all his teasing over it. At least it’s good natured. Joshua seems to accept this excuse for not going without missing a beat. Even wishes you luck and commiserates that dating sucks. It really reinforces why you think he’s such a good guy.
After that interruption, the rest of the day thankfully passes without any other awkward moments. It feels like a small victory that you wrap up your day without falling through a hole in your office waiting to swallow you (and any ensuing embarrassment). Briefly, you consider popping your head into Chan’s office as you’re locking up your own. Can see his door is still open, meaning he probably hasn’t left for the happy hour yet. But, Joshua comes around the corner with his signature smile and you settle for calling out a generic wish for a good weekend. Once he gets a little closer, you jokingly tell him to behave himself at happy hour and not to get the team too drunk. Because things aren’t entirely fair, Chan appears in his doorway during this and gives you another smile. You tell them to have fun again and make as quick a departure as possible without it being more awkward.
Once you leave the office, you know you cannot focus on anything going on there. Cannot consider the happy hour or who’s going to be there. It’s hard enough to date as it is and the last thing you need is to let yourself get distracted from a genuinely good person. Parker’s a nurse in pediatrics and he actually cares about kids. Doesn’t get hung up the way some doctors seem to with some kind of God complex. All he wants is to help kids feel healthy and safe. And more than that, he actually cares about people. Wants everyone to have the same access to basic human rights like food, housing, education, safe conditions, opportunities, etc etc etc. He listens when you speak and actively seeks out your opinion. If this is how he approaches you after only a handful of dates, you wonder what he’ll be like down the line?
Even though Parker’s schedule can be crazy, it feels like he’s intentional when he sees you. Keeps his phone tucked away and gives you his full focus. Only a true work emergency could interrupt your time, something he stresses as a non-negotiable for him. How can you know if it’s something serious if you don’t give it a chance? Each new date shows that he does actually listen and tries to put a little of each of you into the plans. And you love his philosophy of not going out to dinner on the first date because it can force awkward conversations or even worse silences. By the time the second date comes around and he takes you to dinner, it does feel so much easier. Parker seems like he checks off all the boxes on the list you insist doesn’t actually exist.
There’s only one problem. Well, can you call it a problem if you’re not sure what the problem actually is?
Parker is perfect both on paper and seemingly in person. A great match for you. Someone who respects you and everything that you want. Someone who makes you laugh and is considerate and kind and smart and insanely attractive. Yet, despite all the reasons you know that he’s perfect, you still feel like something is missing. There’s something that’s just…not there. He’s not the guy you settle for. Nobody who dates him could ever consider it settling.
So why does that feel like what you’re doing?
By the time you end up back at work on Monday, you’ve mostly put any weirdness from the end of the previous week behind you. It’s amazing what a good therapy session (read: brunch with your closest friends) on a Sunday can do. You’re just feeling a little off having your ex working on the other side of your office wall. It’s to be expected, really. Everything is going to be fine. Your relationship with Parker will keep growing. Seeing Chan will get easier. You repeat it to yourself all the way to work and believe it by the time you get there. You walk into your office and offer smiles on your way.
This is going to be a good week.
Or, is it? You consider a lot of things for the upcoming week. Your team lead coming into your office in the first hour of new week doesn’t make the list. Yet, there he is. Looking as put together as always. Eyes alight with some kind of concealed mischief. The kind he only lets those he actually trusts see. That sight actually makes you relax back into your chair. Which is likely the opposite of a normal reaction. But you know it means that he’s here to gossip. Probably, at least. Definitely not to talk about work.
“You missed a fun happy hour,” he says and you nearly snort. Of course.
When it’s early in the day (and on a Monday, no less), it’s safe enough to chat. People are so worried about getting the week started that they don’t bother with other people’s conversations. Well, people other than Taylor. But, you trust her and so Joshua does, too.
“You say that every time,” you point out. Because he does.
“This was different.”
He says that every time, too. You don’t need to point it out. Instead, you just play along. It feels like the least you can do for a lead you actually like. “Okay, I’ll bite. Why was it different?”
“Chan, obviously. I cannot believe I haven’t invited him out yet! Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks. Gives you a look of mock betrayal and you actually let out a small snort while trying to cover your laugh.
“Tell you what, exactly?”
“That he’s a magnet for attention. He’s so attractive that they just couldn’t stay away.”
It makes your heart constrict for a moment to hear that. You don’t give yourself time to think about why. Not in front of Joshua. You like him a lot, but you’re not ready to talk about that. And he will definitely notice something is up. So you do the only thing that you can think of to disarm him.
“Joshua,” you say, fixing him with a look, “you are an incredibly attractive guy that people can’t stay away from.”
It works. At least enough to cover you for a moment. For all his confidence, he does get shy when you give him compliments. Maybe because he knows you don’t give them out as easily. Or because he knows that you mean it. You’re not prepared for the pout that follows, though you should be.
“Not attractive enough for you to come to happy hour more often, apparently,” he says and you actually roll your eyes.
“I was on a date,” you remind him and he puts a hand to his heart.
“And not with me. You wound me.”
“This is harassment. I’m going to call HR.”
“And say what? Marjorie loves me.”
He’s got you there. She does love him. Everyone loves him, honestly. It’s kind of hard not to with that easy air about him. It’s more impressive knowing how cutthroat he can be on a case.
“You know, Joshua, it kind of sounds like you were just looking for a wingman,” you say and he shrugs, that sparkle back in his eyes.
“Maybe I was,” he admits and leans in. “I don’t think we paid for any drinks after the first one.”
“Do you mean to tell me that you let those poor women buy you drinks?” you ask incredulously.
“Why not?”
“Joshua, I know what you make!”
“Now what kind of a feminist would I be if I told those women how to spend their money?”
“Unbelievable,” you say through a laugh. He laughs along with you before settling down.
“I did actually try to cover it, but they insisted,” he says and you smile along. You know, even without him telling you. That’s just the kind of person he is.
“Maybe I will have to come to the next one. See you in your element,” you say, though the idea fills you with mixed emotions.
“It was nice to get to know Chan, though,” he says after a moment. “I was a little surprised that he didn’t strike up a conversation with anyone. But, I guess we were doing a lot of talking.”
“It’s good for you to get to know a new member of the team,” you say noncommittally.
Joshua looks around and you know that look well. It worries you for a moment. When he determines the coast is, evidently, clear, he leans in and drops his voice. “He actually told me he had a serious girlfriend from law school that took him a long time to get over. That they broke up just before graduating. It seems like he regrets whatever happened. Did you know her?”
At least it’s easy to mask your reaction here because he gives you the perfect out. “Joshua, you are so nosey.”
It doesn’t determine in the slightest. He’s unabashed. “Come on, do you? You were in the same class. You must know who he meant.”
“Sure, I know who he meant,” you say with as much neutrality as you can manage. “The school wasn’t that big. But, I’m not telling you. That’s his business. And it’s been 4 years since we graduated. I’m sure it was just the alcohol talking.”
“I don’t know,” Joshua says, more contemplative for a moment. “It seemed like he’d been thinking about her recently.”
You only hum in response and make a show of looking back at your computer when the ding from Teams lets you know that you have a new message. You roll your eyes. “I swear to god.”
“That looks promising,” he says with an amused chuckle before rising to his feet. He turns back to you at the door. “Were you friends?”
“Hm?” you ask, tearing your eyes away from the screen to look back up at him.
“You and Chan. I know you were in the same graduating class, but were you friends?”
The answer comes quicker than you expect. And comes out sounding neutral, to your surprise. “I’m not sure if friends is quite the right word.”
It’s not a lie. Not exactly. You and Chan were a lot of things to each other, friends certainly being one such thing. But, to say that you were only friends doesn’t feel honest, either.
“Ah, well, glad you seem to be working together now. Don’t forget, we’re doing a team lunch tomorrow so make sure you have your order in before you leave tonight.”
“Got it,” you say and he waves before heading back to his own office.
Another two weeks pass at work. Things don’t feel quite the same as they did with Chan after having that dinner and talking. You’re still getting along well, for the most part. It’s just that he keeps it more professional. Doesn’t act like he knows your mind quite as well. Instead, he gets closer to other members of the team again. It shouldn’t irritate you and yet…
When Joshua tells you that he’s going to kidnap you so you don’t miss the next happy hour, you just agree without issue.
Which is how you end up sitting at a hightop in the bar area with Joshua, watching how some of the other team members interact. It’s actually kind of nice, being out like this. Something you don’t want to admit to Joshua, though he can likely see it on your face. You follow his gaze and see Chan standing at the bar getting another round of drinks with a gorgeous woman trying to get his attention. Try not to let it twist your stomach. Of course, you know that he dates. He should date. But, it’s very different to see someone actively hitting on him.
“See what I mean?” Joshua asks, unnecessarily calling your attention to Chan.
“He’s charismatic,” you say, voice surprisingly even.
“I need him as a wingman.”
“You know what probably isn’t helping you?”
Joshua turns back to you and raises an eyebrow. “What’s that?”
“Sitting here with me. People might get the wrong idea,” you say and smile as he barks out a laugh.
“We both know you’re way out of my league,” he says and you laugh harder. “What? You are?”
“Oh, please,” you say between laughs. “How many times have we gone through this?”
“One more doesn’t hurt,” he says, that demonic twinkle in his eyes.
“You wear me out,” you say.
“I could if you’d let me.”
“Stop!”
“I know, I know,” he says, throwing up his hands. “I know the rule.”
“Oh, yes, that’s the only reason,” you retort sarcastically, but you’re smiling.
Nobody else can get away with saying shit like that to you. At least, nobody else that you work with. Joshua gets special privileges, though. Which, unfortunately, he knows all too well. It’s mostly because you know he doesn’t mean it, not really. Maybe, on some level, you would both consider it in another life. Not this one. The two of you work so well as friends and there just isn’t anything more there. No spark. No interest. An appreciation that you’re both attractive. Because, yes, you have eyes and he’s definitely gorgeous. That’s where it ends.
Chan approaches the table, balancing drinks carefully in his hands, and sets them down before either of you notice. When you do, you give him a smile.
“What did I just walk into?” he asks cautiously. Joshua turns to him with that winning smile.
“Oh, just me teasing her,” he says. “I saw you over there getting hit on and had to point out that this one here is way out of my league.”
Your cheeks flush a little. It’s not that you don’t want Chan to realize the way you and Joshua tease each other. It’s just that, well, you don’t want your ex seeing you interact like that with someone else you both work with. It’s awkward. Chan, for his part, seems to feel more awkward about the first comment. Interesting.
“Ah, she wasn’t…” he starts and Joshua cuts him off.
“Man, I saw her. She would have left with you right then and there,” Joshua says.
Awkward. It’s so awkward. Chan slides back into his seat with the two of you and shrugs.
“I’m not interested,” Chan says.
“I know last time you said…” Joshua starts.
“Well, what about you?” Chan cuts across.
“I was just saying that!” you agree. “He’s never going to get any numbers if he’s just sitting here with me.”
“That’s why I said she was out of my league,” Joshua shares with Chan.
“She’s right, though,” Chan says with a shrug.
“Eh, I don’t really come out looking to get numbers, anyway,” he says and you laugh at the surprise on Chan’s face.
“What do you come out for, then?”
You and Joshua share a look before you both start laughing. You’re the first to regain your composure. “The chaos.”
“Nice,” Chan says with a snort.
“Consider yourself lucky. He doesn’t let everyone in so quickly,” you tease.
“No, that’s true,” Joshua agrees easily and then his eyes catch on something. “Oh, hang on. I’ll be right back!”
And then he’s gone. Just like that. Just like so many other times. It feels a little awkward, even with the help of some liquid courage. You’re not really used to being around Chan yet. Not sure if you ever will be.
“Is he always like that with you?” Chan asks after a moment when it becomes clear that Joshua isn’t going to rush back.
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Saying things like you’re out of his league.”
You laugh and then realize Chan is at least partly serious. It makes you pull up a little short. “Yeah, pretty much. He doesn’t mean anything by it, so it doesn’t really bother me.”
“Are you sure he doesn’t mean anything by it?”
You fix your ex with an unimpressed stare that makes him throw up his hands in defense. “Yeah, Chan, I’m sure he doesn’t. We’re just friends, as much as you can be working together like this.”
