𝐈𝐍 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐂𝐇 you warm up the cold neurosurgeon. ( or atleast, try to. )
🩺 sunghoon x fem!reader ᰍ neurosurgeon!hoon x pediatric!reader
𝐩𝐬𝐬𝐬𝐭. sunghoon has always been cold and distant. that was his mindset. Try not to form any kind of emotional relationship to anyone, it wont hurt when you loose them. But sunghoon was even cold to his friends, his coworkers. Until one day Jake brought along his friend & coworker.
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You turn off your phone and place it face-down on the table, shifting your attention back to your friends. „Who was it?“ Yeonjun asked, reaching for the wine bottle. „Riki. Him and sunghoon are out drinking. Apparently he got drunk.“
Martins eyes narrowed. „Sunghoon? Dr. Park Sunghoon? Our Neurosurgeon? The one who hates alcohol since it is a neurotoxin?“ Minnie looked up from her plate, shrugging „Something must‘ve happened. People drink to forget all kinds of stuff.“ You take the wine bottle from Yeonjuns hands, earning a confused look. „Then something big must‘ve occured.“ You pour yourself another glass of wine. Martin crossed his arms, leaning forward. „Is someone worried?“
„What? No.“ You shake your head, taking a sip of the wine - which tasted horrible by the way. „It‘s just… i dont know! i just hope riki takes care of him.“
Your friends share a look, then martin bursts out laughing. „Right… not worried.“
——
„Get.. your… ass.. in!“ riki breathed, trying to get sunghoon into the car. Finally, after definitely more than 15 attempts, he was able to lift him onto the front passenger seat.
„Why did you drink so much today, hoon?“ the younger asked, leaning over to put the seatbelt on.
„only jake can call me that.“ sunghoon slurred, getting an eyeroll from riki. „You‘re lucky i like you. Now! let‘s get you home. You will definitely not attend surgery tomorrow.“ Sunghoon shook his head, leaning onto rikis shoulder. „No.. i need to… its an important… cranio….“ and he was gone. asleep.
„God sunghoon!“ Riki lifted his head away and closed the door, moving to the other side of the car and getting in. „Do i really have to carry you up the stairs to your stupid apartment?“ he groaned, starting the car. He pulled out of the parking lot, shaking his head. „The scary doctor park sunghoon. Asleep after a bit of alcohol.“
———————
Sunghoon woke up the next day, no sense of time. He tried to sit up but immediately regretted it, laying back down with a throbbing head. „Fuck….“ he covered his eyes with his arm, groaning. As he turned to the side, he saw a glass of water and some painkillers, including a note.
He picked the yellow stickynote up, squinting to try to read it.
„dr. yln is worried about you, mind sending her a message? :) - riki“
„What the fuck…?“ Sunghoon whispered, trying to understand this whole situation before grabbing the pills and swallowing them down with some water. He let himself fall back onto his pillow, closing his eyes once again. Why exactly did a pediatrician knew about his drunk state? How much did she know?
Fuck this was embarassing.
But if she was worried.. he should text her, right? Tell her that he is alright, just a small text.
He groaned once again, pushing himself up. Sunghoon pushed his blanket aside, sitting on the edge of the bed. His head was still pounding badly. He just has to go through the day…
He got dressed, drank 2 glasses of Water and walked out of the flat.
The sun was bright. He felt it immediately, a stinging sensation in his head through his eyes. He shook his head and avoided looking at anything bright.
—
At the hospital, it was already crowded. Wasnt it like.. 6am? Why is it already so full of all the doctors working the midday shift?
Inside the elevator to the 8th floor, he met Jay.
„Sunghoon? You look terrible.“ The cardiologist shook his head, staring at the younger man. „Thank you, Jay.“ Sunghoon pressed the button to his floor. „No seriously. Why are you here? Dr. Choi took over your surgery.“
That caught Sunghoons attention. „What? But the Surgery hasnt even started yet… its six in the morn-„
„Sunghoon. Its three in the afternoon.“
„What..“ He shook his head. „No Jay its 6am i have surgery in an hour.“ He looked up at the older guy, whose face was in worry.
„How much did you drink?“ Jay asked. The neurosurgeon put his hand over his eyes and shook his head once again. „I don‘t drink…“
„Apparently you do, Sunghoon why arent you at home sleeping out your hangover?“
The elevator made a ding sound and sunghoon stepped out, not giving Jay an answer. He walked fastly to his office, shutting the door behind him. „If i catch you riki…“ he mumbled to himself, searching his desks for any files of the craniotomy HE was supposed to do.
He groaned in pain again, sitting down. Sunghoon put his head onto his crossed arms and then.. fell asleep.
—
NOTE;; Yeah idk dont look at the timestamps + if you think like „ew why is sunghoon using swear words“ UHM idk hes just still drunk ig and ya
IN WHICH you freshly started dating the boys of lngshot and they find you wearing their clothes for the first time (idol!lngshot x f!reader)
࣪ ˖content/warnings suggestive implications for 2yul, fluff, sweet kisses
࣪ ˖evy, you there? ─ hello sweetpeas, my first au on my secret account 👀 maybe not that secret but wtv. felt the urge to make a second acc (maybe you know me as @dprlyn) and now i feel like this one's a little cooler.. anyway enjoy this clusterfuck i created at 3 in the morning
now playing ; Dream of Me by NewDad
louis.
His bed was as comfortable as you imagined. His wardorbe was as cool as you'd expected. Louis had offered you to stay over at the dorms and wait for him to come back after dance practice. Obviously, you immediately took him up on the offer and now you were standing in front of your boyfriends closet, thinking of what shirt to steal. Your eyes searched through the various colors of the tops he owned until a pink bape shirt caught your attention. This had to be it. With a sheepish smile you fished it out of the clothing-chaos living inside of his closet and changed.
Footsteps and voices were heard from outside after an hour or so and you straightened up, recognizing the voice of your favorite, sweet boy. "We're back!" he called out as soon as the four of them stepped inside.
Louis, as jolly as ever whenever he was about to see his girlfriend, opened the door to his room. "Hey, y/n, did you- oh."
You met his eyes across the room and tilted your head just a fraction, watching as a smug, adorable smile spread on his face. "Is that mine?" Louis asked and closed the door behind him, slowly walking up to you.
The sheepish smile on your lips reappeared. "Maybe," you said. His tall form approached you and he pulled you in for a hug, resting his cheek on the top of your head. "I missed you," he murmured and you wrapped your arms around his torso, burying your face into his chest.
A soft laugh escaped you, a sound Louis could replay all day, every day. "You saw me two hours ago."
He groaned playfully before leaning back enough to look at you. "That's exactly the problem. Worst two hours of my life." And then, because apparently he took not seeing you for two hours as the biggest disrespect thrown at him from life, Louis peppered your face with sweet kisses. Over your cheeks, on your nose, one on your forehead before pressing a peck directly to your lips.
"You look good in my clothes, by the way," he then mumbled, eyes almost sparkling as he properly took in your appearance.
"Only 'good'?" you asked back, hand reaching up to your chest in feigned offence. He laughed and shook his head.
"Pardon, mon amour. You look pretty," he started. "Wait, no, scratch that. You look magnifique."
A slight blush spread on your cheeks. "Yeah, I can work with that.."
He chuckled and nestled his face in the crook of your neck.
"I know, my sweet angel."
woojin.
You were sprawled out on the couch in the living room of lngshot's dorm. Woojin was home alone so he deicided to invite you over and you gladly accepted his invitation.
"Babe, have you seen my favorite shirt?" he suddenly called out from his room. "The one with the stripes?"
You looked down your body, right at the shirt he described. That was the shirt you took home last time?
"Uhh, I don't know!" you called back, because now you got two options: either you'd quickly change into something else or you get caught.
This wasn't just any shirt. Ohyul called it his 'emotionial support shirt' he liked to wear everywhere. Not even the boys were allowed to borrow it.
"I can't find it, I've looked every-"
You froze as Woojin came out his room, slowly turning your head, just to find him staring at you with his head tilted to the side.
"I may or may not have stolen it," you whispered. "Don't kill me! I swear, I didn't-" you jumped to your feet before holding your hands up in surrender. "I didn't do anything with it."
Woojin stared at you in silence before huffing out a laugh. "Woah, calm down, princess" he chuckled and walked over to you. His hands found their way to your waist and he pulled you closer.
"I'd say give it back but honestly, you look fantastic in my clothes," he said. A smile pulled at the corner of your lips.
"I do?"
"Absolutely. Dare I say, it looks even better on you than on me."
"Oh, please, now you're just flattering me."
Though Woojin took every chance he got to compliment you (because in his opinion, leaving you even a day without calling you beautiful at least once was the equivalent of him being the worst boyfriend ever), you still felt shy, not knowing how to properly deal with his words, except for blushing profusely.
He dipped his head down to press a tender, lingering kiss to your temple. "I'm just telling the truth. My girlfriend is fucking gorgeous and I'd like her to know that."
You wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him in for a kiss. Your lips brushed against each other with soft movements, making your heart do sumersaults, and his grip on your waist tightened just a little bit.
"Thank you, baby," you whisper against his mouth.
"Of course, my love."
ryul.
Apparently, Ryul couldn't stay apart from you. Not even for a day. You were sitting on a chair in the studio, listening to your favorite music. It was late, barely anyone was left at the company and you had the room all to yourself.
ry <3: where r you? I miss you so much
Your phone buzzed and you unlocked it, the notification of your boyfriend's message putting a smile on your face instantly. You typed back, biting your lip to keep you from grinning like an idiot.
me: at the studio. you coming?
It didn't even take him three seconds to reply.
ry <3: i'll be there in 5
And, soon enough, Ryul showed up. Your heart was thumping in your chest, though you've been meeting him constantly. Guess your heart would never get used to how stupidly handsome the guy was. "Hi baby, how are you?" he greeted, leaning in to press a peck to your lips. Then he paused and looked down at you. "Is that mine?"
You followed his gaze to the shirt you were wearing and nodded, a smirk playing on your lips. "What if it is?"
Ryul raised a brow and pulled you off the chair, before grabbing your waist and placing you on the table. He gently spread your legs and stood between them, hands finding their way to your hips. He squeezed a little, eyes taking in your appearance. "Looks good on you," he murmured. "Everything looks good on you."
"You think so?" you whisper back, heart thumping in your chest. "Mhm...," he hummed and leaned in, brushing his lips over your pulse point, his breath warm on your skin. You instinctively lean your head to the side to give him the access he needed and draped one arm lazily over his shoulder. Ryul pressed a tender kiss to your throat, lovingly as always. "But I feel like you'd look even better without it."
The tone in his voice was unmistakable and it sent heat straight to your gut.
"I think so too. Wanna find out?"
"Bet."
ohyul.
The soft tap tap tap of the rain against your window was the only sound in your apartment as you woke up in your bed, taking in your surroundings. Next to you (hah get it?) lay your boyfriend Ohyul, still stuck in the lands of his dreams.
Your cheeks felt warm when you realized that you wore nothing except your underwear and images from last night made their way into your mind: Ohyul's body over yours, hot and firm. His kisses covering almost every inch of your body, devouring you like you were his last meal.
Without making any loud noises, you got out of bed and grabbed the next shirt your hands could make out. Once in the kitchen, you turned on your favorite songs and silently hummed along, preparing breakfast for the two of you.
After a while Ohyul got up as well, standing in the doorway and watched as you moved through the kitchen. It felt strangely domestic already and the sight of you in his shirt did nothing to calm his thumping heart. You were beautiful. In every aspect possible. To him, you were the light he found during a time he needed it most and now he felt lucky to call you his.
"You should wear my clothes more often, darling," Ohyul said softly, announcing his presence. You snapped your head around and saw him walking over to you, wearing nothing but a pair of sweats that sat low on his hips. "Suits you. Reminds me that you're mine."
His arms wrapped around your waist from behind and he looked over your shoulder to see what you were cooking. "What're you making?"
"You can't just say things like that and then switch the topic," you murmured, blushing slightly, and Ohyul chuckled sweetly.
"Say things like what, hm? That you're mine? That you look perfect in my shirt? That you're the most beautiful girl on this planet?" He kissed your neck and a shiver ran down your spine.
(고르티스).ᐟ M.E x fem!reader
IN WHICH — Your boyfriend couldn't contain his excitement when he saw you in his pair of baggy jeans for the first time. He is down so bad.
⤷ ゛ ˎˊ˗ warnings. Kisses, swearing.
masterlist
1,2k —fluff.
ᢉ𐭩 Dressing up wasn't really your thing. On a usual day, you'd prefer putting on a random hoodie that's lying on the floor somewhere, some sweat pants, throw on a pair of white sneakers, and call it an outfit.
But today is not a usual day, you and your friends will be going to a music festival your university is hosting and has insisted that you dress 'hip-hop-y'. So here you are right now, checking yourself in the mirror.
You put on a little more makeup than you'd usually wear, style your hair, and wear a cropped red tank top that hugs your body, making your curves visible.
You look hot, especially after putting on some accessories to complete the look.
But just like any other girl, the more you look at yourself, the more you feel that something isn't quite right. You feel like you need to change something, and that's when you decide it's the black sweatpants that don't fit the aesthetics.
So you look around your room, as the speaker hums in the background playing 'Lover, you should've come over' by Jeff Buckley. Your boyfriend is sleeping soundly on your bed, snuggling with your giant teddy bear.
You chuckle at the sight— it's funny to see Martin, who's taller than a skyscraper in your mind, cuddling like a toddler with a giant teddy bear, who looks a lot smaller when he holds it.
Martin is different— he took fashion as a full-time job. His wardrobe is filled with a bunch of different items.
You? Your wardrobe is just filled with a lot of different colored hoodies and t-shirts, maybe some dresses here and there, but that's about it.
You carefully open your wardrobe to look for something to fit, but nothing seems to catch your eye.
I really need to buy new clothes...
You just realized how basic you are, and you don't have any other option than whatever things you have in your wardrobe.
You sigh, closing it carefully. You were hopeless, thinking maybe the sweatpants were not too bad. But it looks like heaven is on your side today, because you saw Martin's jorts lying peacefully on the couch as if it's calling your name, asking to be worn.
You beam when you see it, quickly grab it, and head back to the bathroom to put it on. And once you did, the outfit finally feels complete now.
It's slightly bigger, making it look a little baggy on you, hanging loosely on your hip. It's perfect.
You tiptoe back into your room, sitting on the edge of the bed beside your boyfriend's sleeping figure as you tap on his pinkish cheeks.
"Martin, I'll be going now, okay?"
You whisper into his ear, kissing his soft cheeks.
He lets out a little sound, letting you know that he's listening but still wants to sleep a little longer.
You ruffle his hair, then cover his body with a blanket. You make your way to the front door, your boots making soft thumps as you walk on the wooden floor.
────── ✧˚ ༘⋆｡Arc𓂃˖₊⊹ ──────
The festival was crowded— most of the people there looked like they had spent the whole night picking an outfit. You were very thankful for your friend who was literally begging you to dress up, or else, you'd get mistaken for the festival's staff if you wore your usual fit.
It was a fun festival, and most artists you knew came as guests. You and your group went food hunting, took a bunch of selfies with random people, and sang your hearts out.
Until evening greets the festival.
By the end of it, you were exhausted from all the dancing and singing, and your friends were too. You all said goodbye, then parted ways, heading to your own homes.
It was 8 AM by the time you arrived at your apartment, your hair wasn't as styled as before, and your makeup was slightly smudged from the heat.
You opened the front door and were immediately greeted by the smell of fresh pizza. You make your way to the living room, looking for your boyfriend, who was sitting cross-legged on the couch, holding a slice of pizza in his hand.
"You're hom—"
Martin couldn't finish his sentence when he saw what you were wearing, his jaw hanging as his mouth agape. He was flabbergasted at the sight.
"Hey tin-ie."
You casually said, as if you didn't just send his soul above to heaven.
It took a second before you noticed him perceiving you. He was eyeing you up and down thoroughly, especially the jorts hanging loosely on your hips, revealing the soft skin of your waist.
You looked back at him dumbfounded.
"...What?"
"Is that my jorts?"
He questioned while still gawking at you, as if the sight in front of him would fade away if he took his eyes off it.
"Oh, yeah. I didn't know what to wear, then I saw yours just lying on the couch. So I wore it." You said matter-of-factly.
You make your way to him, but just as you were about to sit, Martin held your waist, keeping you standing in front of his sitting figure.
"No, No. Stay like this."
He examined you, the way his jorts somehow looked more ravishing when you wore them, the way your tank top hugged your upper body, making you look more stunning.
Then he looked down your hips again.
Other dudes probably gawked at her... The whole day... without me...
He disliked the idea of other men looking at what's his. He'd imagined you got flirted with way too much with this fit, when in fact nobody even dared to come up to you.
"How many guys came up to you today?" He shamelessly asked that question.
You laughed at that question because nobody came up to you, you were too busy having fun with your friends, maybe a couple of photos with other groups of friends, but nothing else besides that.
"Nobody?" You giggled.
"What... But look at you, damn..."
The only one who's gawking right now is him— he probably gawks more than the other dudes at the festival.
You could only giggle at him. He pulled you closer by your waist, hugging your hips as you ruffled his hair.
You can't help it, he's so cute when he's jealous. He's more physical with you when it happens, and you love nothing more than that.
"C'mere"
He pulled you to sit on his lap, then kissed your whole face once you did, earning ticklish giggles from you.
"You really like this fit that much?"
You cupped his jaw, kissing the corner of his lips, resulting in him holding you tighter in place.
"Is it that obvious?" He teased.
You chuckled as he leaned in, kissing your forehead, then your eyelids, then the curve of your nose, both of your cheeks, your jaws, before finally leaning in to kiss your lips.
He gave your lips a bunch of pecks before kissing you properly.
His soft lips danced with yours in a slow, intimate pace. His hands are still holding your waist, making slow circles on the soft surface of your skin. Your arms embraced his neck, pulling him closer into the kiss before pulling apart, your noses touching.
"Please wear my clothes every day." He whispered.
Since then, he insisted on dressing you up, even when there's no occasion whatsoever. He loves how your scent slowly invaded his clothes, how small and cute you looked in his T-shirt.
Eom Seonghyeon, who’s part of the boy group Cortis, is your boyfriend. Sounds crazy, right? Your relationship must be amazing. Full of teenage love, stolen kisses and secret dates. But what if I tell you that it’s anything but.
He barely has time for you, barely texts you, until he asks you to finally meet the rest of the boys in person. What happens then? Someone will come and treat you better — better than Seonghyeon ever did.
lyn, speak up! // Hey ho twinskies, I decided to make fewer parts since I can't wait for this to continue and I need to know myself how this will end lmao 😭 AND I decided to switch to the second person perspective. I hope this is not too confusing/frustrating but I figured it's easier to write. This will go on purely as a fanfiction, no smau parts added. So go and grab some popcorn, sit back and enjoy! Ly all 💋
2. lyn, speak up! // I cannot stand this story for the life of me y’all idk why 🥹 this has been sitting in my drafts for a week and I don’t know what to write to make it exciting so you’ll only get this for now. TAKE IT 😭
Keonho and Martin brought you home, just like they said they would. You weren’t drunk but you weren’t sober either. Martin helped you get inside after Keonho said his goodbyes at your doorstep, making sure you were okay.
“Martin?” you said after falling onto your couch. Martin looked over from the kitchen, where he prepared a glass of water for you.
“Yes?”
“Is Seonghyeon cheating on me with that girl?”
Silence.
“I don’t know,” he said truthfully. “I hope not.” A lie.
A sigh left your lips, and he walked over to you and placed the glass on a small table before crouching down in front of you.
You turned your head to look at him, your faces unnecessarily close. Martin clenched his jaw to not act on the need to do something stupid.
“He came. That means something, right?”
Martin looked down at his fiddling hands. “He cares enough about you to come check on you in the middle of the night. I guess it does.”
You sighed again and closed your heavy eyelids. Sleep. You wanted to sleep.
Martin remained by your side for the next five minutes, staring at you. Taking in your feature as if remembering them for later. The curve of your jaw and the shape of your nose. Your eyelashes casting slight shadows on your skin in the dim light of your living room. The tilt of your soft-looking lips.
His gaze lingered on them for a few seconds too long before he stood up and decided to go home. He walked over to the front door, but your sudden voice breaking the silence held him back.
“Don’t go,” you mumbled, eyes still closed.
Martin turned around and walked back over to you, steps careful and silent.
“What did you say?” he asked softly, crouching down again.
“Don’t go,” you repeated, and Martin smiled. Small but there.
He gently lifted you bridal style and walked over to where he assumed your bedroom was. Once in, he gently placed you on the bed, hands lingering on you before he quickly pulled away.
He had to go. Now. Back to the dorms, where nothing reminded him of you. Where nothing smelled like you. Most importantly: You weren’t there to mess with his heart — at all.
His hand was already placed on the knob, but you spoke up again. “Martin… stay. Please.”
Dear lord.
He took a deep breath and closed the door — not to leave but to go back into your room.
Hesitantly and with a fast beating heart, Martin sat down on the edge of your bed, soft eyes focused on your face.
You reached out for him — to hold his hand, probably — and Martin’s world stopped for a moment.
Should he do it? Was it the right thing to do? There was no official breakup between you and Seonghyeon after all.
But in all honesty? Martin couldn’t care less.
He gently laced his fingers through yours, and you opened your eyes.
Looked at him. Eyes falling to his lips.
“Don’t do this to me,” he whispered, desperation lacing his words.
“Do what?”
“This…,” he answered, his own eyes falling to your lips. They parted almost automatically under his gaze, and Martin clenched his jaw to keep himself from kissing her senseless.
“You’re making it hard for me to hold back,” he mumbled huskily, a rasp in his tone. Not much, but enough to give you goosebumps.
And then, without thinking, because you still felt a little dazed from the alcohol, two words left your mouth.
Two simple words with the impact of a tidal wave crashing into him.
“Then don’t.”
Martin’s breath hitched. He hovered over you, arms propped on either side of your head to hold him up.
You couldn’t help but look at his lips, and he gently brushed them over yours. A brief, feather-light touch, barely noticeable, but it made your heart stop beating for a moment.
“Don’t make me do things you’ll regret later on,” he whispered, placing a path of tender kisses from your throat up to the corner of your mouth.
And then he kissed you. Properly. Claiming your lips in a slow kiss and you couldn’t help but sigh against him.
Martin kissed you like you were everything he needed to be alive. He kissed you like no one ever did before.
Your tongues brushed, and your brain short-circuited. Fully. All rational thoughts just vanished into thin air.
Neither of you thought about what would happen right after. Neither of you thought of Seonghyeon.
All that mattered was his lips on yours.
But reality eventually hit you hard in the face — and you abruptly pulled away, staring at Martin with wide eyes, breathing heavily. Because not only were you making out with Martin. You also technically still had a boyfriend.
The look in his eyes made your stomach flip. Not even Seonghyeon looked at you this way.
“I told you, y/n,” he whispered and got off you before walking over to your door and leaving you alone with your pounding heart.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” you whispered and ran your hands over your face.
Martin needed to leave. As soon as possible. He opened the front door and was about to bolt — then froze. Looking directly into Seonghyeon’s eyes.
He had to process Martin standing in your doorway, but just when he opened his mouth to say something, his leader pushed past him and walked away.
Seonghyeon stepped inside and closed the door. “Y/n?”
You jumped at the voice calling out for you. It wasn’t Martin. Shit.
“Seonghyeon?” you called back and went to the living room, where you found your boyfriend standing in the middle of it.
“Y/n,” he said, softer this time and smiled. Hesitant and small, but he smiled. “Can we talk? Please.”
You nodded, and Seonghyeon slowly took a step forward. “I’m sorry. For the way I treated you the past week. I don’t know…,” he paused. “I don’t know. But I’m so sorry.”
A moment of silence settled between you.
“What about Diana?”
Seonghyeon stiffened at the mention of her name. Weird. “She’s just a friend. Our parents are really close and they want us to... get together but neither of us wants that. I only love you.”
You didn’t know what to say. What to think. Because he did seemed genuine, but something just felt… off. “Okay.”
Seonghyeon raised his brows. “So you’re not breaking up with me?”
You forced a smile and shook your head. A relieved sigh escaped him, and he gently cupped your face before pressing a kiss to your lips.
It didn’t feel like you hoped it did. It felt different. Empty. The butterflies were gone. But you kissed him back and abandoned these thoughts.
Because right now, you’ve got your boyfriend back.
If only you didn’t imagine Martin in Seonghyeon’s place.
The next month went by pretty well. Seonghyeon went back to normal — texting, calling and going on your usual dates. But the boys were still busy since their latest album finally dropped.
And during all of this you never reached out to Martin. Neither did he.
He distanced himself from you and Seonghyeon, drowning himself in work and basically anything that didn't make him think of you.
Because that was all he could do. Think of you. Day and night, replaying the kiss like a broken record.
The boys eventually noticed and one evening, when Martin stayed back at the studio, Keonho finally cornered him.
“What is going on?” he asked, eyeing Martin with a concerned look.
“Nothing. Just tired,” Martin said and shrugged, eyes focused on the screen of his MacBook.
“Stop dodging. What happened that evening?”
Martin looked up. “What evening?”
“The day we brought y/n home and you stayed.”
Silence.
Words weren’t enough to describe the feeling sitting in Martin’s chest. “We kissed.”
Another moment of silence passed and Martin felt like hauling himself out of a window.
“Wow,” Keonho mumbled and sat down on the small couch next to his friend. “And you don’t want to do anything about it?”
“What do you expect me to do? Their relationship seems to bloom,” he scoffed, sarcasm evident in his voice.
Keonho nodded. “I guess you’re right. But… do you not want her to know what you saw yesterday?”
Martin froze. “That’s none of my business.”
“Is it not? She’s still our friend-“
“She’s your friend. Leave me out of their relationship problems.”
Martin closed the MacBook shut and stood up, wanting to leave.