“That makes sense,” Chan says and takes a sip of his drink. “He does seem like the kind of person that you’d be friends with.”
From anyone else, that might sound a little passive aggressive. Or like it means something else. You know what he means, though. Joshua is exactly your kind of friend. Serious when he needs to be, chaotic all other times. It just flows easily. Never feels like work. And somehow, Chan making that observation, makes things feel a little less awkward. At least for the time being.
The night descends further into chaos, in a way that it doesn’t usually when you go out for happy hour. Maybe that’s because happy hour turns into apps. Which turns into more drinks. Which turns into more apps. It even includes a change of scenery from one place to the next when you realize that you all might need to put a little more food into your stomachs. By then, only Joshua, Chan, and you are left. Which actually feels kind of nice. Somehow having Joshua has an unknowing third wheel makes any remaining awkwardness with Chan melt away. Of course, it could also be the alcohol and the light atmosphere.
Eventually, you do all realize that you need to head home and start the process of paying your bills. When you and Chan both go to pull out your phones to order Ubers, Joshua gives you a quizzical look. One you’re not sure you like. Thankfully, he clarifies immediately.
“Why wouldn’t you both just share one?” he asks and your eyes go cartoon character levels of wide.
“Uh,” Chan says and gives you a look.
“You live in the same building,” Joshua carries on and that only confuses you more.
“No we don’t,” you contradict like it’s the silliest thing in the world.
“Yes, you do,” he insists. “Chan told me where he lived last week when we went to happy hour. Skyline Grove?”
“Oh,” you both say at the same time like it’s brand new information.
“I haven’t run into you around,” you say and Chan shrugs. “Weird.”
“It’s a nice building,” Chan says.
“And massive. I should’ve mentioned it, but I figured you’d realize,” he says. “Anyway. Why waste money when you’re going to the same place?”
It’s such a simple suggestion and yet it sends your stomach lurching all the same. The two of you look at each other for a moment, but this is a crossroads. It doesn’t make any sense at all to say no. You and Chan are going to the same place. Of course, you could lie and say you’re actually going somewhere else. Except happy hour went way longer than expected and it’s clear you don’t have other plans. You’re just…not really sure you wanna be alone in a car with Chan when you’re a little buzzed.
“This one’s on me, then?” Chan asks, giving you a surprisingly nonchalant look.
“What a gentleman,” Joshua says and claps Chan on the shoulder. He pulls out his own phone. “That’s usually my title.”
“Because you gave it to yourself,” you mutter, putting your phone away.
“I heard that.”
“I meant you to.”
Thankfully, the Ubers come quickly. Chan opens the door and lets you slide in before him. Something that Joshua doesn’t seem to notice since he’s getting into his own car. You settle into one side of the car and try not to look over to the side next to you. Don’t realize that Chan is having just as much of an internal struggle as you are.
“I didn’t realize we lived in the same building,” he says after the silence starts to feel too heavy.
“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. It’s one of the nicest places in the area,” you say.
“And there was one of those corner units available. The views are so nice,” he says and you laugh.
“Up on the 18th floor?” you ask and watch the way his brows furrow.
“Yeah…”
“They offered it to me when the last tenant decided not to renew because I’d mentioned wanting to possibly move to a higher floor. But, I’m all settled now,” you say. Then, like you can’t help yourself, you tell him where you live. “I’m in that same unit but on the 10th floor.”
“Well, we always did have similar taste in apartments,” he says with an ironic laugh.
“Guess so,” you say.
“Thanks,” he says suddenly and you turn to look at him. His face is mostly in shadow with it being so dark outside, but your brain fills in the blanks without even realizing it.
“For what?”
“Not making it weird to just share a car.”
“Oh, well, we’re going to the same place.”
“Does he know?”
“Who?”
Chan sighs and fully turns his head towards you. You can read the look in his eyes even in the low light. Or maybe it’s just another thing you remember. “Joshua. Does he know about…”
“No,” you say immediately. “No, Chan, nobody at the office does. Well, apart from my assistant, but she guessed. Joshua isn’t so cruel that he would do that if he knew.”
“Yeah, sorry, I didn’t mean…”
“No, I know you didn’t…”
It’s awkward again. Thankfully, you’re nearly at the apartment building now. It’s also nice that the Uber driver doesn’t comment on the situation. He’s probably seen worse in the city on a Friday night, though. Once he pulls over in front of the building, Chan opens the door and slides out. Holds it open for you to do the same so that you don’t have to get out on the side with traffic.
You’re not really sure what to do now. So, you step forward to scan into the building and hold the door for Chan behind you. The two of you make your way to the elevators in silence. It’s a little surprising to find the lobby so quiet on a Friday night. But, people are probably either waiting until it’s a little later to go out or already wherever they plan to be. It’s that weird in between time. That means that it’s just the two of you in the elevator. Chan presses your floor and then his own. When the door opens, you turn to him and try to find the words. He only smiles.
“See you at work on Monday,” he says and you only nod before heading out. Don’t look back to see the way he watches your back down the hallway.
The whole night just feels a little surreal from the safety of your apartment. You toe off your shoes and set your things down on the table by the door. Only grab your phone and head into the kitchen. Even though you know you should just grab a glass of water, you also pour a small glass of wine. A lot of your buzz has worn off and all you can think about is the car ride. Or the way that Chan looked all night. Or the way that women just seemed to flock to him. Not that the last bit should matter when you’re seeing someone.
Parker. You need to think about Parker. Maybe even check to see if you have any messages from him. Not that you owe him a play-by-play of your whereabouts. It’s one of the things you like about him. That and the freedom that he agrees to so easily. You both have the same philosophy when it comes to dating in your late 20s. Don’t put pressure or labels on something when you’re only a few dates in. But, also don’t leave things lingering without an actual conversation. You know you’re probably getting close to that point of needing to talk. Which is fine, he’s great.
So, why is your brain still wandering back to the way Chan looked at the bar? The way his shirt looked a little tight in places or the way his pants fit. He’s always had a good fashion sense, but…
No. You cannot do this to yourself or you’ll drive yourself crazy. This is a door that needs to stay firmly shut. You’re considering if you should pour yourself a bigger glass of wine when there’s a knock at the door. It at least serves to pull you out of whatever dangerous path your brain wants to go down.
You get up, set the wine glass down on the table, and walk slowly to the door. Forget to check who it is through the peephole before just opening the door. A mistake, obviously, because there he is. The man you can’t seem to get off your mind. The one you know you can’t revisit the past with. He’s wearing a t-shirt and sweat pants. Like he couldn’t wait to change after getting home.
“Sorry, I just…” he starts and the rational part of your brain shuts down completely.
No thoughts, just desires, as you reach forward and grab him by the shirt. Pull him over the threshold and against your body. Surprise flashes over his face for the briefest moment before he collects you against his chest and kisses you. Hard. Desperate. Like you can’t remember him ever kissing you before. You nip at his lower lip and he responds by squeezing your ass. Distantly, you register that your door is still open. It seems Chan also realizes it because he crowds further into your space and uses his foot to close the door behind him. Doesn’t break the kiss, though.
It isn’t even really clear which one of the two of you is in control. That, at least, feels normal. Familiar. Even though everything else feels new. He spins the two of you around and backs you up into the door. Claims your mouth as his own over and over. Each kiss more demanding than the last. You slide your hands up under the hem of his shirt and run your hands up his back. Appreciate the way he shivers under your touch. It’s so easy to fall back into this pattern. To remember all the things that drive him crazy.
Seems like it’s just as easy for him to remember. He uses one hand to anchor your hip against the door behind you while he pulls away from your lips. Trails his mouth along your jaw. Tilts your head back with his free hand to give himself better access to your neck. Presses further into you so that he can reach just the right spots there. The ones that make you moan just from the contact. You seek purchase the only place you can: on his body. Digging the tips of your finger into where you hold onto him.
“Chan,” you whine out when he moves down to your collarbone and moves your shirt out of the way.
“Mmmm?” he hums into your skin without stopping.
“This is a terrible idea,” you mumble. Gasp as he reaches for the hem of your shirt.
“Probably,” he agrees, still keeping his lips against your skin. He pulls back to look at you for a moment, pupils dark with desire. His hands are on the hem of your shirt and the question is plain as day in his eyes. “Do you want to stop?”
He’s not asking if you want him to stop. He’s just asking if you want to stop. Because he knows that this is as much on you as on him. Maybe more. You shake your head and move your hands over your head.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” you say softly.
Then, he’s pulling your shirt over your head and unfastening your bra. Casts both to the side without a care. And you know that you should move somewhere else, but you’re not sure you can. Not when Chan dips his head to leave sloppy kisses across your collarbones. Not when he kisses down the valley between your boobs. Not when he swirls his tongue around your nipple. Your entire brain goes a little fuzzy. Some things never change. Chan still seems just as obsessed with your chest now as when you dated in law school. And you’re happy to let him give you all of his attention. He can be so singularly focused. In times like this, you certainly don’t mind.
It gets to be too much. You need something more. Makes you pull him back and appreciate the confusion on his face for approximately 2 seconds before you pull his shirt over his head. Not everything about him looks exactly the same. He’s always been someone who took pride in staying in shape. This new, more mature Chan is something different. When he tries to step back and pick up where he left off, you hold him at arm’s length with a hand gently splayed over his chest. Want to just drink him in.
“You can look at me later. I want you now,” he says, voice low and full of desire.
“Should we go further into my apartment, or…?” you start to ask and he shakes his head before you even finish.
“Later,” he says and reaches for your pants. Unbuttons them while he kisses you again. Slower this time. More deliberate. He’s kissing you with purpose. He pulls your pants and panties down in one motion and you step out. Pull his mouth back to yours so that you don’t have to think.
He pulls back again and you pout at him. Doesn’t he know that you don’t want all this in between time? You give him a look that he doesn’t immediately answer, prompting you to ask. “What?”
“Turn around,” he says.
It’s a familiar dynamic between the two of you. A constant push and pull about who gets to be in control. You would give in and then he would and it went on. This feels like falling back into that old pattern. Yet, you agree without questioning it. Just turn around against your front fucking door, like some desperate, horny college student. Feel him slot his body against your back. Feel that he’s hardening. Definitely not hard yet, but you can feel the way he pokes into your ass. Chan brushes your hair over one shoulder and kisses behind your ear. Works down to your pulse point and sucks your skin between his teeth. Thankfully, you don’t have to tell him to be careful. He just is.
And then you see what he’s doing. Get how desperate he is for you. He pushes your legs apart as he continues kissing down your neck. Presses his fingers into your mouth and you suck on them without thinking. Swirl your tongue around his fingers and earn a satisfied hum in response. It vibrates against your skin. Chan winds his hand down your body and between your legs. Presses his spit slick fingers into your entrance.
“Chan, fuck,” you hiss when he presses his first finger in.
“So wet for me, sweetheart,” he whispers into your skin. “Did you miss my fingers?”
“Mmmm, I…” you start, only to moan when he starts pumping into you. Hooks his fingers just the way he remembers you liking it.
“Did you miss this?” he asks, free hand roaming up your body to take one of your boobs into his hand again. Squeezes it a little roughly as he keeps pumping his finger into you.
“You’re a shit,” you manage to hiss out through a moan.
“I’m not sure I heard you,” he says and presses a second finger into you. Alternates between scissoring his fingers inside you and picking up the pace.
“Fuck,” you moan out. He jerks his hips into your ass and you feel that he’s getting harder. You’re not the only one losing yourself here. “God your fingers!”
“That’s what I thought,” he whispers, right into your ear. Moving his lips from your neck just for a moment. You miss the feel of his lips on your skin.
“Oh my god,” you whine and then he does the worst thing imaginable. He pulls his fingers out. You whip your head around to look at him over the shoulder. “What the fuck?”
“Easy, sweetheart, turn around again for me,” he says. Soft and sweet. Totally at odds with the fire burning in his eyes.
You comply even though you don’t want to. You were so close to coming all over his fingers and you don’t want to lose that. The disappointment is short-lived. He drops to his knees in front of you. Right in your hallway. With your back pressing into your front door. He hooks one of your legs over his shoulder and looks up at you. Presses his tongue flat against your core and you might actually cum just from that. Nobody should be allowed to look that good. That sinful. It’s too much. And that’s before he actually licks into your cunt for the first time.