“What did you see yesterday? What’s there to tell?” Seonghyeon suddenly asked, walking into the studio.
Martin glared at him. He tried not to care about y/n at all but it was impossible when her boyfriend was that big of a bastard. “Nothing.”
He wanted to push past him but Seonghyeon pushed him back by his shoulders. Not aggressive, just enough so Martin wouldn’t leave.
“I’m asking you. What did you see?”
Martin scoffed. “You wanna know what I saw? Maybe you should text Diana back instead. Oh, and,” he started, a humorless smile spreading across his face. “don’t forget to add a heart to your message. Since that’s all you’ve been doing.
Seonghyeon’s face turned pale. “What…”
Keonho stood behind them, taking everything in silently. Seonghyeon met his eyes and suddenly felt like throwing up. Keonho looked disappointed. Extremely disappointed.
“Don’t tell y/n. I’m begging you. Both of you,” he whispered wide eyed.
“I don’t care about any of this, Seonghyeon. Just didn’t think you’d be that big of an asshole,” Martin muttered and pushed past him again. Seonghyeon let him go and just stared into the air.
Keonho shook his head and left as well, leaving Seonghyeon with nothing but guilt spreading into every fiber of his being.
The knock on the door came unexpectedly, soft and brief. Martin looked up, waiting for anyone else — Juhoon, maybe — to come out and check who it was.
But the dorm stayed silent except for Martin’s breathing in the living area.
Another soft knock.
He stood up with a sigh and opened the door, expecting anyone — but not y/n.
You looked up at him in surprise, freezing for a split second. The last time you looked him in the eyes was barely over a month ago.
Martin’s reaction wasn’t that different. He just stood there and stared at you. Reminders of Seonghyeon’s cheating messages popped into his mind and it took him everything to keep his expression schooled.
“Come in,” he then said, voice neutral.
You gave him a polite nod before you stepped inside, walked over to a comfortable looking chair and sat down.
Martin followed you but kept his distance, leaning against the doorframe.
“Here for Seonghyeon?” he asked dryly.
You nodded and Martin looked at the floor. Anything to not stare at you. “He’s in his room. I’m sure he’ll be out soon.”
Uncomfortable silence settled between you and you swallowed. After a few minutes you decided to speak up, not handling the weird atmosphere anymore.
“Martin, look, I don’t-“
“No. Don’t even start.”
“But I-“
“Y/n. Don’t. Please.”
You blinked and pressed your lips together. “Fine.”
Just then Seonghyeon came out of his room and you straightened almost automatically.
“Hi babe,” he said softly, walking over to you and placing a kiss on your cheek. “Everything alright?”
Martin felt like throwing up.
You just smiled stiffly at him. “Yeah, of course.”
Seonghyeon shot Martin a brief, warning look and Martin fought against the urge to punch him in the face. Lying bastard.
“Well, have fun you two. I hope there won’t be any girls ruining your little date.”
Seonghyeon frowned and you watched Martin leave with raised brows. “What’s his problem? What is he talking about?”
You turned to look at your boyfriend but he just shook his head. “Ignore him. He’s been acting weird lately.”
“Okay…”
But Martin’s words were stuck in your head for the next couple days.
I use the app twinote for the twitter posts and instagram for the fake texts 🥹 just create an account center with one email and you can make as many accounts as you like
Synopsis : Seonghyeon’s entire world is built on cold logic and predictable formulas while yours is built on sharp, chaotic intuition. As the 1960s circuit’s top two rivals, when a winter tournament forces you into the same small rooms, the neat lines of his strategy completely break down and the mental warfare over the chessboard becomes a very real and inescapable connection off it.
Content : rivals to lovers dynamic, slow burn, lot of chess nerding, intimacy, intellectual and psychological warfare, emotional vulnerability, 1960s based
Word count : 10k+
Author’s note : I just outnerded myself on this one
Quick vocabulary :
Sixty-Four Squares: The chessboard
Open File: A clear lane used for a direct attack
Table One: The top board for the highest-ranked players
Swiss Rounds: A tournament format matching players with similar scores
Sicilian Defense: A famous, highly aggressive strategy
Notation: The code used to record moves
Tipping the King: Surrendering the game.
The scent of stale tobacco, damp wool coats, and heavy industrial pine floor wax always hung thick in the basement of the St. Jude Community Center. It was October of 1964, and the sharp autumn chill had driven the local chess circuit completely indoors. Outside, the historic streets of Cincinnati were slick under the heavy, flickering amber glow of the gas streetlamps, the rain coming down in steady, rhythmic sheets that drummed against the high, rectangular basement windows near the concrete ceiling.
Inside, the environment was a stark contrast of forced silence, thick humidity, and mental warfare. The only consistent sounds were the hollow, rhythmic thick of weighted wooden pieces meeting canvas boards, the low, gravelly muttering of older men over their wrinkled paper score sheets, and the occasional, sharp metallic click of a mechanical tournament clock resetting.
You adjusted the collar of your hand-knit green cardigan, keeping your eyes trained entirely on the sixty-four squares laid out in front of you. At seventeen, you had spent more than a decade navigating these crowded, low-ceilinged rooms. You knew the exact weight of a German-made Staunton king, the faint, maddening ticking of a mechanical clock, and the specific, dismissive way older men stared when a young Black woman sat down across from them in a tournament hall.
You were a prodigy, a quiet, immovable fixture of the local clubs since you were four years old, but you remained a deliberate outsider. You were an introvert in a world that demanded total psychological dominance, a loner by choice because keeping your distance kept the noise out.
You didn't join the idle chatter between tournament rounds. You didn't analyze your games with strangers over the pharmacy soda fountain. You simply played, won, and retreated instantly into your own mind. To you, the board was a beautiful sanctuary where the rules never changed, unlike the turbulent, rapidly shifting social landscape of the mid-1960s just outside the basement doors. On the board, every action had an equal, predictable reaction, and birthright meant nothing compared to the precision of a calculated strategy.
Across the table, A-na was chewing aggressively on the edge of her left thumb, her brow deeply furrowed over a badly fractured French Defense. You had beaten her in the finals of the city championship three months ago. A swift, brutal endgame that by all accounts should have made you bitter rivals. Instead, she had tracked you down at the corner soda fountain the next afternoon, bought you a cherry flavored soda, and demanded to know how you had seen the knight fork on move twenty-four.
She had been your only real friend ever since, the only person permitted to crack your carefully constructed perimeter. She was loud where you were quiet, social where you were isolated, but on the board, you spoke the exact same language.
"You're going to take my rook, aren't you?" A-na muttered, her voice incredibly low so as not to disturb the neighboring tables where the local masters were deep in calculation. She reached up to push her thick, black horn-rimmed glasses up the bridge of her nose, her eyes scanning the board with a mixture of dread and fascination. "Just do it quickly. Don't let me linger here in this position. It’s absolutely embarrassing."
"You left the long diagonal open," you said softly, your voice barely carrying across the table. "You rushed the castle because you wanted to escape the pressure in the center, but you didn't look at what you were leaving behind. You can't run away from tension on the board, A-na. You have to resolve it. If you try to hide your king without securing the files, the whole structure collapses. Look at your light squares."
Before you could reach for your wooden bishop to finalize the capture and end her misery, a loud burst of laughter erupted from the heavy wooden entryway of the basement. It was a disruptive, confident sound, entirely out of place in a room dedicated to silent, agonizing calculation. You didn't look up immediately, maintaining your strict, disciplined posture, but A-na did, her fountain pen pausing mid-air over her paper score sheet.
Two boys had walked in, shaking the heavy Ohio rain from their thick collegiate jackets. The louder, more animated one was Keohno, a local junior known more for his sharp wardrobe, Ivy League styling, and quick mouth than his actual chess ratings. He was currently making a show of wiping the rainwater from his leather loafers, gesturing wildly to the older men at the registration desk. But it was the boy standing completely motionless beside him who drew the room's sudden, guarded attention.
His name was Eom Seonghyeon.
He had moved to the school district over the summer, and whispered rumors had already begun to circulate through the high school leagues like wildfire. They said he had picked up the game less than a year ago after finding an old book in his grandfather's house. They said he was a freak of nature, a geometric genius who saw the board not as a series of historical plays or memorized book lines, but as pure, cold numbers. He was already defeating established club players without ever looking at a traditional opening manual.
Seonghyeon didn't look like the traditional, anxious intellectuals who frequented St. Jude. He carried himself with a quiet, deliberate composure that bordered on chilling. His dark hair was neatly parted in the clean-cut style of the mid-sixties, his dark wool coat tailored perfectly to his tall frame, his eyes scanning the room with a cold, analytical precision that felt entirely clinical. He didn't look nervous about entering a room full of veterans; he looked like an auditor checking an inventory. He was completely detached from Keohno’s loud antics, his hands tucked into his pockets as his gaze slowly swept across the rows of tables.
You finally raised your eyes from the board, catching Seonghyeon's gaze just as he looked toward the back of the hall. For a brief, sharp second, his dark eyes locked onto yours. There was no warmth in them, no polite nod of acknowledgment, no teenage awkwardness. Only the intense, calculating look of a player assessing a new variable in a complex equation. He looked at you the way he looked at the pieces: with an absolute desire to find the underlying logic.
You didn't blink. You didn't shift in your seat or offer a polite smile. You simply met his stare with the unshakeable confidence of someone who had ruled this basement for years. Slowly, without breaking eye contact with Eom Seonghyeon, you reached down, lifted your wooden bishop, and placed it firmly onto the canvas board. You captured A-na’s rook with a decisive, echoing click that cut right through the low hum of the basement, announcing your presence without saying a single word.
The high school cafeteria was a battlefield of a different kind, a cavernous, high-ceilinged room loud with the chaotic clatter of plastic trays, the metallic hum of the vending machines, and the latest Motown hits fading out from a portable transistor radio perched precariously near the courtyard windows. The air was thick and heavy, smelling of overcooked green beans, institutional floor wax, and cheap hairspray.
You sat at the very end of the long, scratched wooden table near the back exit, a paperback book on endgame theory propped securely against your half-empty milk carton, effectively building a physical wall between yourself and the rest of the student body. The social hierarchy of 1964 was rigid and entirely unforgiving, but you bypassed its labyrinthine rules completely by choosing to remain entirely invisible to the naked eye.
A-na dropped her heavy plastic tray across from you, the sudden, jarring scent of the Thursday hot lunch breaking your deep concentration. "He's doing it again," she said without any preamble, nodding her head subtly toward the center of the crowded room where the noise was loudest.
You looked over the top of your book, keeping your expression completely neutral to mask the sudden curiosity blooming in your chest. Seonghyeon was sitting with Keohno and a few members of the varsity track team. While Keohno was animatedly gesturing about a rare jazz record he had bought over the weekend at a downtown shop, Seonghyeon was entirely detached from the conversation swirling around him. He had a small plastic pocket chess set resting flat on the Formica table, his long, pale fingers tracing the sharp edge of a black rook. He wasn't eating his lunch.
He was staring at the miniature pieces as if the crowded, shouting room around him didn't exist at all. He moved a pawn, captured a knight, and reset the entire board within seconds, his movements mechanical, fluid, and incredibly fast, completely oblivious to the social scripts of high school life.
"He's incredibly strange," A-na remarked, breaking a piece of white bread precisely in half. "He doesn't talk to anyone outside of Keohno. When people try to congratulate him on his weekend wins at the St. Jude club, he just stares at them blankly until they get uncomfortable and walk away. It's like he doesn't understand the social script everyone else is reading. He doesn't even know who the Beatles are, Keohno told me this morning during homeroom."
"He's just calculating," you said, deliberately returning your gaze to the small, printed text of your endgame book. "People are unpredictable, A-na. Their expressions change without warning, their motives aren't clear, and they break social rules without any notice. The board isn't like that. It follows absolute, mathematical laws. It makes perfect sense that he prefers it to a crowded cafeteria."
"You two should get along beautifully then," A-na teased, though her voice carried a protective, affectionate edge. She knew how much you fiercely guarded your solitude, how hard it was for anyone to break through your perimeter.
Later that afternoon, the autumn rain returned in heavy, dark sheets, turning the Ohio sky a deep, bruised gray against the brick facade of the school building. You stayed late in the library, waiting for the downpour to slow down so you wouldn't ruin your delicate notation notebooks on the long walk to the bus stop.
When you finally walked down the main stairwell toward the exit, the building was largely empty, the overhead lights dimmed in the long, linoleum corridors. You found Seonghyeon standing completely still under the concrete awning of the double exit doors, staring out at the heavy water hitting the black asphalt of the parking lot.
He didn't have an umbrella, a raincoat, or a hat. His hands were shoved deep into the pockets of his dark school trousers, his shoulders slightly tense against the damp, biting chill of the autumn wind.
You stopped a few feet away from him, opening your own large black umbrella with a sharp, echoing snap that broke the silence of the evening. The sudden noise made him turn his head slowly, his dark eyes fixing on you with that same clinical, unblinking intensity you had witnessed from across the tournament hall at the community center. Up close, his expression was entirely unreadable as if a wall of absolute composure that felt impossible to crack with normal conversation.