It’s enough to have you throw your head back against your door. Not too hard, though. Chan doesn’t waste his time. Doesn’t tease you anymore. Just focuses on fucking his tongue into your waiting pussy like he’s been waiting for this chance for years. Uses a finger to tease your clit and hums appreciatively in response to each moan. There’s so little for you to anchor yourself to in this position. Not that you really care. It’s impossible to stay standing, but it would be unimaginably worse to have him stop. Not right now. Not when you’re this close. When Chan brings a finger back up, you’re gone.
“Chan, fuck, no, I’m gonna - fuck!” you shout out as you feel that coil about to snap. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow down. If anything, he picks up the pace. Does everything that he can to push you over the edge. It doesn’t take long before you’re coming all over his face. He laps it all up. Doesn’t waste any of it. Just works you through your high and pushes you just past.
He’s not completely demonic, though. He does pull back. Gently helps you get your leg off his shoulder and back on the floor. Slowly picks himself up to slot against your body again. Grabs at your hips possessively to pull you into him. Kisses you fiercely and you taste yourself on his tongue. It’s not nearly enough. Not by a long shot. You pull back without creating any space.
“Come on,” you say, finally pushing him a little away from you so that you can step away from the door, “let’s go take this to the bed.”
And it’s easy to fall back into these patterns, too. Easy to grab his hand and pull him into your apartment. Easy to push him back onto your bed after stripping off his remaining clothes. Easy to wrap your fingers around his cock and look at him just the way he likes. Easy to remember just how much he loves your mouth wrapped around him. Easy to bring him just to the edge before pulling off. Easy to see the desire mixed with adoration when you climb on top of him to ride him. Hard and fast. Too needy for anything else.
It’s just so easy to carry on until the early hours of the morning, until you’re both spent, in the dark of your apartment.
Things always feel a little different in the light of day. After a late night, a much later one than anticipated, it’s well into the morning before you wake up. You’re kind of groggy and your body is sore. Tentatively, you start to stretch, only to realize there’s an arm around your stomach. It’s then that you register the feel of a body behind you. Of course Chan is still there. And of course you remember everything from the night before. There’s just a part of you that figured he might have left before you woke up. The steady sounds of his breathing bathe over you. It’s such a familiar sound and it almost feels comforting, just for a moment. At least, until you really stop to think about what all of this might mean.
Gently, you pick up his hand and slide out of your bed. Somehow manage to not wake Chan up. Tiptoe over to the door and slide out of the bedroom. You take a moment to lean back against your closed bedroom door to collect your thoughts. It’s fine. This is all fine. You can definitely figure it all out. Not if you keep standing against the door, though. So, you quietly head into the kitchen. Put on a pot of coffee and retrieve your phone from the living room.
You’re in the midst of scrolling, totally lost in your world, when arms wind around your middle. It startles you for a second before you remind yourself it’s just Chan. He presses a kiss to the side of your face when you turn it slightly. Still makes you feel a little tense. Something he doesn’t seem to pick up on given that he doesn’t move his arms.
“Morning,” he says, voice still thick with sleep.
“Morning,” you repeat. He kisses you again and then untangles himself from you so that he can step around you.
“So, should we dive right in, or…?” he asks.
“At least let me have some coffee first,” you say, only a little exasperation.
“Ah, right. I forgot,” he says and then drops his voice with a smirk. “Doesn’t seem like I forgot much else.”
“I will throw you out,” you threaten.
Chan throws up his hands in surrender, but the look on his face tells you that he’s not sorry. Not really, at least. A moment later, the coffee maker beeps. You reach for a couple of mugs and Chan goes into your refrigerator to get milk and creamer. You pour two mugs and he finishes them off, exactly the way each of you likes. Without another word, you both head into the living room and sit down on the couch. He lets you take a couple of sips before broaching the conversation again.
“So, now that we have coffee,” he starts and you sigh.
“I guess I can’t avoid it,” you agree.
“Avoid it?” he asks, brow furrowing. “Do you regret it?”
“Oh, no, Chan,” you say softly and reach out to him. “No, of course I don’t. It’s just…”
“Just?”
“Complicated.”
“It doesn’t have to be,” Chan offers and you search his face. For a moment, he’s just the boy you fell in love with in law school. Open and honest and impossibly easy to read. That makes it a little more frightening, though.
“I think the hardest part for me is that you believe that,” you say carefully. Watch the way his face morphs before returning to something more neutral.
“I mean, why wouldn’t I believe it?” he asks.
You’re not even sure how to answer that. There’s so many reasons. You’re exes. You work together. For the most part, nobody you work with knows Chan is your ex. There are still a lot of unresolved feelings, clearly. You’re technically seeing someone, though not exclusively. It is the easiest direction to go in, though.
“I’m still seeing someone,” you point out and his face falls a little.
“Oh, I just kind of thought…”
“I mean don’t get me wrong. It’s casual. We’re not, like, committed. But, still…”
“Well, if it’s not even serious, then I don’t really see the issue.”
“There are a lot of issues, Chan. We’re just…us. I’m only just getting to know you again.”
“I guess I just kinda figured…” he starts and frowns.
“Figured what?”
“I figured that…I don’t know. I figured when you pulled me in and kissed me last night it might mean that you want the same thing as I do,” he says. Your eyes go a little wide at the admission.
“And what is it that you want?” you ask. Chan gives you a look that you’re not quite used to anymore. One that says you’re a step or two behind and he’s just waiting for you to catch up.
“You,” he says simply and then sighs. Runs a hand through his hair. “It’s always been you. It’s always going to be you. It hasn’t worked with anyone else in the last four years because I just can’t get over you. And then this…”
“Chan…”
He shakes his head and stands up. A little sad. Maybe a little defeated. A little resigned. “I’ve said what I need to say. I know you well enough to know that we’re not in the same place. So, I don’t know. I guess figure out where you are and let me know.”
“Chan, please, just give me…” you start and he shakes his head.
“I’m not an idiot. I know we’ve got a lot of things to talk about if we’re going to try again. But, I can’t sit here and act like I don’t love you or last night didn’t mean something different to me. I can’t,” he says, voice wavering ever so slightly.
“Last night meant something to me, too, I’m just…”
“I get it. I’ll see you at work on Monday,” he says and heads off towards your front door without another word. All you can manage to do is sit in the awkward silence that settles around you in his absence. Well, fuck.
You have a lot of things to think about. What to do about Chan. What to do about Parker. That should probably be the first thing that you address, honestly. It’s not serious, but you also don’t want to waste his time. If you can fall back into bed with your ex so easily, then you probably don’t see forever with him. Something you probably already knew, on some level.
It’s all too much and so you do the only thing that any reasonable person can: call your best friend to go out to brunch. At least he can give you so much needed perspective. And from someone whose love life is significantly less messy than yours.
After lunch, and at least partially hearing out your bestie’s advice, you do go ahead and break things off with Parker. Your friend suggests it because, according to him, at least, you’re not over Chan. You decide to go ahead and do it because it seems clear that you and Parker are on different pages. Like the truly great guy that he is, he just accepts it. Appreciates you letting him know and not continuing on if you don’t feel like you’re on the same page. Honestly, he’s the perfect guy for someone, but definitely not for you. All you feel after the conversation is relief. You don’t feel any clearer about Chan, though. Which you point out to your friend, who only seems to think it’s you avoiding it. Whatever.
Your biggest issue is that you’re not sure if Chan is serious. Not sure if you can let your walls down to let him in again. It just all seems kind of sudden to you. After near radio silence for four years, he’s not only back in your life, but at your firm as well. He’s quietly slipping into areas where it’s a little hard to ignore him. Your friend points out that leaving a good job to come to the exact firm you work at doesn’t exactly seem sudden. It doesn’t seem like this is just all on some whim. It also doesn’t seem like it’s driven by you having another relationship, especially given how casual it was. And, sure, it’s scary to take a leap like this. Even scarier when it’s someone you used to know so intimately. Doesn’t that make it kind of worth it, too?
What you don’t admit to your friend, though he can obviously tell, is that you’re scared. Chan is that one person. The one always somewhere in the back of your mind, even when you don’t realize it. Possibly even your one that got away, if you could stop being too stubborn to admit it. In those quiet moments, you also kind of thought of him as your right person at the wrong time. Which is exactly the type of person you should give a second chance to. Things are different now. You’re both older. More established in your careers. Maybe even both able to admit making mistakes.
It’s scary. Giving Chan a chance means risking breaking your heart all over again. And how do you go about picking up the pieces this time?
“Did you and Chan get home okay?” Joshua asks, plopping into his chosen chair across from you in your office on Monday morning. Your brain short circuits for a minute trying to catch up. Does he know what happened? Could he? Thankfully, he mistakes your confusion for being too deep in case prep. “Did you already put the happy hour behind you? I can’t believe you didn’t know you lived in the same building.”
“Oh, yeah,” you say and give a light laugh. Turn back to your computer. “Yeah, it’s crazy. We got home fine, though.”
“Where is he this morning?” he asks and you give him a look.
“How should I know?”
Joshua gives you a kind of knowing look that you definitely do not like. It looks like he’s up to something and you’re not sure you want to know what it is. “You live in the same building. I just figured you’d start carpooling now.”
You roll your eyes, hoping that’s all he’s going for. “You’re annoying.”
“I just like it when my team all gets along.”
“We’re not going to get along if you don’t leave me the fuck alone.”
“Is that any time to talk to your boss?”
“You’re not really my boss.”
“This is a hostile work environment,” he says and stands up, pretending to be serious. He almost pulls it off too.
“This is my office,” you point out.
“Fine, I’ll go bother someone else,” he says and walks towards the door.
“You could also work on your cases,” you call after him.
You know that he’s only like this because it’s a quiet day in the office. The partners are all out, either on vacation or at offsite meetings. It’s that time of year when people try to get little breaks in before things pick up again. It’s also one of your favorite times of year because it’s quieter. Maybe Chan is doing the same thing. Against your better judgment, you click over to the shared calendar and see the first half of his day is blocked off. It makes you panic until you notice that it’s an existing meeting. Something on the schedule from before he even started at the firm.
Then, Joshua sends a text to the team’s group chat (the one without the partners), saying that he hopes Chan feels better soon. It’s clear from the message that they talked privately and that Chan is going to be working from home the rest of the day. Something that Joshua suggests since it is quiet in the office. And, really, there isn’t much that you can’t do at home unless you have in-person client meetings or have to go to court. Everyone sends their well wishes and you include your own so that nothing looks suspicious. Your mind wanders, though. Is he really not feeling well? Or is it because of you? It seems kind of conceited to think that you could have that level of impact on him. Still, you worry. Realize that you care more than you thought.
By the time you leave the office, surprisingly on time, you know what you want to do. At least in part. You swing by a pho place that you love and pick up a couple of bowls to go along with some appetizers. All the things that you remember Chan liking from when you were in school. By the time you make it to his door, you’re questioning if this is really a good idea. Maybe he really doesn’t feel well. Maybe he doesn’t want to see you. Or maybe he’s not even home. Before you can send yourself down another mental spiral, you knock on his door. Almost hope that he’s not home.
Then he opens the door and your heart stutters a little.
He’s not this adorably confused look on his face when he sees you. A mix of disbelief and something else. He’s got his glasses on and his hair is a little messy. Like maybe he might’ve been laying in bed. It should not be doing something to you the way that it is. For all you know, he might really be sick and you’re making it weird. His eyes travel down to the bag in your hand. Finally, he clears his throat.
“What are you doing here?”
You hold up the bag like some kind of peace offering. “I brought pho. Thought you might need something to eat if you’re sick.”
He snorts lightly. Rolls his eyes, yet there isn’t much heat behind it. “I’m not sick. I just didn’t want to come in and see you yet.”
“Oh.”
“Come on in,” he says after a moment. Another sigh. Like he can’t really believe what he’s saying. You have the good sense to look a little sheepish as you slip in behind him. Set the food down for a moment to toe off your shoes and then follow him into the kitchen.
The two of you are quiet as you move around each other to get the food ready. Though he doesn’t say anything about you staying to eat with him, he pulls out utensils and gets you something to drink from the fridge. Warms up your bowl first before doing the same to his own. Helps you set his little table so that the two of you can sit down to eat. Can’t totally help the appreciative look on his face when he opens his bowl and the smell hits him.
“I’m sorry, Chan,” you say when the silence starts to feel like too much.
“That could be about a lot of things,” he says, eyes meeting you hesitantly.
“That’s fair,” you concede. Set down your spoon and give him your full attention. “I’m sorry for Saturday morning. I could have handled that so much differently.”
“I could’ve handled it a lot better, too,” he says after a beat. “Or, you know, not thrown it all on you that way.”
“Did you mean it?” you ask, pushing around the remaining contents of your meal to avoid looking up at him. He pauses long enough that you look up. And it’s just…Chan. Soft smile that makes you want to smile back. Gentle eyes. Open face. The person you remember loving more than anything in the world.
“That it’s always going to be you?” he asks and you nod. “Yes, I did.”
“I’m not sure what to do with that,” you admit.
“Why don’t you just start with how it made you feel?”
“Scared?” you venture and sigh. “Nervous. A little tense. Excited. Homesick.”
That makes him laugh. “Homesick?”
You chew on your bottom lip for a moment. “You always felt like home. And then you said that and it was just…I don’t know. I missed the feeling of you being my home.”
“I’ve missed it too. Every day for the last four years.”
“Chan,” you say and laugh affectionately. “I know you have not been just pining after me for years.”
“And if I have?”
“That might be scarier.”
“Why?”
It takes you a minute to formulate your reasoning. “What if it doesn’t work? What if we’re just risking ending up in the same place again? What if I can’t live up to the version in your head? And now we work together…”
There it is again. Chan. Your Chan. The way he looks at you makes you think you could fly if you tried. “What if it does work? Are you really going to tell me you’re too scared to take the chance and get everything we’ve ever wanted? Where’s the girl I fell in love with in law school? She wasn’t afraid of anything.”
“Of course I was,” you disagree, smiling so fondly.
“It’s okay. I’ll hold your hand if you get scared this time,” he says. Confident. Sure. ready to take the leap yet again.
And it’s not the same. Not really. You’ve both had four years to think about everything that happened then and everything that might happen now. To figure out what you want and what you don’t. To figure out how to have the hardest conversations. To take risks because you’re not students anymore. To take a second chance. How often in life do people really get those? Do you really want to turn it down because you’re scared? Do you really want to wonder?
“I just…” you start and he shakes his head. Rises out of his seat and holds his hand out to you.
“Let’s just try something. Without the happy hour or anything else,” he says and you give him a look. But, you want to trust him too. You nod.
Chan closes the remaining space between you. Runs a finger along your forehead to brush a hair off your face. Meets your eyes and there’s this look of intense vulnerability there. Like he means that he can be brave enough for both of you. At least for now. And then he pulls you into him and kisses you. Sweet. Soft. Searching. The kind of kiss that two friends might share if they’re trying to see if there are deeper feelings there. Or maybe it’s the kind of kiss that tests where each of you is now.
Whatever the case, you feel it. Almost instantly. You wind your arms around his neck and pull yourself tighter against him. Deepen the kiss and take the lead. Let your tongue tangle with his. Grasp at him to erase any space. He hums into your mouth as he holds you close. You break the kiss long enough to guide the two of you back to his couch. Urge him to sit down and immediately straddle his lap. Chan looks a little smug as you settle and he grabs your hips. A little like he’s getting exactly what he wants. You might be too, though. You lean in to kiss him again and he meets you hungrily. Not just letting you set the pace, but actively chasing it with you. Chan’s hands grip your hips tightly as you roll against him. Feel the way he groans at the friction.
Honestly, you kind of want to fuck him right here on the couch and don’t even know if you can wait. Would too, if not for the doorbell suddenly ringing through the apartment. You give him a look and find he’s just as confused as you are. Clearly not expecting anyone.
“Will you…” he starts as you shift to get off him.
“Are you expecting anyone?” you ask and he shakes his head.
“Just give me a minute. I’m going to go into the bathroom,” he says.
It’s your turn to nod. You try and smooth down your clothes. Take a couple breaths. As soon as you see him get to the bathroom, you move towards his front door. Mentally prepare to make some excuse to whoever it is. Nothing prepares you for the person on the other side.
“Oh, hi.”
Your brain immediately short circuits because what the actual fuck is Joshua doing on the other side of the door looking at you like that. Suddenly, you’re wishing that you had checked your appearance in a mirror before answering.
“Joshua.”
“I was coming by to see Chan,” he says and looks at the door. “I’m pretty sure this is his apartment and not yours.”
“No, yeah, it is. I just stopped by to bring him some food since he was sick,” you say and Joshua looks entirely unconvinced.
“Right,” he says, drawing out the word.
“He’s just in the bathroom if you want…”
“I was just bringing by some case files that weren’t scanned yet in case he wanted to work from home again tomorrow,” Joshua says and holds out the folders.
“Did you want to come in?”
“No, why don’t you just give them to him?” Joshua asks. That smug smile makes you want to burrow into the floor and die.
“Look, Joshua,” you start and take a deep breath. “It’s just…well, I said some things after happy hour that I shouldn’t have and I just wanted…”
Joshua holds up a hand. “You don’t owe me an explanation for why you’re here. There’s no rule against hanging out.”
“Right, but…”
“You might owe me an explanation for why you didn’t tell me that you were, you know…”
“Coming over?”
The look he gives you says that he knows a lot more than you realize. Thankfully, a moment later he puts you out of your misery. “That you were the ex he couldn’t get over.”
Your jaw drops open. You’re usually so much better at maintaining composure. Then again, that’s not really true when you’re close to someone, is it?
“I don’t…”
He waves you off. “There’s been a million signs for someone that knows you as well as I do. Be careful and for once in your life, don’t worry about the damn rules.”
“Thanks, Joshua,” you say earnestly. He gives you his real smile. That one that’s soft and kind and reserved for people he also cares about.
“Work from home tomorrow. I’ll see you Wednesday,” he says and turns to leave before you can respond. After a moment, you walk back in to find Chan peeking out from the bathroom.
“Who was it?” he asks and steps towards you.
“Well, I guess that cat’s out of the bag,” you say with an uneasy chuckle.
“What do you…?”
You hold up the files that Joshua brought by. “That was Joshua dropping these off in case you wanted to work from home again tomorrow.”
“Oh, shit.”
“Yeah.”
“Are you…upset that he knows?”
You study Chan’s face for a moment. Realize that he is just letting you set the expectations. Set the tone and the speed and everything else. “No.”
“So?”
“If you can forgive me for not responding in the best way the other morning, then I guess we try again?”
The smile that breaks across his face nearly takes your breath away. So soft. Genuine. Full of affection. Like he’s in his first year of law school again. All bright eyed and full of optimism. A second later, he closes the space between you and pulls you into his body. Peppers kisses all over your face, making you laugh in a way you haven’t in years.
“Wait,” he says, pulling back. You frown at him. “You did break it off with that guy, right?”
Of all the things to ask right then, you cannot believe this is what he asks. It pulls another genuine laugh out of you. Makes you swat at his arm. “Yes, you idiot.”
“When?”
“What?”
“When did you do it?”
For some reason, the question makes you hesitate. Do you admit how deep in this you already are? “Saturday.”
That pulls him up short. “Then why…?”
“I was scared, Chan. And I didn’t want to break off whatever it was with him just because of you. If I’m being honest, it’s been a while coming,” you say and sheepishly look away. Take a breath and meet his eyes again. Time to be brave. “I knew it was wrong after that date I went on. The one that I missed happy hour for?”
“So I wasn’t crazy,” he says triumphantly.
“I mean, you are, but not for that reason,” you say and earn your own swat. “I don’t know, I was just on the date and something wasn’t clicking. It wasn’t…”
“Wasn’t so perfect?” Chan asks, a little smug.
“No, he really is perfect. On paper, at least. But, he’s not you. And you’re all my heart seems to want now that you’re back in my life,” you admit. Brave. Keep being brave.
“You could have had me way earlier,” he says. The barest pout makes an appearance.
You shake your head. “I’m not sure it would’ve worked then. I needed to grow. To realize what I wanted and what I didn’t. I think we both needed it.”
“Maybe,” he concedes and then looks over at you again. “Can I go back to kissing you?”
“Oh my god,” you exclaim. It’s so like him to break up a heavier moment with something light. Still, you do want to kiss him.
It’s nothing like a few nights prior. No frenzy, no desperation. The kiss starts straight off being deep and intense. The kind of kiss that makes you wonder why you ever bothered dating anyone else in the world. The kind that claims you, body and soul. The kind that seals promises into your lips. The kind where you could agree to absolutely anything and know it still would be okay.
Maybe it had to fall apart before so that it could work now. Maybe it’s not so scary to try and figure it all out.
• genre/warnings: non idol au, major angst, fluff, strangers to friends to lovers, mom's friend's son trope (idk what to call it ¿), minor age gap (jeonghan is two years older than reader) one sided love, slowburn, lots of crying, kissing, skinship, use of petnames, mild suggestive themes, mentions of being sick, minor slut shaming, some scenes inspired by first frost and one dialogue inspired by yjhd (sorry) jeonghan is a heartbreaker (but also a healer bcs i said so) uhm yeah that's it
• summary: falling in love at eighteen was never in your bucket list, but when your mom's childhood friend lands in your country with her son, all it takes is two months for you to feel emotions that excite you before scarring you.
• wc: 11k
read you wish here
author's note: oh my beloved i wish is finally here! i spent nearly a year writing this, and big big biiiig love to @kissbyoon without whom i totally would've dumped this. this fic is especially close to my heart because well it's inspired by my own experience at first love, except i gave these babies the happy ending i never got :) so i hope all of you who read this love it as much as i do!!! 🤍
One flight.
Two months.
And a few words.
That's all it took for your world to fall apart six years ago. For your heart to sink into an endless blackhole. For Yoon Jeonghan to make you fall brutally in love with him, then leave you stranded in the middle of nowhere.
You had not seen the face of an airport in the last five years, yet on one cold October night, you stood before the arrivals gate, your gaze fixed on the large screen displaying the status of incoming flights.
San Francisco → Seoul (Landed 09:45)
Seungkwan buzzed in excitement beside you, jumping every other second. He had expressed his impatience a dozen times since you reached, and you felt bad that you couldn't reciprocate his enthusiasm. You were trying, every second, to not drown into your anxiety.
Air seemed to not fully reach your lungs when your eyes spotted him many meters away, pushing the trolley of his luggage past the arrival gate.
A shaky breath left your mouth, and your nails dug in your palms as his warm eyes found yours from afar. Then he smiled — the soft, knowing smile that made you forget everything all those years ago. The smile that still made him feel like the only person in a sea of people.
In that moment, you decided that you were not ready for Jeonghan’s presence in your life again.
***
Six years ago
Summer
The night felt endless. You tossed and turned, unable to find sleep, all thanks to your late night studying and a messed-up sleep schedule. At least tomorrow was Sunday, and you had a chance to sleep in.
Just as sleep finally started to claim you, your bedroom door flew open. Your mom's loud voice cut through the quiet. "Y/N, wake up! The flight has landed!"
You groaned, squeezing your eyes shut as your mom tugged at your blanket. You wanted to shout, maybe even cry, but you held back. Slowly, you opened your eyes, immediately squinting at the bright light.
"It's one in the morning, Mom. What are you talking about?" You asked, trying not to sound annoyed but failing.
Your mom's eyes widened dramatically. "Hyesuk's flight! Didn't you remember we were going to pick her up?"
Your brain finally caught up, reminding you of what you had completely forgotten. It didn't make you any less frustrated. You loved Aunt Hyesuk, but she would understand if you didn't come because you weren't feeling well.
"Mom," you sat up slowly, rubbing your eye. "Can't you go alone? Take Kwannie. I don't feel good."
A light smack landed on your back, and your mom's voice rose, making your head pound more. "Is that how much you love your aunt?! She kept asking for you, and you're making excuses!"
You winced, trying your best to stay calm. You wanted to scream and cry.
"Seungkwan is ready! Get up, we're waiting."
"Mom!" You tried to keep your voice down, but it rose anyway. "My head hurts, and I haven't slept enough! I'll see her when she comes home!"
Silence fell. Your mom looked at you quietly before turning off the light. "Fine. Do what you want."
You groaned in frustration as your door clicked shut. Your eyes burned, and your head spun, but you knew sleep wouldn't touch you anymore.