"The crosstown bus is running late because of the weather," you said, the words slipping out of your mouth before you could actively stop them. It was a rare, strange impulse for you to speak first to anyone, let alone a boy who had been silently analyzing your presence across tournament rooms for weeks.
Seonghyeon looked at you, his dark eyes dropping down to the worn chess book peeking out from the top of your canvas satchel, before returning to your face. "The Nimzo-Indian defense you played against Louis last Thursday night was fundamentally flawed," he said. His voice was completely level, devoid of any malice, arrogance, or teenage posturing, stating it merely as an objective mistake he had cataloged in his mind. "You pushed the c-pawn two moves too early. You compromised your entire center for a temporary tactical advantage on the queenside."
You felt a sudden, sharp prickle of irritation flare hot in your chest. You had won that match in twenty-eight moves, completely outplaying Louis’s endgame with precise calculation. "It wasn't flawed. It was a deliberate provocation. Louis handles central tension poorly, so I intentionally gave him a target to make him miscalculate his positioning. I knew he would overextend his pawns."
"It was an unnecessary risk," Seonghyeon replied, turning his gaze back to the gray sheets of rain falling over the streetlamps. "A stronger player wouldn't have panicked at the provocation. They would have punished the empty space you left behind. You shouldn't rely on your opponent's weakness to justify a fundamentally bad move."
He didn't wait for your reply, nor did he look back to see your reaction. He stepped out from under the safety of the concrete awning, his head down as he walked directly into the heavy downpour toward the street, his dark wool jacket soaking through instantly. He left you standing entirely alone on the concrete steps, your fingers tightening tightly around the curved handle of your umbrella, your jaw set in pure, quiet frustration at his absolute certainty.
The invisible tension between absolute predictability and unpredictable chaos completely defined the next two weeks of the cold autumn term. Everywhere you went within the crowded school, Seonghyeon’s quiet presence seemed to loom like a heavy shadow over the local high school chess circuit. At the Saturday invitationals hosted in the nearby high school gyms, he climbed the regional ranks with an unsettling, aggressive speed that terrified the older, seasoned club regulars.
His style was entirely unlike the traditional players who relied on decades of memorized book openings from old, translated Russian manuals. Eom Seonghyeon played with a raw, geometric logic that felt almost architectural, systematically stripping his opponents of their tactical options until they were forced to resign out of sheer mental exhaustion. He didn't look for clever traps, he simply created suffocating, inescapable positions.
You watched his matches from a disciplined distance, standing quietly by the heavy wooden coat racks while A-na analyzed her own messy score sheets with a pencil. Because you were a natural observer, you noticed the small, microscopic things that the loud spectators completely missed. You noticed the way he never offered a handshake until his opponent initiated it, as if intentionally avoiding any unnecessary human contact.
You noticed the way his fingers hovered barely a millimeter over a piece before he moved it, never showing a single hint of hesitation, doubt, or second-guessing. He was a perfect machine, but you knew from your years of experience that even the most complex machines could be jammed if you introduced a human anomaly into their rigid programming.
"He's officially entered the regional tournament in December," A-na told you as you walked home from the public library one chilly Friday evening, the air crisp enough to show your breath in small white puffs under the flickering streetlamps. The distant radio from a passing Chevrolet played a smooth jazz tune, the heavy bass notes vibrating faintly through the cold concrete sidewalk beneath your loafers. "Keohno says Sean is spending eight hours a day on the canvas board after his homework is finished. He’s completely obsessed with perfecting his lines."
"Sean?" you repeated, the Westernized nickname feeling entirely unfamiliar, sharp, and heavy on your tongue.
"That's what Keohno calls him around the school. It's much easier for the regional club directors to announce during the Swiss-system pairings, apparently." A-na sighed softly, adjusting the thick wool scarf wrapped around her neck. "He's going to completely clear out the local bracket, you know. The only person in this entire city who can actually stall his pawn structure or disrupt his tempo is you. Everyone else in the league is completely afraid of his calculation speed."
You didn't answer her immediately. The mere thought of facing him across a tournament table made your pulse quicken behind your ribs. Not out of a sense of fear, but out of a profound, stubborn desire to prove his clinical analysis wrong. He thought your creative play was risky and overly emotional. You thought his play was sterile, completely devoid of the human element that made chess a beautiful art form rather than a computer's cold calculation. You wanted to force him into a complex position where pure logic failed him, where he would have to rely on intuition alone.
The following Monday afternoon, a crisp white envelope was waiting for you on the wooden sign-in desk at the St. Jude chess club. Your full name was written on the front in a precise, sharp, angular handwriting that utilized thick black ink. Inside the envelope was a single, folded sheet of notebook paper with a list of chess notation coordinates and a specific time written at the very bottom: Tuesday, 4:00 PM. The library basement archive.
There was no signature on the paper, but you recognized the sharp handwriting instantly from the school bulletin boards. It was a direct challenge, entirely stripped of all polite preamble or teenage small talk.
"Are you actually going to meet him?" A-na asked, leaning over your shoulder to read the handwritten numbers as you stared at the paper.
"It's an analysis session," you said, your voice remaining perfectly steady despite the sudden, uncharacteristic warmth blooming in your cheeks. "He wants to see exactly how I think when there isn't a tournament clock forcing my hand. He wants to see if my strategic choices are truly as reckless as he claims they are."
"Don't let him get under your skin," she warned softly, her eyes serious as she looked at you through her horn-rimmed glasses. "He doesn't play the game like the rest of us do. Keohno says Sean views every single person in that tournament room as a complex puzzle to be solved, categorized, and discarded. Don't let him discard you."
You folded the thick paper carefully along its creases and slipped it deep into the pocket of your knit cardigan. "A puzzle can be disassembled from both sides, A-na. Let's see who gets broken down first."
The library basement archive was a subterranean vault that smelled of damp limestone, decaying leather bindings from the late nineteenth century, and the faint, sweet chemical tang of old newspaper microfilm. It was a space entirely removed from the high school’s social static above, reachable only by a narrow concrete stairwell hidden behind the foreign language stacks.
A single brown-shaded banker’s lamp sat at the center of a heavy oak table, casting a sharp, localized pool of amber light over a walnut-and-maple tournament board. Eom Seonghyeon was already seated when you arrived, his wool coat draped perfectly over the back of his chair, his hands resting flat against the table with the absolute precision of a surveyor waiting for an alignment.
The heels of your loafers clicked with a lonely, hollow resonance against the unpolished concrete floor as you walked into the room. You didn't offer a greeting, nor did he look up to acknowledge your entry. You slid into the heavy oak chair opposite him, placing your canvas satchel onto the floor beside your feet. The white pieces were on his side of the board while the black pieces sat in perfect, motionless ranks on yours. The silence between you grew dense, filled only by the low, industrial thrum of the school’s distant furnace kicking to life somewhere deep within the concrete walls.
"You're exactly three minutes late," Seonghyeon said. His voice was flat, level, and entirely devoid of accusation, stating it merely as an observed deviation from a schedule. He didn't look at your face as his eyes remained fixed on the white e-pawn.
"The hallway near the chemistry wing was blocked by the janitor's cart," you replied, your voice matching his flat tone. You reached out, adjusting your knit cardigan slightly, keeping your posture deliberate and straight. "We can begin."
Without another word, his long, pale fingers pinched the king’s pawn, lifting it smoothly and placing it onto the e4 square with a firm, solid thick. The classical opening. It was the move of a player who expected standard development, structured responses, and a logical progression of geometric territory. You didn't hesitate. Your hand moved to your c-pawn, sliding it forward to c5. The Sicilian Defense. It was an immediate declaration of asymmetry, a refusal to give him the clean, predictable lines he preferred.
For the next twenty moves, the basement archive became an echoless chamber of rhythmic clicking. White knights developed to f3, black pawns claimed the center, pieces were traded and set aside on the rough wood of the table with mechanical finality. Seonghyeon’s play was an exhibition of cold, architectural logic. He didn't look for flashy sacrifices or dramatic tactical traps. He instead, squeezed the board, systematically stripping away your options, trying to reduce your perimeter until you were forced into a passive defense. His movements were swift, his calculations seemingly instantaneous, his breathing shallow and regular.
But you had been navigating these sixty-four squares since you were four years old, studying under the flickering lights of small-town recreation centers while the world outside ignored your existence. You knew that pure logic was a construction, and every construction had a point of stress where the human element could force a fracture.
On move twenty-two, you found the fracture. You lifted your light-squared bishop, bypassed the obvious defensive line that would have secured your queenside, and placed it on a square that left it entirely exposed to his advanced knight. It was a positional sacrifice. A chaotic one, deeply counter-intuitive move that defied standard endgame theory but altered the psychological balance of the game completely.
Seonghyeon’s hand, which had been hovering over his white rook, stopped mid-air. His fingers remained perfectly suspended, a fraction of an inch above the wood, for ten seconds. Then twenty. The mechanical regularity of his play vanished. Slowly, his head rose, his dark eyes lifting from the board to lock onto yours for the first time since you had sat down. There was no anger in his expression. Only a deep, intense focus that felt heavy, almost physical, crossing the small space between you.
"That's an error," he said, his voice dropping an octave, the cold composure of his tone wavering slightly. "You lose material in four variations. The pawn structure is ruined."
"It's only an error if you assume I want to save the bishop," you said softly, leaning back slightly in your chair, keeping your hands folded in your lap. "You're looking at the material, Sean. You aren't looking at the space behind it. You're waiting for me to play the manual, but I'm talking to you. And you aren't listening." Your head tilting to the left in the slightest way.
The sudden use of his nickname, the one Keohno used to make him sound accessible to the club directors caused his jaw to tighten. A small, faint pulse throbbed at the side of his neck. He looked back down at the board, his eyes scanning the squares with a rapid, frantic motion that you hadn't seen from him before. The neat, clean lines of his calculation had been contaminated by a variable he couldn't quantify: your willingness to invite chaos.
He didn't take the bishop. Instead, after another long minute of silent tension, he moved his queen back into a defensive retreat, a concession that ruined his center and allowed your black pieces to flood the open diagonals.
The match ended twenty minutes later in a draw by repetition, both of you locked in an unbreakable cycle of checks and blocks that neither could abandon without losing. As you reached down to place your notation book into your satchel, Seonghyeon remained motionless, his hands gripping the edge of the table, his eyes burning into the empty, tied squares as if trying to force the wood to reveal the exact moment his logic had failed him.
By the middle of November, the last of the wet maple leaves had turned to black sludge along the concrete curbs of Cincinnati, and the morning air carried the sharp, metallic smell of impending snow. The television sets in the shop windows downtown showed grainy, black-and-white footage of political rallies and interviews about the space program, but within the heavy brick walls of the high school, the outside world was entirely eclipsed by the approach of the tri-state winter invitational.
The relationship between you and Seonghyeon had entered a phase of constant friction. You no longer occupied separate universes. But instead, an unspoken, magnetic awareness had developed between you. If you were working in the back row of the study hall, you could feel his presence three tables over, his head down over a physics textbook but his profile turned slightly toward your section of the room. In the crowded corridors between periods, amid the slam of metal lockers and the blare of pop music from portable radios, your eyes would inevitably find his through the sea of wool coats. It was a silent, daily war of observation.
"He's completely stopped reviewing his own matches," A-na told you on a cold Thursday afternoon. You were sitting in the back corner of the local library's reference section, a radiator hissing loudly beside your chair. A-na adjusted her thick glasses, leaning over a stack of high school tournament records. "Keohno told me Sean spent his entire Wednesday evening in the dark room at their house, looking through old newspaper clippings of the 1961 junior championship in Chicago. Your championship."
You didn't look up from your notebook, though your pen paused for a fraction of a second over a line of notation. "He's looking for a pattern. He thinks everything has a formula."
"It's driving him crazy because you don't have one," A-na said, her voice dropping to a protective whisper. She looked at you with a serious, maternal intensity that had defined your friendship since the day you had dismantled her French Defense. "He knows exactly when everyone else will break. He knows Louis will panic under time pressure and he knows Keohno will make a bad trade just to look flashy for the spectators. But you? He can't predict your choices, and it's making him look at you like you're the only real thing in the building."
"I am real," you said quietly, finally closing the book. "He just doesn't know how to look at people without a grid."
That evening, the school building had emptied out early due to a district-wide teachers' meeting, leaving the long corridors dark and silent. You had stayed late in the journalism office to finish a proofreading assignment, and your loafers made an echoing, solitary sound against the polished linoleum as you walked toward the senior locker bay. The yellow twilight was fading outside the high, industrial windows, casting long, geometric shadows across the floor.
Seonghyeon was standing by your locker, his tall frame leaning back against the painted metal door, his hands tucked deep into the pockets of his dark trousers. A copy of a British chess quarterly was rolled up tightly in his right hand. He didn't shift his weight when you approached; he simply watched you walk down the hall, his eyes steady and unblinking.
"The tournament committee posted the final brackets on the main bulletin board before the office closed," he said. His voice was quiet, the lack of ambient noise in the hallway making it sound deeper, more intimate than usual.