After staring into the darkness for a while, you decided you could handle a few hours of headache for your mom and her best friend. Ten minutes later, you were in the car, wearing a simple white sweater over black sweatpants. You hadn't even bothered to brush your hair. You probably looked terrible, but no one seemed to care at this hour.
Except for your annoying little brother.
"You could have tried to look a little nice," he whispered in your ear. You glared at him, again trying not to yell, because if you two started fighting, your mom would likely kick you both out.
"How old is her daughter?" he asked again, nudging you. You sighed, rubbing your aching head, keeping your voice low. "She's your age, but please don't fall in love with her, Kwan. You're both kids."
"Seventeen is not a kid."
"Pretty much is."
"You talk like you're twenty-eight. You're only a year older. Don't act so old."
You chose to ignore him because his voice had gotten louder and definitely reached your mom's ears. You didn't want to start a fight and make her angry. All you wanted was to meet Aunt Hyesuk, bring her home, and go back to sleep.
Your headache got worse when you reached the airport. At the arrivals area, many of your mom's friends were waiting with their kids for Aunt Hyesuk. You hadn't expected such a big gathering, but it made sense since all the childhood friends were there to welcome their only friend returning from overseas after twelve years.
Aunt Hyesuk had moved to the US after getting married and had only visited twice in all those years. Once before you were born and once when you were six. You vaguely remembered playing with her kids, but as you grew up, you had secretly started to dislike them. There were many rumors about her son — that he was supposedly rebellious, left home young because of a girl, was very proud, and definitely hated Korea.
You didn't care much about him or his sister. You just wanted to meet your sweet Aunt Hyesuk and get it over with. It was a little annoying that her kids would obviously be staying at your place with her during their vacation, but you had accepted it.
You really didn't like the crowd of people because a lot of noise was the last thing you wanted to hear. Seungkwan kept bothering you with questions, and your mom made you greet many of her judgmental friends.
It was chaotic when Aunt Hyesuk finally arrived, but it also made you a little teary-eyed. Your mom started crying, and Aunt Hyesuk had tears in her eyes too. The whole group of friends was meeting her after so many years, so it was bound to be emotional.
You hugged Aunt Hyesuk, and she commented on how much you had grown. You told her how much you missed her and that she should have called more often. You also met Soobin, her daughter, who looked a little unfriendly because she quickly looked away from you. You didn't notice her son until Seungkwan whispered in your ear, "I heard he wasn't good looking, but wow he's so handsome."
That's when your eyes went to the guy standing a few feet away, leaning against his luggage as he chatted with your mom with a kind smile. Yoon Jeonghan.
He wore a simple black t-shirt, and the watch on his wrist looked too expensive to be ordinary.
He seemed harmless and rather nice. All the things you had heard about him felt like lies, and your heart might have fluttered a little, but you didn't pay attention to the feeling.
You didn't care about this guy. Not in the slightest.
All you cared about was your precious sleep that had been stolen from your tired eyes. But your mom had other plans. An hour later, you were all sitting in your mom's friend's restaurant, enjoying late-night drinks and snacks.
How Aunt Hyesuk and her children didn't have jet lag was beyond you, and you couldn't understand how energetic everyone was at this hour. You were also starting to get a little annoyed that this guy hadn't greeted you or even looked your way.
Sure, he was surrounded by all the women – even the young girls who were obviously flirting – but he could have at least been polite enough to say hello. You were dealing with this terrible headache for him and his welcome. It only made sense that he acknowledged you.
The women properly started introducing everyone to him so he could remember names since it was his first time back after growing up. You sat back, hoping your turn would come and the rude jerk would finally greet you.
But it didn't happen. Before you could be introduced, something else caught everyone's attention, and they all forgot about introductions.
Well, you weren't going to let yourself get upset. You already felt awful, and a burning sensation graced your chest. You tried your best to ignore it until you got home.
Aunt Hyesuk didn't come home with you, saying she had booked a hotel and they would stay there. Your mom let her go for the night, but you were sure they would be at your house within a few days.
It was around six in the morning when you finally collapsed into bed. Your stomach rumbled with hunger, but you didn't have the energy to eat. The burning in your chest felt stronger in the quiet now, but you closed your eyes, trying to ignore it.
Your phone buzzed, and you realized you hadn't brought it with you. Unlocking it to check notifications, you saw a message from your friend about your favorite celebrity couple breaking up.
The news was recent, only published a few hours ago. It may have seemed silly, but you couldn't stop the tears that instantly welled up in your eyes. All the emotions you had been holding back all night came crashing down, and you couldn't help but sob into your pillow.
***
"Y/N!" Your head shot up from your textbook at Seungkwan's voice as he walked into your room without knocking. "Get ready, we're going to hang out with everyone."
You raised an eyebrow at him and then looked back at your unfinished studies. "I'm studying."
"Yeah, but Mom said we should go. Auntie wouldn't like it if we don't entertain her kids, at least. They don't know anyone here."
You rolled your eyes, sighing as you closed your book. "Is that my problem? I saw how friendly her son was with everyone at the airport. They both definitely didn't look like they wanted to hang out with us. I'm sure they can manage."
"Don't be a party pooper, Y/N! I want to be friends with them! You know Mom is going to force you to go anyway. Just get up already."
You buried your face in your desk, trying to hide your anger. It had been a few days since they arrived, and they hadn't visited your house once, like your mom wanted. Why couldn't she see that maybe they just didn't want to be around you guys? That's what you guessed, and it made sense.
"What's the plan?" you asked, watching Seungkwan's eyes light up. "I don't know! I just heard Mom say they're at Chaeyoung's place, and we should join them for a sleepover!"
"Chaeyoung? Why is she having a sleepover? She didn't even tell me?!"
Chaeyoung and you went to the same middle school and had been friends for a long time. She lived nearby, and her mom was part of your mom's friend group, so you often hung out at her place.
"Well, I don't know. Just get up, please. You can ask her when you get there!"
An hour later, as the sun was almost setting, you found yourself at Chaeyoung's house. What you didn't expect was about a dozen other people who were apparently going to stay the night.
Chaeyoung just told you that her mom insisted she take care of the “US Kids,” and she had no choice but to host this little party.
There were people you already knew and some you didn't – all kids of your mom's friends. You had seen some around since childhood, like Seungcheol and Joshua. You also knew Sua and Heeso as really nice girls, but tonight, they seemed overly eager to impress.
The movie was playing on the television, and you carefully sat down next to Chaeyoung.
I've already seen this movie was the excuse you gave yourself for your wandering eyes that kept watching Jeonghan. He sat at the right end of the couch next to Seungkwan, who seemed to really like the older guy.
His smile looked really nice, and he spoke every now and then, commenting on the scenes in the movie. You couldn't help but notice how he seemed to already know everyone in the room. Well, except you.
You somehow got through the movie and were now in the kitchen with Chaeyoung as she prepared snacks for everyone. The moms were on the rooftop, having a good time.
"I've been holding this for you to take for the last five minutes, Y/N," Chaeyoung said, and you immediately looked at her. You sheepishly took the water bottle from her hand as she stood up, closing the last cabinet. "Sorry. I was lost in thought."
"Exactly. What were you thinking about?"
"I'm just hating this whole thing, you know? Mom knows I'm preparing for college entrance exams, and she's still dragging me out to entertain these prideful siblings," you said, sounding annoyed.
Chaeyoung chuckled, pouring some chips into a bowl. "A little fun won't hurt you, sweetie. Just relax and enjoy yourself like everyone else if you're here anyway."
You groaned, not bothering to explain yourself. You were just glad you had Chaeyoung to talk to. Soon, you were both back in the living room, putting the snacks on the coffee table that everyone was sitting around.
You heard Heeso introducing herself in a voice that sounded too fake. She was talking about her hobbies, and the guys were making fun of her without her realizing. It made you feel bad as you sat down next to Seungkwan. One person away from Jeonghan, not that it mattered.
"What's happening?" you whispered to Seungkwan, who laughed before whispering back. "Jeonghan said he wants to know everyone here, so everyone's introducing themselves one by one."
You rolled your eyes, annoyed at who knows what. Maybe just this guy's presence was enough to irritate you. You heard everyone's introductions, only missing Joshua's because you were in the kitchen back then. The jokes did make you laugh, and after a while, you felt a little more comfortable than you thought you would.
"Your turn, Y/N." Seungcheol looked at you after Chaeyoung finished introducing herself on your left, and you blinked a little. Suddenly, all eyes were on you, and even though the attention made you a little nervous, it also made you finally feel noticed.
Without thinking, your eyes went to Jeonghan to see if he was looking, and you almost choked because he was.
You didn't know what to do with that information.
"I'm Y/N, eighteen years old, starting college in two months," you said, unsure what anyone was expecting.
"Have you decided on your major?"
Your breath caught in your throat when you looked at the person who spoke, and you blinked. For a second, you were confused. Was he really talking to you?
"Uh, yeah. Psychology."
Jeonghan's mouth opened slightly, and then he clapped once. "That's really great! I was waiting for someone to talk about something intellectual. You seem intelligent, Y/N."
Your first reaction was to laugh awkwardly and then look away. You weren't always good at taking compliments, especially not such direct and bold ones. Your face felt warm as you tried to process his words.
You knew Jeonghan was studying engineering – he was already two years into college. Maybe he had high standards, but the way he was getting along with everyone made him seem like a people-pleaser too.
You couldn't answer, and you were glad when Seungcheol spoke up. "Are you saying none of us are intelligent?!"
"Well," he leaned back against the couch with a lazy smile. "Maybe, but I believe no one is more intelligent than me."
Oh. So he was self-centered too?
His response started another discussion among everyone, and as much as you wanted to join in, you were too flustered by the interaction.
You were laughing with everyone now, surprisingly starting to enjoy this sleepover that you initially dreaded being a part of.
***
You had always held onto a romantic ideal of love.
No matter how many breakups, betrayals, and divorces you saw around, it never changed your idea of how beautiful love could be.
So, naturally, you had a picture of your future partner in mind – a checklist of desirable traits, each one a step on an imaginary ladder.
But that was always for the distant future. Definitely not two months before you started college.
Aunt Hyesuk planned a beach day for everyone on the weekend. You were glad you didn't have any studying to do that day because you really wanted to go to the beach. Especially now that you started to really enjoy everyone's company.
Soobin also became more open, and you realized she wasn't the mean girl you thought she was. She was just shy, and it was sad that quiet people were often seen that way. But you liked her – she often didn't make jokes but laughed the loudest at everyone else's.
Your eyes secretly followed Jeonghan everywhere he went, wearing a maroon shirt and shorts. Even in such simple clothes, he easily stood out among all the boys.
The time at the beach became a very happy memory – everyone's laughter mixed with the sound of the waves. By the time you all went to a restaurant for lunch, it was late afternoon. All the kids sat around one table, talking and teasing, while Jeonghan and Soobin were treated like the most important people.
You quickly learned that Jeonghan was playful, a tease, and very annoying too. He had ways of getting on the nerves of those who slightly offended him, and he got away with it too easily. He was good at witty comebacks, and he loved to praise himself.
You felt annoyed whenever he took time to praise himself during group conversations, but you didn't say anything. You didn't talk much, and it wasn't a bad annoyance anyway – you strangely felt little flutters in your stomach every time he spoke, even though you also wanted to strangle him.
It happened when you were all taking a group picture. Jisoo had asked a random man to take a photo of you all right outside the restaurant while the moms were still eating.
One second you were squeezed between Sua and Chaeyoung, smiling for the picture, and the next you were blinking at what was happening in front of you.
Jeonghan was being held back by Seungcheol while he cursed at a group of boys who were now running away.
"Let me go! How dare they— freaking hell!"
"Don't make a scene, man! It's okay, they're gone anyway. Relax," Seungcheol said, rubbing his shoulder, trying to calm his anger.
You felt a little scared at the sudden change in mood. "What happened?" you whispered to Chaeyoung beside you, who bit her lip before answering. "There was a group of boys who said something about us. The girls. So he got angry."
You felt a small weight settle on your chest as your eyes went back to Jeonghan. He ran a hand through his hair in frustration and then quickly chuckled at something Seungkwan said. Heeso and Sua were all around him, gushing about how attractive that was.
He didn't directly protect you. He protected all the women he was with, and you knew it was the least any man should do. But you couldn't help your heart.