"I saw them," you said, stopping two feet away from him. The distance was close enough that you could smell the cold air still clinging to his wool jacket, mixed with the faint scent of cedar tobacco from his grandfather’s house. "We're on opposite sides of the draw."
"If we both win our preliminary matches, we meet in the semifinals on Saturday morning at Table One," he continued, his eyes remaining fixed on your face, refusing to allow you to retreat into your usual polite distance. "There won't be a draw by repetition this time. The regional rules state that any match ending in a draw before move forty must be replayed with halved time on the clocks."
"I don't intend to draw with you again, Sean," you said, looking up to meet his gaze directly. The small space between you felt heavy with a sudden, sharp intensity that had nothing to do with the tournament brackets.
A tiny, almost imperceptible shift occurred in his expression. Like a faint tightening of his lower jaw that you had come to recognize as his definition of total focus. "Good," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper that seemed to linger in the empty corridor long after he turned and walked toward the exit doors, leaving you alone in the dimming light.
The tri-state winter tournament was held in the grand ballroom of the historic Gibson Hotel downtown. A massive, fading monument to the previous century, with soaring ceilings decorated with peeling gold leaf, massive crystal chandeliers that creaked faintly in the constant winter draft, and long rows of folding tables draped in heavy white linen.
The atmosphere inside was thick and suffocating, a dense fog of tobacco smoke from the spectators, the smell of wet wool coats drying near the floor vents, and the bitter tang of stale coffee from the large metal urns positioned at the back of the hall. Flashbulbs from the local newspaper photographers exploded occasionally, leaving temporary green and purple spots dancing in your eyes.
You dispatched your first three opponents with a cold, systematic efficiency that surprised even A-na. You weren't playing with your usual quiet patience or gentle restraint. Your mind was entirely fixed on the raised wooden stage at the front of the room, where Table One sat isolated behind a thick, dark red velvet rope. You played with an aggressive, unyielding edge, forcing mistakes early and executing your endgames without a single moment of hesitation.
Every time you finished a match and signed your score sheet, your eyes would look toward the large master chalkboard on the wall. Seonghyeon’s name was written at the top of the bracket in bold, white chalk, with three consecutive 'W's marked beside it. His matches had been short but brutal, thirty-move executions that left his opponents sitting at their tables looking completely hollowed out.
Yet, whenever he finished a round, he didn't join Keohno and the other boys at the hotel soda fountain to celebrate. He remained in his chair on the stage, his body turned slightly toward the back of the room, his dark eyes tracking your movements through the dense crowd of spectators.
During the Friday evening intermission, the heat inside the ballroom became unbearable, the air thick with the collective anxiety of fifty competitive players. You retreated to the hotel's mezzanine balcony, a long, carpeted gallery that overlooked the main lobby below. The noise of the crowd faded into a distant hum here, replaced by the soft ticking of a grandfather clock in the corner. You leaned your hands against the red velvet railing, staring down at the hotel guests moving across the marble floor.
"You're giving too much ground against the Caro-Kann," a familiar voice said from the dim space behind you.
You didn't turn around immediately, your fingers tightening slightly against the velvet of the railing. Seonghyeon walked out of the shadows, his hands tucked into his trousers pockets, his white dress shirt crisp and bright under the light of the mezzanine sconces. He stood a foot away from you, his shoulder nearly brushing yours as he looked out over the lobby.
"It's called positional restraint, Sean," you said, keeping your eyes on the scene below. "I'm allowing them to exhaust their tactical options before I take the center."
"It's hesitation," he countered, turning his head to study your profile with an unblinking, analytical gaze. "You're waiting for them to commit a mistake instead of forcing them into one. Against a master, that restraint will just give them time to organize their pawn structure. Against me, it won't work. I don't get tired when the clock is running down."
"Good for you I guess?” Your voice trailed off. “Everyone has a breaking point," you said, finally turning your head to face him fully. The light from the chandelier caught the sharp, angular line of his jaw and the dark intensity of his eyes, making him look older, further removed from the high school world you shared. "Even you. You've just never been pushed hard enough to find where your seams are. You've never had to play when you're afraid of losing."
"Then push me," he said. The words were quiet, spoken with a raw, unshielded directness that had nothing to do with the tournament or the pieces on the board. He didn't move away, he simply stood his ground, his eyes locking onto yours with a challenging, heavy intensity that left the entire ballroom behind them in the dark.
Saturday morning arrived with a bitter, crystalline frost that coated the grand windows of the Gibson Hotel in intricate, web-like patterns, completely obscuring the downtown Cincinnati streets below. Inside the grand ballroom, the air was heavy with the collective nervous energy of the remaining players and the sharp, metallic smell of old cast-iron radiators working at full capacity.
The room was packed to the walls with spectators, their hushed, low whispers creating a vibrating hum that made the crystal pendants of the chandeliers tremble faintly in the constant winter draft. Table One was elevated above the rest of the room on a raised wooden stage, completely isolated behind a thick, dark red velvet rope that kept the pressing crowd at a disciplined distance.
You sat down in the heavy upholstered chair at the table, taking a slow, steadying breath to calm the rhythm of your pulse. You smoothed the skirt of your dark dress, ensuring your printed paper score sheet and your fountain pen were aligned perfectly parallel with the edge of the polished mahogany wood. A second later, Eom Seonghyeon ascended the wooden steps and took his seat across from you. He looked slightly pale under the harsh spotlight, the faint dark circles under his eyes suggesting he had spent the entire night pacing his room, analyzing your past games. Yet, his posture was completely rigid, his shoulders square beneath his tailored dark suit.
He didn't look at the crowd, nor did he look at Keohno, who was watching anxiously from the front row. He looked only at the board, and then, for a brief, heavy second, he raised his dark eyes to lock onto yours.
The tournament director stepped forward between you, checking a silver pocket watch. Without a word, he reached down and pressed the button on the mechanical tournament clock with a sharp, heavy click. He stepped back into the shadows of the stage, leaving the two of you alone within the perimeter of the board.
Seonghyeon reached out, his long fingers steady and deliberate, and moved his queen's pawn to d4. You responded immediately, sliding your knight to f6, establishing the Indian Defense.
The match progressed with an agonizingly slow, rhythmic pace that tested the patience of everyone in the room. For the first two hours, the board remained entirely balanced. Neither of you gained a single piece of material advantage; instead, it was a war of positioning, a slow, suffocating constriction of territory where every single pawn advancement felt like a monumental psychological decision. The spectators pressed closer against the velvet rope, their breath almost visible in the chilly room as they watched the intricate geometric web unfold across the wood.
You could feel the physical heat of his concentration across the table. Every time you moved your hand toward a piece, his dark eyes followed your fingers, tracking the motion with an intensity that made your skin prickle under the fabric of your dress. It wasn't the distant, clinical Seonghyeon from the school cafeteria anymore.
This was a boy who was acutely, painfully aware of your presence. He wasn't just calculating the mathematical variations of the pieces; he was reacting to the subtle cadence of your breathing, trying to map the hidden patterns of your mind.
On move thirty-two, you decided to break the structural harmony he was trying to force. You lifted your queen's rook, bypassing the standard defensive lines laid out in the old manuals, and advanced it to an open central file, a dangerous, highly unconventional rook lift that completely violated classical positioning but created an unpredictable, chaotic imbalance in the very center of the board.
Seonghyeon stopped. His hand, which had been hovering over his white bishop, froze mid-air. He stared at the board, his chest rising and falling in shallow, quick breaths as his mind frantically tried to recalculate a scenario that didn't exist in any of his grandfather's books. Slowly, he raised his head to look at you, his eyes wide with a mixture of shock and a quiet, intense focus that made the entire ballroom disappear.
The clock was ticking loudly between you, the small red flag hanging precariously near the hour mark. He had less than three minutes left on his side to find a response to an endgame he had never trained for.
The pressure within the grand ballroom was suffocating, the air thick with the scent of cheap hotel coffee and old tobacco smoke. Keohno was standing near the back corner of the stage, his usual easy, confident smile completely gone, his hands shoved deep into his pockets as he watched his best friend struggle for the first time since picking up a chess piece. A-na was gripping the wooden railing of the stage, her knuckles white, her eyes darting anxiously between your face and the complex layout of the board.
Seonghyeon’s fingers trembled slightly as he finally reached for his queen. It was a tiny, almost imperceptible movement, but to you, it was a seismic shift in the match. The unshakeable genius had a flaw, and it was fracturing under the weight of your defense.
He made his move, placing the queen on an aggressive diagonal that threatened your king, but the choice left his back rank completely exposed to a counterattack. It was a move born out of sudden desperation, a frantic attempt to force you into a hasty, panicked retreat because he could no longer calculate the infinite variations of the center under the pressure of the clock.
You looked down at the mechanical timer. You had exactly four minutes remaining on your side.
Instead of retreating your pieces or playing a safe, defensive line to secure a draw, you leaned forward over the polished wood of the table, your eyes meeting his. You didn't look down at the board. Instead, you looked directly into his eyes, forcing him to face you without the armor of his calculations. "You're running out of time, Sean," you whispered, the words barely a breath across the space between you.
He didn't look away. The silence between you stretched, heavy and thick with an unspoken understanding that bypassed the tournament rules entirely. He knew what you were about to do. He knew that the line he had chosen was a trap, and that you had seen through it before he had even lifted the piece from the velvet wrapper.
You reached out, your fingers deliberate and steady, and slid your knight to f3. "Check," you said softly.
The referee moved closer to the table, his eyes fixed on the board. Seonghyeon looked down at the pieces, then back up at you. The sharp, analytical wall he had built around himself for months seemed to shatter completely, leaving him looking vulnerable in a way that made your heart skip a beat against your ribs.
He didn't move his king to escape the check. Instead, with a slow, deliberate motion, he reached out his long fingers and gently tipped his own wooden king onto its side against the green felt.
"I resign," he said, his voice quiet but completely steady.
The grand ballroom erupted into a low, chaotic chatter as the spectators began to wildly discuss the massive upset. A-na rushed forward onto the stage, wrapping her arms around your shoulders in a breathless, laughing hug, while Keohno moved quickly to Seonghyeon’s side, talking rapidly and clapping him on the back with a look of total disbelief.
But you caught none of the noise. Your eyes were fixed entirely on Seonghyeon as he stood up from the table. He didn't look angry. No, he looked completely consumed by a private, heavy thought. He caught your eye through the sudden crowd of reporters and local club directors, gave a single, respectful nod, and walked out the side doors of the ballroom into the cold winter air.
An hour later, after the formal trophy presentation and the polite, empty handshakes with the tournament directors, you managed to slip away from A-na and the lingering crowd. You walked down the quiet service hallway toward the back exit of the hotel, where the delivery trucks parked in the snow.
Seonghyeon was sitting on a cold concrete step, his heavy coat unbuttoned, staring intensely at a small pocket chess set balanced on his knee. The snow had begun to fall again, small white flakes drifting down onto his dark hair and his shoulders.
You walked down the steps and stood beside him, the cold metal of your regional trophy heavy in your hand.
"You should be inside," you said, your breath misting in the air between you. "It's freezing out here."
"I was replaying move thirty-five," he said, not looking up from the tiny plastic pieces. "If I had moved the bishop to e3 instead of the queen, I could have forced a perpetual check. I could have saved the match."
"No," you said, sitting down on the concrete step next to him, ignoring the chill of the stone against your skirt. "I had the g-pawn protected from the back rank. You would have lost the knight three moves later anyway. Your calculation forgot that my pieces can move backward too."
He paused, his fingers resting on the tiny plastic king. He slowly turned his head to look at you, the distance between your faces shrinking to mere inches in the cold twilight. The winter air was crisp between you, smelling of pine and exhaust, and for the first time, the space between you felt completely unburdened by the game.
"You see everything, don't you?" he asked, his voice soft, completely stripped of all the defensive armor he usually wore at school.
"Only when I'm paying attention, Sean," you replied, looking at his mouth before returning to his eyes.
The Monday following the tournament brought a fierce, blinding blizzard that completely shut down the city of Cincinnati, burying the streets under ten inches of dense, white snow and canceling classes for the entire week. The silence that settled over the neighborhood was absolute, a heavy blanket that muted the usual industrial roar of the city. Inside your house, the radiators hissed and rattled, keeping the small living room warm while you sat by the window, staring at the empty street.
The quiet was broken by a soft, hesitant knock at the front door. When you opened it, you found Seonghyeon standing on the porch, his face flushed red from the biting wind, snow clinging to the thick wool of his collar and eyebrows. He had a heavy leather satchel slung over his shoulder, and his breath came out in short, rapid white clouds.
"The library is closed," he said by way of explanation, his voice slightly rough from the cold. "And my house is too loud. Keohno is staying with us until the roads are cleared."
You stared at him for a second, surprised by his sudden appearance on your doorstep, before stepping aside to let him into the warm hallway. "Come inside before you freeze, Sean." You did not even bother to wonder how the hell he got your home address.
He stepped in, carefully stomping the snow off his boots onto the rubber mat, his movements carrying that same meticulous, deliberate care he used when aligning his pieces on a chessboard. He pulled off his heavy coat and followed you into the small dining room, where a low amber lamp cast a warm glow over the wooden table.
Without a word of small talk, he opened his satchel and pulled out a thick, leather-bound notebook. When he opened it, you saw rows upon rows of neat, handwritten chess analysis, interspersed with complex geometric diagrams and mathematical formulas that looked entirely foreign compared to standard chess notation.
"This is how I see the board," he said, pushing the notebook toward you as he sat down across the table. "It's not about historical games or memorized book lines for me. It's about force vectors and spatial control. But against you, the equations keep breaking."
You leaned forward, your fingers tracing the sharp, angular lines of his handwriting. Looking at his notes was weirdly intimate. It was like looking directly into his mind. A place of absolute order, beauty, and immense loneliness. You realized then that his cold detachment wasn't a sign of arrogance rather a shield he used to protect a mind that felt everything too intensely.
"You're trying to calculate human intuition, Sean," you said softly, looking up from the notebook to meet his dark eyes. "You can't write a formula for the way a person feels when they look at a position. Sometimes, a move just feels right because of the tension in the room, not because the math adds up."
He looked at you, his gaze shifting from your eyes down to your hands resting on the table, then back up again. The space between you across the small wooden table felt incredibly small, the heat from the radiator making the room feel dense and intimate.
"So show me," he whispered, his voice dropping into a quiet register that made your heart skip a beat. "Show me how you see it without the math."
You pulled a wooden chess set from the shelf and began setting up the pieces between you, your fingers brushing against his as you both worked to fill the squares. The contact was brief, but it left a lingering warmth that made the winter storm outside disappear completely.
By the third day of the snowstorm, the city's main roads remained mostly impassable, leaving the high school completely dark and the local recreation centers locked up tight. The deep freeze had turned the snow into a hard, glittering crust that crunched sharply under your boots as you walked toward the public library. It was the only municipal building downtown that had managed to open its doors, operating on a skeleton crew of neighborhood volunteers who spent their time tending to the massive coal furnace in the basement.
You shook the white powder from your knit hat as you stepped into the main foyer. The air inside was heavy with the comforting, dusty scent of old paper and wood polish. The grand reading rooms were entirely empty, the long oak tables stretching out in silent rows under the high, frosted windows.
You found Seonghyeon tucked away in the very back corner of the history stacks, sitting on the floor with his back against a shelf of heavy encyclopedia volumes. He had a small wooden traveling set resting between his legs, his fingers hovering over a complex middle-game position.
"I knew you'd come here," he said without looking up, his voice low and raspy from the cold air he had walked through to get here.
"A-na said you were planning to stay at the club house, but I knew they didn't have the heating on," you replied, sliding your canvas satchel off your shoulder and dropping it onto the floorboards. You sat down cross-legged directly across from him, the space between your knees barely spanning a few inches over the tiny wooden board.
For the first hour, neither of you spoke a word. You simply took turns moving the miniature pieces, playing through a series of tactical exercises from an old Soviet quarterly. But the dynamic had changed entirely since your match at the hotel. There was no aggressive snapping of the pieces, no cold calculations meant to intimidate. Instead, the movements were gentle, exploratory, and strangely synchronized. Your hand would retreat from a square, and his would immediately take its place, his long fingers moving with a fluid grace that felt almost conversational.
As the afternoon light began to wane, casting long, pale blue shadows across the library floor, Seonghyeon reached out to capture your knight. His knuckles brushed against the back of your hand. A sudden, electric point of contact that made the quiet of the empty library feel incredibly dense.
He didn't pull his hand away this time. His dark eyes rose slowly, meeting yours with an unshielded intensity that made your breath catch in your throat.
"I've been replaying our semifinal match every night," he whispered, his voice steady but carrying a vulnerability you had never heard from him before. "And I realized something. I wasn't frustrated because I lost the position."
"Then why were you frustrated, Sean?" you asked softly, your heart beating in a quick, heavy rhythm against your ribs.
"Because for the first time in my life, I wasn't looking at the board to find the next move," he said, his fingers sliding slightly over yours, his palm warm and solid against your skin. "I was looking at it to see when you would look back at me."
The raw sincerity of his words shattered the last of your carefully constructed defenses. For years, you had used the rules of the game to keep the rest of the world at a safe distance, believing that isolation was the only way to protect your gift. But looking at Seonghyeon now, his face illuminated by the pale winter twilight filtering through the high windows, you realized that the board wasn't a wall meant to keep people out. It was a bridge that had finally brought you exactly where you needed to be.
The snow began to turn to a fine, icy mist by Friday morning, glazing the brick facades of the city in a clear, fragile shell. Inside the St. Jude basement, the regular club members had slowly returned, their heavy boots tracking slush onto the linoleum floors. The old men gathered around the master board at the front desk, their voices low as they discussed the upcoming state selections, but the air in the back corner of the room remained entirely still.
You were sitting at your usual table, your fountain pen neatly aligned next to your notation book, when Seonghyeon walked in. He didn't have Keohno with him this time. He moved through the crowded room with his characteristic quiet purpose, his dark wool coat damp from the sleet outside. He stopped at the edge of your table, his dark eyes locking onto yours with an unspoken question.
"A-na is helping the tournament director sort the registration cards in the back office," you said, breaking the silence before it could grow too heavy. "The table is open."
He pulled out the wooden chair across from you and sat down, his movements slow and deliberate. He didn't reach for the velvet bag containing the pieces right away. Instead, he rested his hands flat on the canvas board, his long fingers spanning across the squares.
"My grandfather told me this morning that the state invitations were mailed out yesterday," he said, his voice dropping into a quiet register that felt entirely foreign in the crowded basement hall. "They only selected two players from our district."
"You and me," you stated softly. It wasn't a guess; it was the only logical conclusion after the results at the Gibson Hotel.
"Yes," he replied, his gaze dropping to the empty squares between you before returning to your face. "The national committee wants us to play a series of exhibition matches in Chicago before the spring term begins. They want to showcase the two different styles."
You felt a sudden, sharp quickening of your pulse against your ribs. Chicago was where the national master titles were awarded, the place you had been working toward since you were four years old. But the thought of navigating that massive, high-pressure arena didn't feel as lonely as it used to. The perimeter you had built so carefully over the years to keep the world out had shifted, its lines redrawn to include the boy sitting across from you.
"Are you going to analyze my games all the way to Illinois, Sean?" you teased, a small, genuine smile turning up the corners of your lips.
"I don't need to analyze them anymore," he said, his voice steady but carrying a depth of warmth that made the chill of the basement disappear completely. He reached out, his hand moving across the center lines of the board, his fingers stopping just short of yours. A silent, unshielded invitation that had nothing to do with the game. "I already know how the line ends."
The house belonging to the Eom family sat on a quiet, sloping cul-de-sac on the western edge of the district, shielded from the main road by a dense perimeter of overgrown pine trees. Inside, the rooms were completely silent, scrubbed clean of the chaotic static that defined the hallways of the high school. The air was warm, carrying a faint, unfamiliar scent of toasted barley tea, cedar shaving blocks, and the clean, sharp tang of a winter radiator working at full capacity.
Seonghyeon led you into a small, sunlit living room where a massive, beautifully carved wooden chess table sat directly in front of a wide picture window. Outside, the purple twilight of a January afternoon was slowly bleeding across the untouched snow in the backyard.
"Sit wherever you like," he said, his voice dropping into a quiet register that felt entirely foreign after months of hearing him speak in crowded tournament halls. He pulled his heavy wool coat off, draping it with his usual meticulous care over the back of a nearby chair, before disappearing into the kitchen.
You sat on the edge of the low, textured sofa, your fingers tracing the smooth, polished lip of the mahogany chess table. A moment later, he returned carrying two small porcelain cups, the steam rising in slow, lazy spirals between you. As he handed you a cup, his fingers brushed against yours. It was a brief, electric point of contact that made the quiet of the house feel suddenly dense, almost fragile.
For the first hour, you both deliberately retreated into the safety of the game. He brought out a leather-bound notebook filled with handwritten analysis of the reigning national junior champion's preferred king-side structures. You took turns moving the heavy wooden pieces across the squares, testing the lines, looking for the tiny, structural fissures where a passive defense could be dismantled.
But as the darkness deepened outside the window, casting your reflections against the glass, the tempo of the pieces began to stall. Your hands moved slower and slower until the board sat between you completely untouched, a complex, frozen web of wood that neither of you had the heart to resolve.
"Why do you keep the perimeter so thick?" Seonghyeon asked suddenly. He didn't look down at the pieces. His dark eyes were fixed entirely on your face, watching the way the amber lamplight caught the line of your jaw.
You kept your eyes on your teacup, your heart thumping against your ribs with a sudden, heavy cadence. "I don't know what you mean, Sean."
"You do," he said, leaning forward, his chest nearly touching the edge of the table. "Every time we get close to talking about something that isn't an opening variation, you retreat. You look at me like I'm an opponent you're trying to outmaneuver on the tournament clock. You calculate every word before you say it."
"Because I know how to handle an opponent," you said softly, finally raising your eyes to meet his. The raw sincerity in his expression made your breath catch in your throat. "I’ve spent my whole life being the only person like me in the room, Sean. Being a loner is safe. It means nobody can miscalculate you, and nobody can disappoint you. I don't know how to navigate... whatever this is between us without a set of rules."
Seonghyeon reached across the sixty-four squares, his long fingers moving with an agonizing, painful slowness, giving you every possible second to pull away if you chose to, wanted to. He didn't touch your face; instead, he simply rested his palm face up on the fabric of the sofa cushion right beside your hand as a silent, unshielded invitation.
"The board has rules," he whispered, his voice steady but thick with an intensity that left the high school world completely behind. "But I don't want to play a game with you anymore."
You looked down at his open palm, the quiet vulnerability of the gesture shattering the last of your defenses. Slowly, deliberately, you slid your fingers into his, the warmth of his skin absolute and unshakeable against yours.
By the middle of March, the thick, gray winter ice had finally begun to crack along the banks of the Ohio River, leaving the city streets wet and glistening under a pale, hesitant spring sun. The morning news on the transistor radios was filled with the sounds of a changing country, but within the local chess circuit, the entire state's attention was fixed on a single, historic pairing.
"They're putting you two in the center spotlight for the opening round of the national invitationals," A-na announced on Friday afternoon. She slammed the printed tournament bulletin onto the library table, her eyes wide behind her horn-rimmed glasses. Keohno was standing right behind her, his hands tucked into his pockets, a rare, serious expression on his face.
The news spread through the St. Jude basement like wildfire that evening. The club directors wanted a rematch of the dramatic December regional finals to draw the crowds downtown. The older players kept looking over at your table, whispering into their hands, but you remained completely unmoved, your fountain pen gliding across your notation sheet with total precision.
Seonghyeon was sitting across from you, his fingers lightly tapping the edge of the wood. He raised his head, a quiet, knowing smile turning up the corners of his lips as he met your gaze.
"A-na says the registration numbers are twice what they were last year," you said, breaking the silence as you lined up your pawns. "Seems like everyone wants to see if the machine can be broken twice."
"A rematch," he said softly, his voice meant for your ears alone, completely ignoring the noise of the crowded room around you.
"Are you planning on tipping your king over again, Sean?" you teased, leaning your elbows on the table, the old friction between you returning with a warmth that felt entirely different now. No longer a shield to keep him out, but a bridge holding you together.
"I've spent the last three months analyzing my opponent," he replied, his dark eyes locking onto yours with an unblinking, profound focus that made your chest tighten with a familiar, welcome intensity. "I know exactly how she handles pressure when the space gets small. I know which files she likes to keep open, and I know exactly when she's trying to provoke me into an error."
"Knowing the line isn't the same as playing it," you whispered back, reaching out to adjust your rook.
"I'm not afraid of the variations anymore," he said, his voice completely steady.
That evening, as the final bell of the club rang and the lights were turned off one by one by the volunteer staff, you walked out of the community center together into the crisp spring air. The world outside was moving fast, the city waking up from its long winter hibernation, but as you walked down the damp sidewalk toward the bus stop, his hand slipped into yours, his fingers locking between your own with a certainty that made the rest of the universe fade into absolute insignificance.
The platform of the Cincinnati train terminal was an absolute cavern of iron, glass, and white steam on the morning of the departure for Chicago. The massive, black locomotive hissed loudly against the concrete tracks, its great steel pistons vibrating the very air within the station. The platform was a chaotic blur of travelers in heavy topcoats, newsboys shouting the morning headlines about the civil rights marches down south, and a small, dedicated crowd of local chess players who had come to see the city's two prodigies off to the national tournament.
A-na was standing near the luggage cart, her nose red from the damp morning air, wrapping you in a tight, fierce hug that smelled faintly of lavender and rain. "You make sure you dismantle the Chicago champion's defense on move twenty," she demanded, her voice cracking slightly with emotion. "Don't let them tell you your creative style doesn't belong on Table One."
"I'll play exactly the way I always do," you said softly, pulling back to look at her through her thick glasses. "With absolute restraint until they give me the open file."