Yoon Jeonghan had just climbed the first step of your imaginary ladder.
***
Jeonghan slipped down that step when you were stuffed with Seungkwan sitting between you both in the backseat of Seungcheol’s car.
It was a ride back from a usual hangout — a day to show the US kids around the city. Soobin had fallen under the weather so she didn't come along. It left you, Seungkwan, Seungcheol and Joshua.
Jeonghan specifically asked for Heeso and Sua to not be welcomed without his name being mentioned. He said he didn't want to hurt them, but they weren't an easy presence.
You understood that much, and it made you wonder how he perceived your presence.
You were subtly a part of whatever conversation was going on, until it shifted to Jeonghan’s love life and you became quiet. Involuntarily so.
Seungkwan kept prodding him, asking if he ever dated, or if he was currently. One thing you learnt about Jeonghan was that he never answered properly. He was always twisting words, saying too less or dragging too much.
That's what he was doing again.
“I have four girlfriends back in the states.”
Seungcheol nearly hit the brakes too hard. Joshua laughed at him. “You cannot believe that bullshit and get us in an accident.”
“He believed that?!” Seungkwan laughed harder, and you didn't know why, but you interjected. “It's the west. You never know if he's telling the truth.”
Jeonghan’s gaze found yours as he tilted his head, and you regretted saying anything instantly but didn't let it show. He smirked slightly, chuckling. “You're innocent, Y/N.”
You cocked a brow, somehow feeling bold even if your ears were burning. “I can't tell if that's a compliment or an insult.”
Jeonghan did a double take, and laughed. “Woah, relax. You look like you'll bite me.”
Your insides felt giddy at having a plain conversation with him directly like this, but you were sure to not let anybody know. At least you thought so. You rolled your eyes. “You're really annoying.”
“Hey!” Seungkwan held Jeonghan’s arm protectively. “Don't call my brother annoying. Just because he dates four girls at a time doesn't mean he isn't nice.”
“Oh that makes him very immoral.” Seungcheol remarked between a laughter.
“You should try scoring at least one girl before calling me immoral.” Jeonghan seethed, his smirk annoying you.
You couldn't help but speak again. “You're not talking about a sport, Jeonghan. Maybe have some respect?”
There was a beat of silence before his head tilted towards you again, something indecipherable passing his eyes. He smiled. “My bad.”
You felt even more annoyed now because was that all he had to say? The guys busied themselves in a conversation again as you looked out of the window, rolling your eyes at yourself.
Yoon Jeonghan wasn't going to climb up your ladder.
***
You were terribly wrong.
Jeonghan jumped two steps at a time.
It was a friday, and you weren't about to waste it by playing cards with everyone. But you did.
It was finally a weekend when aunt Hyesuk decided to stay at your place with the kids. So when everyone was asleep after a good game night, you found yourself taking a breath of fresh air in your garden.
That was where Jeonghan found you.
It gave you a jolt when he suddenly showed up next to you, sitting on the steps to your front gate.
“You scared me,” you sighed, a hand clutching your heart. He grinned, looking at you with his beautiful eyes softer than usual. Your heart throbbed.
“My bad,” he muttered, looking up at the sky sprayed with sprinkles of stars. “Why are you not sleeping?”
“Why are you not sleeping?” You shot back.
He let out a sigh. “New place. New bed. It's a little hard.”
“Would it have been easier to stay at a hotel?” You asked, recalling all the times you'd heard aunt Hyesuk say that he complained about staying anywhere but a hotel.
He nodded, then shrugged his shoulders. “But I'm glad it turned out this way. I like all of you. If we stayed at a hotel, I wouldn't have gotten to spend as much time with you guys. It's fun.”
You smiled, forgetting anything that had pissed you about him. The flutter of your heart was becoming a living thing that made you look away from his face.
“You know,” he said after a while of silence. “I don't actually have four girlfriends.”
You turned your head to look at him again, only to find his eyes already trained on you. A brief eye contact that held many keys to your heart, and he chuckled, looking away. “You really think I'm some player?”
You cleared your throat, trying to steer away the emotions that clouded your brain. “You made yourself sound so.”
He shook his head, scratching his temple and looking at you again. His gaze amplified a dull ache in your heart. “I'm not someone like that. I may joke around to look cool and stuff, but I'm really pathetic.”
You furrowed your brows. “Why would you think that way? Nobody's pathetic. Humans and their emotions are not—”
“Oh, are you going to start your psychology lesson?” He interrupted, his voice gentle and playful as he smirked at you. You suddenly wanted to smack him across his attractive face. Your open mouth closed on it's own, and you looked ahead, shutting yourself up.
“I was kidding,” he smiled. “You're cool when you talk about psychology. I just didn't want to know that my emotions aren't pathetic.”
Your heart did a little somersault, and the dull ache increased a notch. “Why?”
“Well because,” he paused, meeting your eyes for a second before looking down at his slippers. “People are not accepted for feeling too much. For romanticising the scent of coffee and rain. For smiling at the clouds and talking to the leaves. For loving too much and wanting it back as desperately.”
You stared at him with your heart squeezed tight, and registered his words with a blinding uncertainty. Somebody was speaking the thoughts only your journal was inked with.
“So sometimes, I tell myself that these things are pathetic. Coping mechanism, you'd call it, right?” He looked at you with a smile at the end of his sentence, and you blinked at the sudden attention. You were far too tuned out to quickly look away and respond. Your heart was going to kill you.
“Yeah.” You let out. “Coping mechanism, it is.”
He hummed, and a comfortable silence fell in. In a while, you decided to break it, your thoughts sorted after being all over the place. “It's the first time I've heard someone talk exacty like me.”
Jeonghan's head turned to look at you, and he chuckled. “Really? Are you saying you're pathetic like me?”
You didn't dare meet his beautiful eyes again, and continued to stare up at the sky. Your face burned, and your heart contracted a little too tight. “No. I'm saying that we're alike. But not pathetic, though. It may be a curse to feel deeply, but it's also a blessing.” You paused to take a breath, feeling uneven at the weight of hie gaze. “I think that people like us are beautiful, even if rare.”
He smiled, his eyes softening ever so slightly. He looked down at his enclasped hands, biting his lip to deal with the conversation. A hum vibrated through him. “I think the same. I could never say it out loud because I never found someone who thought the same.”
You could practically feel the drumming of your heart in your ears. Jeonghan looked at you again, chuckling. “You are something, Y/N.”
You met his eyes hesitantly, but your voice came out strong. “What do you mean, something? You are something. People who feel a lot don't date four girls at a time.”
The laugh that left Jeonghan's mouth made you struggle to hide your smile.
“They do if the four girls are hot and gorgeous.” He said, with a smirk touching his lips.
Yeah, you were going to smack his beautiful, beautiful face.
***
Another thing you learnt about Jeonghan was that he was secretive. Not in the subtle way, but in the I will drop hints and you will spend your whole life second guessing everything way.
He liked to keep people on edge, never telling all but never keeping all either. You realized you were a victim to his game, because you often found yourself infuriated by his teasing.
You sat on the floor of Chaeyoung’s living room once again, having just finished a dumb game of charades when Jeonghan brought it up.
“Someone confessed to me,” he said out of the blue, causing everyone to gape at him in shock. You realized he had a way of making heads in a room turn his way.
Excluding you, everyone was now pestering him to tell who it was. Popular guesses were either Sua or Heeso, and Seungcheol even had the audacity to say Chaeyoung. She laughed and slapped his shoulder in offense. “Have you looked at him? He's not my type at all.”
And it was true. Jeonghan was not Chaeyoung’s type at all. She was already pining after Joshua hopelessly for a few years. Jeonghan, however, was your type but you'd never admit it. Not even to yourself.
Your spiraling thoughts made you lay back a little with your head on the edge of the couch Jeonghan sat on. You stared into nothingness, trying to not think about how insignificant you were in the moment.
Your phone buzzed in your hand. Distracted, you tapped on the lockscreen to check your notifications.
[08:43] Yoon Jeonghan 🙄: stop laying down all sad
[08:43] Yoon Jeonghan 🙄: i’ll tell you who it is eventually
You tilted your head to look back and watched him pocket his phone with his gaze trained on you. You could clearly see a small smirk on his face as he shrugged his shoulders before quickly looking at Seungkwan and answering him.
Slowly, you turned to look ahead, straightening your posture as your heart nearly throbbed out of your ribcage. It didn't have to count as anything. Just because he chose to promise telling you something in a room full of people who were already bugging him for the information did not mean he had to climb up your ladder.
He did, anyway.
***
You liked to pride in your ability to feel things deeply.
People always told you things like sensitive people get nowhere but you always disagreed. You knew that it was a blessing in disguise for you to feel everything with bone crushing depth, for it wouldn't have made you you if you weren't so calamitous.
However, you hated your trait that Saturday night.
It was a usual hang out at Seungcheol's place. The floor was occupied with all the kids sitting in front of the TV, having put on a karaoke video. It was noisy because of how loud everyone was singing, especially Seungkwan and you got there late because of studies.
You could have dumped the hang out, but you liked these now. You liked being in everyone's presence, and playing silly little games while Jeonghan singlehandedly swiped out anyone's chances of victory. You always suspected that he was a cheat, but he never left concrete proof.
“Where's Jeonghan?” You whispered in Chaeyoung's ear, stopping her off-key highnote. Ever since you got here, you hadn't seen him even once.
Chaeyoung sighed deeply, looking at you before pointing towards the terrace. “Fought with his mom.”
Your eyes widened in surprise as you looked between the terrace and her. You never thought he could have differences with his mom, not after you had gotten to know that he stayed with her during the divorce of his parents.
“About?”
“Well, she wants him to go meet his dad. He doesn't want to. That broke out an argument between them earlier.”
You blinked slowly at her, before your eyes drifted to the terrace again. You couldn't really see him anywhere, but you would if you went…
No.
You wouldn't go. You didn't need to go. You didn't have to care if Jeonghan was upset. It didn't have to matter to you.
But it did. You cared, and you told yourself that you'd have cared if it was anyone else too — which was true but would your heart also hurt? That was a question you were terrified of answering.
***
Unfortunately, you did not get to see Jeonghan for the next two days. Your head was clouded with thoughts you were too scared to voice out, so you stayed locked up in your room with the excuse of studying.
(You were not studying at all)
All you did was gape out of your window all day, or stare at the ceiling where you could see Jeonghan's presumed sad face. It was beginning to itch you, and you desperately wanted to know if he was even alright.
You did not ask Chaeyoung again because you'd have looked suspicious for caring too much when everyone was going on just fine with their lives. Why had yours stopped then? Why were you holed up in your room, doing nothing but hoping Jeonghan felt better?
Your isolation had to end one way or the other, though. You heard Seungkwan screaming at your door right when you were starting to focus on studying.
“Jeonghan and Soobin just got here! Come out, we're going to go get ice cream!”
A few weeks ago, you'd have groaned and dropped your head in your textbook, not wanting to go. That part remained the same — not wanting to go — but this time, it wasn't because you needed to study, or your social battery was running out. It was solely because you were terrified of the way your heart started beating louder at the mere mention of Jeonghan.
In a while, you found yourself standing in your doorway, clad in a pink skirt that you only ever wore on special occasions. You tried to not be anxious, or still think about Jeonghan's mood but your hands shook on their own.
“Okay Y/N is already waiting! Let's go!” Seungkwan yelled as he messily put on his shoes, and you watched Soobin follow him right behind. You told yourself you were not waiting for Jeonghan to appear, but he walked right behind Soobin with an alluring smile on his face, and that was the closest you came to your heart exploding.
He looked at you, then did a double take as if noticing you, and his smile broadened a tad bit. Or maybe you were seeing things.
“You good?” The words left your mouth before you knew, as if it was a breath you were holding and you couldn't wait to release it once you were sure he wasn't sad anymore.
The door creaked, indicating Seungkwan had opened it and stepped out, but your eyes remained glued to Jeonghan's smile. He looked so beautiful, and you realized you'd like him to smile more.
He nodded once, closing his eyes for a split second as he tightened the edges of his lips. It was as if he knew you were worried, and he reassured you.
You sighed in relief, watching him give you one last look before he walked ahead while saying something to Seungkwan. You stood at the doorway, staring blankly at the empty spot where he stood a second ago.