Keohno was clapping Seonghyeon on the shoulder a few feet away, talking rapidly about a jazz club near the loop that he insisted they visit if they had a free evening between the Swiss rounds. But Seonghyeon wasn't really listening. His eyes were fixed entirely on you, his dark wool coat buttoned to the chin, his leather satchel containing his notebooks gripped tightly in his right hand.
When the conductor blew the final, echoing whistle for boarding, the crowd of well-wishers began to step back into the steam. You and Seonghyeon walked up the metal steps of the passenger car together, the heavy iron door slamming shut behind you, cutting off the noise of the platform instantly.
The interior of the train car was plush, lined with green velvet seats and polished walnut paneling that gleamed under the small electric sconces. You found an empty compartment near the back of the car, sliding your canvas bags onto the overhead rack before sitting down by the large glass window. The train jerked forward with a massive, rhythmic groan of steel, slowly pulling out of the station and into the gray, misty Ohio countryside.
Seonghyeon sat down directly across from you, the space between your knees minimal in the cozy compartment. He reached into his satchel and pulled out the small, familiar traveling chess set, placing it flat on the small wooden table that extended between the seats.
"One last game before we cross the state line?" he asked, his dark eyes looking up at you with a quiet, challenging warmth that had become the defining feature of your relationship over the winter.
You looked down at the board, where the wooden pieces were perfectly aligned in their starting ranks, ready for a new conflict. Then you looked up at his face, tracing the sharp, familiar line of his jaw and the deep intensity of his gaze. The old fear of being known, the stubborn desire to keep the world at a distance through the strict rules of the sixty-four squares, had completely evaporated, replaced by a profound, unshakeable sense of peace.
"No, Sean," you said, a genuine, easy smile breaking across your face as you reached out and gently closed the wooden lid of the board, trapping the pieces inside. You moved your hand across the small table, sliding your fingers into his, the warmth of his palm immediate and solid against your skin. "Let's just look at the landscape for a while."
He didn't argue. His fingers tightened around yours, locking between them with a perfect, calculated precision that didn't require a single word of notation. The train accelerated into the white mist of the early spring morning, moving forward into an unpredictable, unwritten future where the rules were yours to create together.
featuring) Ian from h2h as your best friend and me hah
synopsis. You’re a pretty big producer for various R&B and Hip-Hop artists — wether they’re from the east or west. Jay Park, CEO and founder of More Vision, for whom you already worked for, reached out to you to work with his group LNGSHOT. You don’t think much of it — until that one guy with spiky hair and bleached ends unwillingly catches your attention.
lyn, speak up! // ryul has an insane grip on me lately so here I am, writing my first pure actual smau at 7 in the morning. I reuse a lot of terms but honestly idrc I think it's fun. Enjoy babes 💋
𝄞𝄢 Now playing: Midnight Blue by JEY, 88kief
warnings/content. lots of swearing sexual jokes/implications tiktok humour (i think)
taglist is open! (please tell me if you don't want to get tagged outside of the „True love finds its way“ au, I'll remove u ^^)
Eom Seonghyeon, who’s part of the boy group Cortis, is your boyfriend. Sounds crazy, right? Your relationship must be amazing. Full of teenage love, stolen kisses and secret dates. But what if I tell you that it’s anything but.
Lately, Seonghyeon is acting weird. Distant. Cold. Sometimes even unnecessarily rude to the people around him. He barely has time for you, barely texts you, until he asks you to finally meet the rest of the boys in person. What happens then? Someone will come and treat you better — better than Seonghyeon ever did.
♬ Now playing: FIGURED YOU OUT by Devkota
⟳ warnings: use of bad language alcohol consumption (I do not promote drinking, this is purely for the plot and entertainment. Don’t drink until you’re of age twinskies 🫰 okay love you bye)
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
Y/n stared at her phone. Not sure if she was supposed to be laughing, crying or ripping his head right off. Seonghyeon never acted jealous.
Or at least he never openly did. But ever since he decided to act like a disappointment to society, y/n didn’t even really question it anymore.
It just felt heavy.
Draining.
Did she do something wrong?
Was Seonghyeon doing well?
Did something happen to him?
Reaching out felt like she was an annoying leech he couldn’t get off his leg. But he was her boyfriend. He was supposed to be.
Y/n groaned and threw her phone on the bed.
Sleep. She needed some sleep.
And tomorrow she’d ask her boyfriend if he wanted to go out.
Now that sounded like a plan.
Plan backfired. Great.
“Asshole,” y/n mumbled and sighed.
They used to spend so much time together. Especially since his schedule was basically crushing him and the others.
But apparently he had better things to do. Things he didn’t even want to talk about.
Almost immediately her finger moved to Martin’s chat. She started typing but paused, staring at the previous messages.
The urge to reach out to Martin was so strong lately and even though he already told her she could always talk to him, it still felt… strange.
Like it was something she wasn’t supposed to do behind Seonghyeon’s back.
But y/n didn’t have any intentions. And Martin didn’t either.
Bro, just do it.
Not the plan y/n had in my mind but that should work too.
She spent the day cleaning her apartment, listening to music and waiting until seven.
A knock on the door made her head shoot up and she sprinted to the door, a smile already spreading on her face.
Before opening the door, y/n realized how giddy she felt all of a sudden.
Calm down, oh my god.
"We can hear you, y/n. Open the door, it's cold," Keonho called out and y/n did as she was told.
"Sorry, I just realized I apparently really like you guys."
Keonho smiled at that and shoved himself past her into her personal safe space.
Martin still stood by the door. "Hi," he said, voice softer than intended.
Y/n shot him a small smile. "Hi. Come in."
He stepped inside and brushed his shoes off, before looking around.
"Looks cozy," he mumbled and followed her into the living room, where Keonho already sprawled himself over the couch.
Martin raised a brow at him. "You really got no manners, dude."
Martin glanced at y/n and sat on one of the two bean bags opposite of the couch.
Keonho let out a big sigh. "Sooo, I think we should definitely stay here and watch a movie or something."
"I don't mind. We can order some takeout as well," y/n said and sat on the other bean bag.
And that's what they did. Halfway through the movie the three of them started talking. Nothing particular, really, and y/n was glad to get to know them better.
After a while Seonghyeon was brought up and y/n found herself venting to the two of them. Even Keonho, who usually couldn't shut up and made jokes here and there, stayed silent and listened.
"I'm not a relationship pro or anything but are you sure you want to keep doing this?" Keonho asked after y/n finished, staring up at the ceiling.
Martin nodded. "He's right. Remember what I told you that night? Don't force yourself through something that doesn't bring you any joy. It's not worth it."
"You deserve better, y/n," Keonho said, unusually soft. "I love Sean a lot but that's not how to treat your girlfriend."
"Diana's story still pisses me off," Martin mumbled.
Y/n rolled her eyes. The picture popped up in her head.
The way Seonghyeon stood so close to her. The white heart she tagged him with.
Simple, innocent things that made y/n burn with anger.
"Just get with Martin. He looks at you like you personally hung the stars."
Both y/n and Martin turned their heads to stare at Keonho who just gave them a smug smile. "What? Just stating the obvious."
"Can you, like... not?" Martin groaned and ran a hand over his face.
Y/n narrowed her eyes. "I don't... think..."
"Can we just talk about something else? Please. One more word about Sean and I'll personally destroy that perfect little face of his."
Keonho's eyebrows shot up at Martin's words. "See? You're already acting all possesive," he teased and grinned, which earned him a playful slap on his arm.
"Enough. Let's just go for a walk or something," y/n suggested, trying to ignore her pounding heart or the way Martin couldn't meet her eyes properly anymore.
⤷
None of them planned to end up drinking. But they did. Or at least y/n did.
Keonho drank a few sips and Martin didn’t even finish his can of beer.
Y/n though… a few cans and now she was barely walking in a straight line.
The boys eyed her, concern etched on their faces.
“We should take her home,” Keonho whispered next to Martin and watched as y/n plopped down on the grass a few feet away from them.
The park was empty at this hour, dimly lit by a few street lamps.
Martin nodded. “Yeah, we should.”
He was about to step forward when suddenly y/n’s soft voice cut through the silence.
“Seonghyeon-ah…,” she slurred, looking up at the clear night sky. “Why? Why don’t you love me anymore?”
Keonho patted Martin’s shoulder. “That’s your sign, my guy,” he whispered and pulled his phone out of his jeans pocket. “I’ll call Sean.”
Martin snapped his head around. “No, you won’t. You really think that’s what she needs right now?” he hissed and pointed at y/n.
The other boy sighed. “I get what you’re saying but he’s still her boyfriend.”
Martin blinked at the reminder. Right. Her boyfriend. “Okay. Call him.”
Keonho nodded and scrolled through his contacts while Martin slowly approached y/n. He crouched down next to her. “Hey, y/n.”
Y/n looked at him and smiled. “Hey, Tin,” she mumbled.
Keonho’s voice reached her just when she was about to say something.
“Sean, where are you?”
“Why? Why are you calling this late?”
“Are you with Diana?”
“Maybe. Why?”
“It’s y/n.”
“…”
“Did something happen to her?”
“She’s drunk. Calling for you.”
“Drunk?! Wait, why are you with her?”
“Does that really matter right now?”
“…”
“Where are you?”
“At the park.”
“Are you guys alone?”
“No, Martin’s here too.”
“…”
“Of course he is.”
“Huh?”
“Wait for me, I’m coming.”
“Okay.”
Seonghyeon hung up. Keonho turned to y/n and Martin who stared at him in silence.
“Diana?” y/n asked, voice slightly cracking.
Keonho shook his head. “Don’t worry, he’s on his way.”
“He is?” Martin and y/n said at the same time and he looked at her. She was still staring at Keonho with wide eyes and his heart broke at the look on her face.
So hopeful.
Martin sighed and gently nudged her side. “Come on, let’s sit somewhere else.”
He grabbed y/n’s shoulder and helped her get up, guiding her to the nearest bench where she plopped down with a small sigh.
“You really think he’s coming?” she asked and looked up at Martin, eyes gleaming.
He looked down at her and gave her a tired smile. “He is. I’m sure he’ll be here soon.”
And indeed — Seonghyeon turned up not even ten minutes later, eyes focused on y/n.
She lifted her head and saw him, her face instantly lighting up. Martin watched how her expression changed and why… why was his chest feeling so weird? So tight? And why did it kind of… hurt?
He turned away just a little bit and looked up at the sky.
“Y/n, are you okay?” Seonghyeon asked as he finally approached them and y/n jumped up before stumbling into his arms.
“Sean… where were you?” she mumbled, words slightly slurred, and closed her eyes. He looked at her for a second, then snapped his head back up to look at his friends.
"Why the fuck would you let her drink? Why is she with you guys in the first place?" he questioned and looked between Keonho and Martin.
The latter just shrugged. "She was feeling down and we offered to take her out. Since you won't do it anymore."
Seonghyeon froze and Keonho drew in a silent but sharp breath.
"What?"
Martin frowned. "What do you mean 'what‘? You've been neglecting your girlfriend for the past week or longer. She's texting us to understand what's going on because you won't even talk to her."
Seonghyeon's grip around y/n's shoulders tightened. He glanced down at her but she was hanging in his arms, eyes still closed.
He opened his mouth. To fire back, probably. To defend himself. But nothing came out.
"What, cat got your tongue?" Martin scoffed and shook his head. "We're taking her home tonight."
Seonghyeon raised his brows. "Excuse you? She's my girl, I'll take care of her."
The words reached Martin and settled in the pit of his stomach. "Your girl? You're the reason she ended up this way and you even dare showing up?"
“You’re getting a little too comfortable, don’t you think?” Sean asked, trying not to lash out at his leader.
First the ‘showing her some stuff on his phone while sitting way too close’ situation, then the hangout at the convenience store — plus the story on Instagram — and now this?
“Comfortable?” Martin asked back and scoffed. “I’m trying to be there for her because you’re too busy with…,” he paused. “with what, huh? Poor girl tried to talk to you multiple times because she’s scared for your relationship and you? Hanging out with your 'childhood friend' you didn't even tell her about once.”
Martin stepped forward and gently nudged y/n’s shoulder. "Y/n.."
Seonghyeon grabbed his wrist and glared at him. “Don’t touch her.”
Y/n opened her eyes and slowly leaned away from her boyfriend. “Don’t argue…,” she mumbled and pulled the boys’ hands apart.
Then she looked at Seonghyeon, the boy she thought loved her most, and gave him a sad smile. “Martin is right. I feel like I’m the only one doing something for this relationship. You didn’t even feel the need to tell me about Diana.”
Seonghyeon frowned. “How do you know…” He looked at Martin and clenched his jaw. “It’s nothing, babe. She’s just a friend,” he tried to reassure her but y/n shook her head.
“Don’t call me that right now,” she said, voice a little more stable than before. This bullshit of his was sobering her up. “If she’s just a friend then why are you keeping her a secret from me?”
“Now you’re just making a big deal out of this.”
“Am I?”
“You are.”
“Okay.”
A beat of silence.
“Go back to her then. I’ll leave with Martin and Keonho.”
“What? No, you won’t.”
“I will.”
“You won’t.”
“I will.”
Seonghyeon scoffed and turned his head to avoid looking at her.
“You can’t even look me in the eye.”
Y/n’s voice sounded monotone, yet still laced with something painful. And Martin noticed.
“You make yourself look stupid,” he said, looking at Sean with furrowed brows.
“And you’re being way too cheeky right now,” Seonghyeon shot back before turning to face y/n again. “So you wanna break up or what?”
She stared at him for a few seconds, face unreadable. “That’s the first conclusion you’ve come to?”
Silence.
“Saved me a lot of stress there, man. Thanks,” y/n scoffed and grabbed Martin‘s arm, pulling him toward Keonho who watched the whole scenario in silence a few feet away from them.
“We’re leaving,” she said firmly.
“Is this a fucking joke? Y/n!” Seonghyeon called out from behind and watched the three of them walk away.
“Keonho? Not even you? What the fuck, dude!” he yelled and Keonho yelled back without turning around.
“That’s on you, bro. You fucked up!”
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
lyn, speak up! // finally posted part 3 after a month or so, I’m very sorry twinskies 🤞 but I really love this part even though I barely had any ideas how to continue. I’m also not so sure if you guys want something longer (slow burn but a lot of tension) or if you want me to get straight to the point 🤧 also, please tell me if u wanna be on the permanent taglist (cortis, lngshot, enha, piwon) or just for this story! Ty loves
Eom Seonghyeon, who’s part of the boy group Cortis, is your boyfriend. Sounds crazy, right? Your relationship must be amazing. Full of teenage love, stolen kisses and secret dates. But what if I tell you that it’s anything but.
Lately, Seonghyeon is acting weird. Distant. Cold. Sometimes even unnecessarily rude to the people around him. He barely has time for you, barely texts you, until he asks you to finally meet the rest of the boys in person. What happens then? Someone will come and treat you better — better than Seonghyeon ever did.
♬ Now playing: FIGURED YOU OUT by Devkota
⟳ warnings: use of bad language alcohol consumption (I do not promote drinking, this is purely for the plot and entertainment. Don’t drink until you’re of age twinskies 🫰 okay love you bye)
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
Y/n stared at her phone. Not sure if she was supposed to be laughing, crying or ripping his head right off. Seonghyeon never acted jealous.
Or at least he never openly did. But ever since he decided to act like a disappointment to society, y/n didn’t even really question it anymore.
It just felt heavy.
Draining.
Did she do something wrong?
Was Seonghyeon doing well?
Did something happen to him?
Reaching out felt like she was an annoying leech he couldn’t get off his leg. But he was her boyfriend. He was supposed to be.
Y/n groaned and threw her phone on the bed.
Sleep. She needed some sleep.
And tomorrow she’d ask her boyfriend if he wanted to go out.
Now that sounded like a plan.
Plan backfired. Great.
“Asshole,” y/n mumbled and sighed.
They used to spend so much time together. Especially since his schedule was basically crushing him and the others.
But apparently he had better things to do. Things he didn’t even want to talk about.
Almost immediately her finger moved to Martin’s chat. She started typing but paused, staring at the previous messages.
The urge to reach out to Martin was so strong lately and even though he already told her she could always talk to him, it still felt… strange.
Like it was something she wasn’t supposed to do behind Seonghyeon’s back.
But y/n didn’t have any intentions. And Martin didn’t either.
Bro, just do it.
Not the plan y/n had in my mind but that should work too.
She spent the day cleaning her apartment, listening to music and waiting until seven.
A knock on the door made her head shoot up and she sprinted to the door, a smile already spreading on her face.
Before opening the door, y/n realized how giddy she felt all of a sudden.
Calm down, oh my god.
"We can hear you, y/n. Open the door, it's cold," Keonho called out and y/n did as she was told.
"Sorry, I just realized I apparently really like you guys."
Keonho smiled at that and shoved himself past her into her personal safe space.
Martin still stood by the door. "Hi," he said, voice softer than intended.
Y/n shot him a small smile. "Hi. Come in."
He stepped inside and brushed his shoes off, before looking around.
"Looks cozy," he mumbled and followed her into the living room, where Keonho already sprawled himself over the couch.
Martin raised a brow at him. "You really got no manners, dude."
Martin glanced at y/n and sat on one of the two bean bags opposite of the couch.
Keonho let out a big sigh. "Sooo, I think we should definitely stay here and watch a movie or something."
"I don't mind. We can order some takeout as well," y/n said and sat on the other bean bag.
And that's what they did. Halfway through the movie the three of them started talking. Nothing particular, really, and y/n was glad to get to know them better.
After a while Seonghyeon was brought up and y/n found herself venting to the two of them. Even Keonho, who usually couldn't shut up and made jokes here and there, stayed silent and listened.
"I'm not a relationship pro or anything but are you sure you want to keep doing this?" Keonho asked after y/n finished, staring up at the ceiling.
Martin nodded. "He's right. Remember what I told you that night? Don't force yourself through something that doesn't bring you any joy. It's not worth it."
"You deserve better, y/n," Keonho said, unusually soft. "I love Sean a lot but that's not how to treat your girlfriend."
"Diana's story still pisses me off," Martin mumbled.
Y/n rolled her eyes. The picture popped up in her head.
The way Seonghyeon stood so close to her. The white heart she tagged him with.
Simple, innocent things that made y/n burn with anger.
"Just get with Martin. He looks at you like you personally hung the stars."
Both y/n and Martin turned their heads to stare at Keonho who just gave them a smug smile. "What? Just stating the obvious."
"Can you, like... not?" Martin groaned and ran a hand over his face.
Y/n narrowed her eyes. "I don't... think..."
"Can we just talk about something else? Please. One more word about Sean and I'll personally destroy that perfect little face of his."
Keonho's eyebrows shot up at Martin's words. "See? You're already acting all possesive," he teased and grinned, which earned him a playful slap on his arm.
"Enough. Let's just go for a walk or something," y/n suggested, trying to ignore her pounding heart or the way Martin couldn't meet her eyes properly anymore.
⤷
None of them planned to end up drinking. But they did. Or at least y/n did.
Keonho drank a few sips and Martin didn’t even finish his can of beer.
Y/n though… a few cans and now she was barely walking in a straight line.
The boys eyed her, concern etched on their faces.
“We should take her home,” Keonho whispered next to Martin and watched as y/n plopped down on the grass a few feet away from them.
The park was empty at this hour, dimly lit by a few street lamps.
Martin nodded. “Yeah, we should.”
He was about to step forward when suddenly y/n’s soft voice cut through the silence.
“Seonghyeon-ah…,” she slurred, looking up at the clear night sky. “Why? Why don’t you love me anymore?”
Keonho patted Martin’s shoulder. “That’s your sign, my guy,” he whispered and pulled his phone out of his jeans pocket. “I’ll call Sean.”
Martin snapped his head around. “No, you won’t. You really think that’s what she needs right now?” he hissed and pointed at y/n.
The other boy sighed. “I get what you’re saying but he’s still her boyfriend.”
Martin blinked at the reminder. Right. Her boyfriend. “Okay. Call him.”
Keonho nodded and scrolled through his contacts while Martin slowly approached y/n. He crouched down next to her. “Hey, y/n.”
Y/n looked at him and smiled. “Hey, Tin,” she mumbled.
Keonho’s voice reached her just when she was about to say something.
“Sean, where are you?”
“Why? Why are you calling this late?”
“Are you with Diana?”
“Maybe. Why?”
“It’s y/n.”
“…”
“Did something happen to her?”
“She’s drunk. Calling for you.”
“Drunk?! Wait, why are you with her?”
“Does that really matter right now?”
“…”
“Where are you?”
“At the park.”
“Are you guys alone?”
“No, Martin’s here too.”
“…”
“Of course he is.”
“Huh?”
“Wait for me, I’m coming.”
“Okay.”
Seonghyeon hung up. Keonho turned to y/n and Martin who stared at him in silence.
“Diana?” y/n asked, voice slightly cracking.
Keonho shook his head. “Don’t worry, he’s on his way.”
“He is?” Martin and y/n said at the same time and he looked at her. She was still staring at Keonho with wide eyes and his heart broke at the look on her face.
So hopeful.
Martin sighed and gently nudged her side. “Come on, let’s sit somewhere else.”
He grabbed y/n’s shoulder and helped her get up, guiding her to the nearest bench where she plopped down with a small sigh.
“You really think he’s coming?” she asked and looked up at Martin, eyes gleaming.
He looked down at her and gave her a tired smile. “He is. I’m sure he’ll be here soon.”
And indeed — Seonghyeon turned up not even ten minutes later, eyes focused on y/n.
She lifted her head and saw him, her face instantly lighting up. Martin watched how her expression changed and why… why was his chest feeling so weird? So tight? And why did it kind of… hurt?
He turned away just a little bit and looked up at the sky.
“Y/n, are you okay?” Seonghyeon asked as he finally approached them and y/n jumped up before stumbling into his arms.
“Sean… where were you?” she mumbled, words slightly slurred, and closed her eyes. He looked at her for a second, then snapped his head back up to look at his friends.
"Why the fuck would you let her drink? Why is she with you guys in the first place?" he questioned and looked between Keonho and Martin.
The latter just shrugged. "She was feeling down and we offered to take her out. Since you won't do it anymore."
Seonghyeon froze and Keonho drew in a silent but sharp breath.
"What?"
Martin frowned. "What do you mean 'what‘? You've been neglecting your girlfriend for the past week or longer. She's texting us to understand what's going on because you won't even talk to her."
Seonghyeon's grip around y/n's shoulders tightened. He glanced down at her but she was hanging in his arms, eyes still closed.
He opened his mouth. To fire back, probably. To defend himself. But nothing came out.
"What, cat got your tongue?" Martin scoffed and shook his head. "We're taking her home tonight."
Seonghyeon raised his brows. "Excuse you? She's my girl, I'll take care of her."
The words reached Martin and settled in the pit of his stomach. "Your girl? You're the reason she ended up this way and you even dare showing up?"
“You’re getting a little too comfortable, don’t you think?” Sean asked, trying not to lash out at his leader.
First the ‘showing her some stuff on his phone while sitting way too close’ situation, then the hangout at the convenience store — plus the story on Instagram — and now this?
“Comfortable?” Martin asked back and scoffed. “I’m trying to be there for her because you’re too busy with…,” he paused. “with what, huh? Poor girl tried to talk to you multiple times because she’s scared for your relationship and you? Hanging out with your 'childhood friend' you didn't even tell her about once.”
Martin stepped forward and gently nudged y/n’s shoulder. "Y/n.."
Seonghyeon grabbed his wrist and glared at him. “Don’t touch her.”
Y/n opened her eyes and slowly leaned away from her boyfriend. “Don’t argue…,” she mumbled and pulled the boys’ hands apart.
Then she looked at Seonghyeon, the boy she thought loved her most, and gave him a sad smile. “Martin is right. I feel like I’m the only one doing something for this relationship. You didn’t even feel the need to tell me about Diana.”
Seonghyeon frowned. “How do you know…” He looked at Martin and clenched his jaw. “It’s nothing, babe. She’s just a friend,” he tried to reassure her but y/n shook her head.
“Don’t call me that right now,” she said, voice a little more stable than before. This bullshit of his was sobering her up. “If she’s just a friend then why are you keeping her a secret from me?”
“Now you’re just making a big deal out of this.”
“Am I?”
“You are.”
“Okay.”
A beat of silence.
“Go back to her then. I’ll leave with Martin and Keonho.”
“What? No, you won’t.”
“I will.”
“You won’t.”
“I will.”
Seonghyeon scoffed and turned his head to avoid looking at her.
“You can’t even look me in the eye.”
Y/n’s voice sounded monotone, yet still laced with something painful. And Martin noticed.
“You make yourself look stupid,” he said, looking at Sean with furrowed brows.
“And you’re being way too cheeky right now,” Seonghyeon shot back before turning to face y/n again. “So you wanna break up or what?”
She stared at him for a few seconds, face unreadable. “That’s the first conclusion you’ve come to?”
Silence.
“Saved me a lot of stress there, man. Thanks,” y/n scoffed and grabbed Martin‘s arm, pulling him toward Keonho who watched the whole scenario in silence a few feet away from them.
“We’re leaving,” she said firmly.
“Is this a fucking joke? Y/n!” Seonghyeon called out from behind and watched the three of them walk away.
“Keonho? Not even you? What the fuck, dude!” he yelled and Keonho yelled back without turning around.
“That’s on you, bro. You fucked up!”
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
lyn, speak up! // finally posted part 3 after a month or so, I’m very sorry twinskies 🤞 but I really love this part even though I barely had any ideas how to continue. I’m also not so sure if you guys want something longer (slow burn but a lot of tension) or if you want me to get straight to the point 🤧 also, please tell me if u wanna be on the permanent taglist (cortis, lngshot, enha and piwon) or just for this au! Ty loves
areudirty
tangentwithtanner
romaincrisis
gummygunk
titsay
kianamaiart
dailybridgerton