You tested breathing a few times, and then your hand involuntarily went to your chest, pressing at your heart that suddenly felt too big. It rhymed with a beat, and you came to the devastating admission that it was Jeonghan's name.
You were in love, and you couldn't deny it anymore.
***
You wanted to tell someone. At least, Chaeyoung. You felt like your feelings were becoming a burden on your chest — one you wanted to carry but were failing to. And you also failed to tell anyone, especially Chaeyoung.
You would've actually found the words to spell out your emotions in front of her if she didn't come bawling to you about Joshua’s girlfriend. It broke your heart, and you tried your best to comfort her. It didn't help that you wondered how you would feel if your heart was broken too, and you cursed your emotions for being all over the place.
Perhaps, love only looked good in fiction, and when practical, it failed to live up to the expectations you'd built around it. You wanted to feel like you were floating in the air in love, but all that you registered was the fear of an impending calamity that would leave you hanging on the edge of this beautiful cliff.
You sighed out loud, tired of waiting in your living room. Seungkwan was the only one beside you, holding his gaming console and screaming at the screen while you were drowned in your thoughts.
It had been a little over half an hour since you were both waiting for Jeonghan and Soobin to get here. They did inform they'd run a bit late, but you hadn't thought it'd be this late. You were not interested in this game night anyway. The only reason you left your room was Jeonghan.
How stupid.
You stood up and tied your hair quickly, grabbing Seungkwan’s attention. He spared you a brief glance. “Where are you going? They might get here any second.”
You rolled your eyes, walking past him. “Yeah like they have for the past hour. I don't have that much time.”
“What do you even have to do?” Seungkwan asked, his eyes still glued to the game in front of him. You preferred to not answer, instead locking your room and opening your books to study. You really had much important stuff to do than waiting for someone you were in love with.
It was maybe a total of ten minutes that had passed when your phone buzzed with a notification that made you stop breathing momentarily.
Yoon Jeonghan 🙄[🤍]: hey psych come out
Yoon Jeonghan 🙄[🤍]: i just got here
You realized you were far too pathetic to ignore his texts.
***
After a lame game night that Jeonghan won by gaslighting everyone, you were walking side by side with him to the nearest convenience store. It wasn't your plan to be alone with him, but Soobin had knocked out mid-game while Seungkwan excused himself to sleep right when Jeonghan suggested getting ice cream.
You didn't have the heart to say no to him when he looked at you with a sad pout, so it resulted in this poor assault on your heart as his shoulder brushed against yours in the lone street.
“So who confessed to you?” You asked, desperate to strike a conversation because Jeonghan looked way too comfortable in the silence. You cursed yourself for talking about that out of everything because the look Jeonghan gave you made you realize that you probably looked really desperate.
Desperate for what, exactly? You weren't sure. You heard him chuckle, his hands in his pockets as he briefly glanced at you. “Did I promise to tell you?”
You rolled your eyes. You really hadn't met someone as infuriating as him. He bumped your shoulder intentionally, and pointed his chin towards the convenience store in front of you. “I'm gonna go buy ice cream. Which flavour do you want?”
“Chocolate,” you answered, beginning to dig in your purse for money when he held your wrist, stopping you. The touch sent a jolt up your spine, and you met his droopy eyes. “My treat. Chocolate is so basic, Y/N. What are you? A kid?”
You blinked slowly at him as his hand went back in his pocket and he spoke, “I'll get you mint chocolate.”
“No!” You protested almost instantly, recovering from the momentary shock of his touch. “I hate mint chocolate, Jeonghan. Don't.”
But he was already walking away with a wicked grin on his face. “It's my treat~ I decide the flavour~”
“Just take my money, for God's sake!” You stomped your feet, waiting for him with a frown on your face that quickly dissolved into a sheepish smile when he walked back with two chocolate flavored ice creams in his hands. He handed one to you with the same grin painted on his face and you couldn't help rolling your eyes. How insufferable of him.
“So,” Jeonghan began, taking a lick of his ice cream once you both started strolling again. “Have you ever been confessed to?”
You nearly dropped your beloved ice cream.
Your eyes shot open, head tilting in his direction at the sudden question. He smirked, relishing in the fact that he caught you off guard. “Come on, don't tell me you've always just been a nerd.”
You cleared your throat, looking ahead. “I have not.”
“What?” He quirked a brow. “Been confessed to or been a nerd?”
You sighed in borderline annoyance. “You'll be surprised to know that a fair share of boys have indeed liked me and confessed to me.”
He made a sound of excitement, turning so he could face you and walk backwards. “And let me guess. You ran away everytime, didn't you?”
You scoffed. “You’ll also be surprised to know that I'm very brave. I do not chicken out.”
“Well,” he pursed his lips. “I do chicken out. So we have a difference there. I was starting to think we were the same soul in different bodies.”
You chuckled, looking ahead at the street lights illuminating your way. “What makes us so alike?”
“Our love for love, first of all.” He said, making your heart skip a beat as you met his eyes again. “You're observant and I'm observant. I can tell we're both sensitive, trying really hard to win in life, people pleasers. I could go on and on.”
You licked your lips, faintly tasting the ice cream that was melting in your hands. You couldn't look away from his face for a few seconds, and it dawned on you just then. He was right. You really hadn't met someone as similar to you.
“For someone who's so cocky,” you looked away, taking a long lick of your ice cream. “You sure have observed me a lot.”
“Of course!” He stressed, licking his stick clean and tossing it in the nearby trash can before walking with you. “You're the only real friend I've made here. Others seem to be very fake.”
Once again, you found yourself staring at Jeonghan in awe, his words echoing in your mind like a repeating alarm you couldn't turn off. Were you special to him? Were you not? You couldn't tell.
“You still want to please the same fake people all the time,” you muttered, diverting your gaze from him. You could remember all the times he'd invited people he didn't want to hang out with just because he feared upsetting them. He stopped in front of you, folding his arms and looking at you as if he was observing you. “Look me in the eye and tell me you wouldn't do the same.”
You couldn't help the small smile that bloomed on your face, and you sighed. “Yeah, you win.”
“I always do,” he said with a smirk, watching you throw your ice cream stick in the trash can outside your house. Before you fully turned to look at him, he spoke again. “It was Sua.”
You raised your eyebrows, confused. He just stood there without saying another word, his arms folded like he was waiting for you to register his words. And that you did.
It took a few seconds before your face pictured surprise, mouth hanging open and eyes widening. “Sua likes you?!”
He nodded once, and shrugged like it wasn't a big deal. “Yeah she said she did, but it was just a crush, said she moved on and stuff. I don't know, it was kind of weird. How do you like someone for a day and then move on quickly?”
You fell silent, eyes scanning his beautiful, beautiful face. Your heart hammered against your chest, and you clenched your fists to try and keep your emotions in check. Your head shook on its own as if you were in a daze. “You don't. It's impossible.”
Jeonghan took a step closer to you, head bending to look in your eyes closely like he had just caught everything. “You sound an awful lot like someone who's secretly got a crush.”
You blinked, unable to breathe with him in your space like that. Thankfully, before you could swat him off, he moved away, laughing at the absurdity of your reaction.
You gritted your teeth, annoyed at his laughter, and how beautiful he looked in the moment even if he was laughing at you.
“Come on,” he shrugged, running a hand through his hair. “You can tell me. I'm good at keeping secrets. Who's got your heart?”
You.
You bit your tongue to not scream in his face — to not grab him by the collar and kiss your love into him. Tears pricked at your eyes like thorns, and you quickly chuckled, looking away from his playful gaze.
“Why should I tell you?”
“Oh,” Jeonghan's voice lowered an octave, as if a realization hit him. He squinted his eyes, cocking his head to a side to try and catch a glimpse of your face. “So you do like someone.”
“Of course, I do!” You said, albeit it sounded more intense than you intended. Shutting your eyes, you breathed through your nose. “Ugh, you're so annoying.”
Before he could answer, you walked past him and into your house, watching your mom look at you from the doorway. You blinked at her easy smile, and rolled your eyes before walking in.
“I like the idea of whatever is going on, you know,” your mom teased, walking beside you till you reached your room. You held the door knob, turning to face her. “What do you think is going on? Nothing is going on. We just went to get some ice cream!”
“Well,” your mom grinned. “You both would make a lovely couple. But, I’d still like you to focus on your studies right now.”
“I am,” you answered instantly, “I am focusing, mom. Don't worry, nothing will side track me.”
Your mom nodded with a smile. “I do trust you.”
You sighed. “Goodnight, mom,” and before you heard it back, you went inside your room, flopping on the bed.
All night, you saw Jeonghan's face on the ceiling above you, heard his voice in your ears, and felt your heartache bleed through your tears.
***
Jeonghans departure dates were nearing, and everything was becoming a tad bit overwhelming for you. You were almost everywhere he went, stayed with the friend group for any stupid games they played or places they went.
You visited museums and parks and cafés as well as every single night market in all of Seoul. Boring game nights were suddenly starting to entertain you, and everytime the excitement got a little too much to your head, you had to physically sit down and study your brain through it.
In a week, Jeonghan will be gone, and your life will go back to the usual studies pyramid. Nostalgia hit you even before the moments had truly ended, and it resulted in you beading bracelets for everyone as a memory of these times.
Sure you didn't speak your sentiment out to anyone, but Jeonghan sat beside you on the stairs of your porch the same night, staring at the bracelet around his wrist. “Nostalgia, huh?”
You blinked up at him slowly, eyes divering from your own bracelet before you registered your quickening heart beat. “You got me.”
He chuckled, his eyes raking over your wrist before going back to his own. “I like your first ever gift for me. It's really pretty.”
You felt your ears burning as you kept staring straight ahead at the garden visible from your porch. “You are the one who came from the states. You should've brought something for me.”
He clicked his tongue. “I didn't even know about your existence until I got here. If I knew, surely I would've brought a hundred thousand gifts for you.”
Your heart stopped and restarted, your eyes briefly scanning the side of his face. You could feel your cheeks warming at his words, before you felt his eyes on you. “Or,” he said, his voice dropping. “Maybe you don't even need my gifts. I'm sure this dude you like buys you many.”
You bit your lip, diverting your eyes to meet his for a split second. It was enough to see the glint of mischief in there, and you swallowed the lump forming in your throat. “What gifts? He doesn't even know I like him.”
“Oh,” he let out, scratching the ground beneath his shoe. “That's bad. Do you plan on telling him?”
You paused, turning your face to look at him. He raised his gaze just in time to meet yours, and you swore you forgot how to breathe.
“Maybe,” you whispered, observing how his face reflected the dim light of your porch. “Should I tell him?”
Jeonghan sputtered a little, looking away and chuckling briefly. “I don't know. Do you think you can trust him with the information? Boys these days are dogs.”
“I trust him,” you muttered, eyes still fixed on his face. For a split second, you wondered if he knew you were talking about him, but the thought flew out of the window as soon as his eyes met yours again. He smiled softly, making you want to smack his beautiful face yet again. “You can tell him then. But make sure it's your own decision.”
You quickly looked away, afraid of your own transparent face. You didn't trust yourself to keep looking at him without kissing him, so you just hummed softly, confirming that you understood what he said.
***
You wiped a bead of sweat off your forehead after finally placing a plate of alfredo on the kitchen counter. Jeonghan sat on the stool across from you, eyeing the food almost suspiciously.
“What?”
“I'm just wondering if this tastes like wet garbage.”
Your face morphed into disgust at his statement, “I cook well! Ask Seungkwan!”
“I would if he was home,” Jeonghan said, grabbing the fork and digging it into the penne pasta. “It's highly suspicious that you're cooking for me while there's no one at your place. You could be poisoning me.”
You rolled your eyes, snatching the fork from him and taking a bite yourself. “Look, I ate first. Are you now assured that I don't plan on killing you?”
He chuckled, tugging at your heartstrings even while you were annoyed by him. His fingers brushed against yours when he took the fork from you, and dug in.
“Hm this is really good,” he hummed with a mouthful, and despite your best resistance, your lips twitched up in a smile.
“Well,” you shrugged, taking off your apron and walking to hang it beside the refrigerator. “One cooks well when it's their love language.”
“Is cooking your love language?”
You hummed in response, and the apron dropped from your hands at his next question.
“Are you saying you love me, then?”
The ground beneath your feet rattled. You thought your skin was burning, and you could feel Jeonghan's heavy stare on you even when you were facing away. Fuck, had you been obvious? How could he just ask you that? How would you ever look him in the eye again? Stupid, stupid, stupid.
You had two options.
A) Freeze for many more minutes and confirm his speculation.
B) Face him head first.
You decided the latter was better. You spun on your heels, your eyes squinted at him while your heart drummed against your ribcage. “What?”
The look on Jeonghan’s face told you he saw right through you. It was as if he'd known you forever, or better yet he'd learnt you well in a short amount of time. Either way, you wanted to run away.
“Well,” he glanced back down at the pasta, before smiling up at you briefly, “since you, you know, cooked for me.”
Your response was curt and quick. “Do you also think you're a bit too self centered or is it just me?”
Jeonghan shrugged, not smiling or smirking like you'd expect from him in such a situation. He was unreadable, and that scared you. “Who's it then? The one you want to cook for?”
You felt your throat run dry, and you chugged down a large gulp of water before standing across him at the counter. “I think I told you enough about him.”
“Do you think,” he paused, playing with the pasta in his plate, “your mom would approve of him?”
The moment he looked up, you knew you were in trouble. You realized that he knew. He knew it was him you liked. But a tiny voice in your head convinced you to keep up your act. He might not know too. You might just be overthinking.
“Why does that matter?” You shrugged, fidgeting with your fingers absentmindedly. “Besides, I think she would. He's really…” you trailed off, continuing to look in his beautiful eyes, “...nice.”
A chuckle that almost sounded bitter left his lips, and you noticed that he wasn't really eating anymore. “You’re too positive. People are not as nice as you think they are.”
“But he is.” You muttered almost immediately. Jeonghan looked at you again, his eyes holding questions you couldn't read. Licking your lips, you continued. “He’s the first person who makes me feel like I can also be loved.”
Jeonghan continued to look at you for a few seconds in complete silence, before he nodded with a small smile. “Well then, why haven't you told him yet?”
“I'm scared.”
Jeonghan pushed the plate of pasta towards you, his smile wider now. “I'm full, you can have this.”
You bit your lip, watching him get off the stool. What was this mess you'd landed yourself in?
“Hey,” you heard Jeonghan say close to you, and you jumped slightly to find him right beside you. He smiled, ruffling your hair softly. “It's better to let it out than bottle it up. Good luck!”
He gave you a victory salute with a click of his tongue, and walked off, leaving you stranded in the middle of nowhere.
But this time, you knew what you had to do.
***
Jeonghan was leaving.
He had a flight back home in less than 24 hours, and you wanted to cry. As a matter of fact, you knew he didn't like you back. You didn't want to expect it and live in a bubble of delusion. But a tiny part of you still hoped for a chance.
You had decided you'd tell him. Ironically, he'd also been the reason why you decided to tell him. He was right. It's always better to let it out than bottle it up. If you didn't tell him, you knew you'd spend your whole life pining after someone who couldn't be yours. And if you do tell him, you'll know his answer. You won't be hanging by a thread somewhere in between. It'll be death or life.
Your house was packed with everyone who'd come to say goodbye to him and his family, so you couldn't really talk to him. All day, you'd only stared at him from afar, memorizing his features and the lines on his face. You didn't know when you'd see him again, or if you'd see him again the same way. You wanted to bask in your love till you could, till he snatched it from you in the form of a rejection.
Yoon Jeonghan 🙄[🤍]: on a scale of 1-10, how sad are you about me leaving
You saw his text when you were by the kitchen counter, and you lifted your head up to find him directly looking at you from the living room’s couch. He had a lazy smirk on his face, and you hated the way your face warmed.
You had to do this.
You had no way out. Whether he accepted you or rejected you, you had to tell him for your own sake. You didn't want to die in between heaven and hell.
Psych YN: meet me at the rooftop
Yoon Jeonghan 🙄[🤍]: shady
Psych YN: in five minutes
—
You barely heard his footsteps over the loud beating of your heart, turned the other way as you stared at the star filled night sky. The hum of conversation drifted from downstairs, reaching your deaf ears faintly while you prepared your speech in your head.
The hopeful, delusional, lovergirl part of your heart kept giving you scenarios to daydream about — a long distance relationship, surprise meetings, a kiss as you confessed and what not.
A hand at your shoulder startled you. You turned with a sharp breath leaving your mouth, finding Jeonghan right in front of you. He had his brows pinched in concern. “Are you okay? I called for you quite a few times.”
You felt your throat run dry, wishing you had enough space behind you to run away. You nodded slowly. “Yeah. Just lost in thought.”
Jeonghan hummed, not pressing or teasing you otherwise. “You wanted to see me.”
You realized it would've been better if he was in his usual element. Him teasing you was better than whatever this was. You couldn't look him in the eye while he looked at you like this. Like he liked you. Like the tiny part of your heart was right.
“Jeonghan.” You began, licking your lips and finally mustering enough courage to meet his eyes. “I'm gonna say it.”
He exhaled, shoulders slumping back in defeat. His eyes stayed glued to yours, turning droopier every second as he waited for you to speak what he'd known since forever.
“It's you.” You muttered, your voice so small you were afraid he missed it. “The person I like.”
As the words left your mouth, you felt the world spinning a little faster. The night sky was suddenly more quiet than before, and the only sound you heard in a second was Jeonghan's exhale.
“You probably figured it out,” you continued, your voice trembling at the edges. Your head ducked down, unable to continue looking in his eyes that looked tired. “I just needed to get this off my chest. I know you don't like me, and that's okay. I just hope you know that I really like you for who you are, and you made me want to believe in love.”
Your eyes drifted back to meet his unreadable ones, and you gulped. All you wanted to do was shut off, so that's what you did. You turned the other way, looking up at the night sky with a burning heart. “That's all.”
There was a beat of silence in the air before you heard a rustle. Jeonghan slipped his hands out from his pockets, and took a step closer to you.
You felt his touch on your wrist, featherlight and careful as he tugged you behind until you crashed into his sturdy chest. The world tilted on its axis. You forgot what breathing felt like, as his arms wrapped around you from behind, holding you softly.
“You're right,” he said in a while, his voice more soft than you'd ever heard it be. “I figured it out, and I'm…” he trailed off, and your eyes shut tightly. “I’m sorry, Y/N.”
You couldn't believe you were wrapped up in Yoon Jeonghan's embrace, and hearing his rejection.
“I can't like you currently for a reason,” he said, and the words lodged themselves in your heart like an axe. “But it's not because of you. You're wonderful, I promise. You're genuinely the best person I've met in Seoul. You're intelligent, funny, and you make such a good friend. I don't even deserve you.”
You wanted him to shut up, tears pricking at your eyes. But he continued, his soft voice echoing in your ears. “It’s hard for me to say this too. Turning you down isn't the easiest thing I've ever done, but I'm really sorry.”
You clenched your jaw hard to not cry. The least you wanted was to fall any weaker in front of him, and with his arms around you, you weren't sure if it was possible.
Shifting a little, you took a sharp breath in, and turned to look at him. Jeonghan took a step back to create enough space between you, his eyes holding something you couldn't really read.
You thought you'd cry if you looked at him, but strangely, you heard a weak chuckle leave your mouth. “You look like you practiced this speech.”
Jeonghan didn't laugh, didn't even smile. He just tilted his head to the side, silently asking you to not put up a show in front of him. Your smile faltered, and you looked down at your feet. You had expected this, so why did it hurt more than you thought it would?
“Can I at least ask why?” You muttered, eyes still darting between his feet and yours. You did not want to look at his beautiful face anymore. It wasn't yours to stare at.
There was a long silence that seemed to stretch forever. You wanted to look up and see if he was still looking at you, if he was conflicted, if he was smiling and teasing you. For a split second, you wondered what if he said it was a prank and he actually liked you?
That made you look up, but Jeonghan was not smiling. He did look conflicted, and panicked, and there was a fear in his eyes you couldn't comprehend.
He blew some air from his mouth, running a hand through his hair. “I…I just—”
You heard a loud thud.
Both you and Jeonghan turned to see Chaeyoung standing at the door of the rooftop, the door shut behind her. A weird fear of how much she'd seen clawed your chest, or heard. This wasn't how you wanted her to find out.
“Sorry, I thought no one was here,” she said, and instantly turned to open the door. Then she stopped, turning to look back at the both of you. “Jeonghan, your mom was looking for you. Seemed pretty urgent.”
Before Jeonghan could respond, she was scurrying away. He turned to look at you, lips flattening in a tight lipped smile. “Let's talk about this later, yeah?”
You wanted to yell no. You did not want to talk about it later, or again. Your chest ached with the weight of everything, and you watched as he jogged away, leaving you stranded on your rooftop.
Despite the open space, you felt suffocated. Your fist reached up to hammer your chest as a sob ripped out of you, raw and painful. Your knees buckled, and all you could see was your own tears as you collapsed on the cold, hard ground.
You lost your first chance at love, and you desperately wished the subject of your affection saw you. Worse, he did see you, just not in the way you wished for. And that crushed your heart like nothing else.
***
The late afternoon wrapped around you in a soft breeze, doing very little to dull the ache in your heart. The scent of the airport suffocated you as you trailed behind Jeonghan, watching him drag his suitcase along.
Soobin seemed sad as she walked beside him, and so did Aunt Hyesuk. You knew it was going to be a tearful goodbye paired with promises of coming back, but you couldn't wait for it all to be over. You couldn’t wait to not see Jeonghan anymore, for that seemed to be the only way you'd stop hurting.
Seungkwan strangely kept sticking close to you until Jeonghan stole you away to the airport cafeteria. You were reluctant to go with him, but the way he looked at you with his eyes softer than usual, you couldn't help but surrender.
He bought a regular glass of watermelon juice and extended it towards you. God knows how he knew it was your favourite. You took it just because you wished to avoid speaking to him, but he had other plans.
“Y/N.” He called out on your way out, making you hum around the straw.
“Are you mad at me?”
You blinked, and shook your head quickly. “No. No. Why would I be mad?”
You heard him sigh as he ran a hand through his hair. “Everything seems to have changed between us.”
You didn't respond, opting to continue walking beside him slowly. You didn't know what to say to that, and you didn't know what he expected from you either.
“Look,” he stopped walking, looking at you softly. “I know how you must feel. I understand. So you can take your time processing it and I—”
“You didn't answer me.” You cut him off, something ugly bubbling up your throat. Jeonghan raised his brows in confusion.
“I asked you why you can't like me. I think I deserve to know that much.”
For a second, Jeonghan just stared at you in silence. You hated not being able to read him, and somehow you felt humiliated in this position.
He bit his lip, looking down at the ground before meeting your eyes. This time, he didn't look conflicted. “I like someone else.”
You wished you didn't have ears.
The moment his words registered in your brain, you wanted to wail and collapse and die. As if it was even possible, the ache in your heart grew tenfold, and you couldn't stop the tears that glistened in your eyes.
“That's why I do want you to move on,” he continued, his voice somehow even more small than before. “Because as incredible as you are, I already find someone else that.”
In your head, you could picture yourself fallen on your knees, covering your ears and sobbing like a five year old. But in reality, you just stood stunned in front of Jeonghan, staring at him with watery eyes and a broken heart.
“I'm really sorry,” he muttered, avoiding your gaze as he said so. Somewhere afar, the voice of the announcer bounced off the walls, calling for boarding.
You saw Soobin run towards Jeonghan, waving at him and saying something you couldn't hear. Following her was Seungkwan, and you saw Jeonghan turn to you. He had such a pained look on his face that it hammered your heart. He pulled you in a short hug, his hand resting at the back of your head as he whispered. “Take care of yourself, and keep in touch with me.”
Soobin followed right after, hugging you and saying her goodbye. Aunt Hyesuk hugged you the longest, promising she'd come back soon to see you become a successful psychologist.
And just like that, it all ended.
Jeonghan turned to look at you one last time before he entered the departure gates, and as your final act of love, you smiled at him. It earned you the exact, beautiful smile you'd fallen in love with, before Yoon Jeonghan disappeared from your life and you collapsed on your knees, hot tears running down your cheeks.
footnotes: yes, i know there's been a lot of angst, i'm sorry 😔 part 2 will be out as soon as tumblr stops acting like a bitch <3
