summary: yourself and a group of midwives show the divine feminine beauty and power of women.
tags: sfw , fluff , mention of childbirth (nun graphic)
a/n: HAPPY INTERNATIONAL WOMEN'S DAY!! i hope all u ladies have a wonderful day AND MONTH!! we celebrate all women before us and after us. we will forever be grateful for the women who fought for our rights! we honor the incredible social, economic, cultural, and political achievements of women everywhere, while pushing forward for true gender equality. every woman making her mark big or small: you are powerful, you are essential, and you deserve every bit of celebration and justice coming your way! let's keep amplifying voices, demanding rights + justice + action for ALL women and girls!!
theme: labour
The sun hung low over the village of Awa'atlu, casting a golden glow over the warm waters that gently lapped up on the shore. Today was no ordinary day. The air hummed with anticipation, the kind where life or death was at play.
A young woman, Kiyru, strong, beloved, heavy with child, had gone into labor earlier this morning, and it was now late evening. The birth had turned difficult. The baby was positioned wrong, the mother's strength faltering after long hours of effort. Whispers spread through the clan like ripples across the sea. Something was wrong.
You, Tsahìk of the Metkayina, moved with precise calculation through the shallow birthing pool at the edge of the village. The water here was warm, shallow enough for the midwives to stand, yet deep enough to honor the First Breath ritual that would come, if Eywa willed the child to live. You knelt beside the laboring woman, your hands steady, your voice whispering gentle encouragements over the the thoughts that plagued her mind.
The midwives, experienced women of the clan, their arms strong from years of weaving, diving, and healing, worked in perfect harmony around you. One supported the mother's back, another monitored each contraction, while a third prepared strips of clean kelp cloth and healing pastes from ground coral and sea herbs. No man interfered. The warriors, hunters, even the Olo'eyktan himself, stood back at a respectful distance on the woven walkway above the pool.
Among them stood Aonung, your mate, the young Olo'eyktan, broad-shouldered and tall, his dark curls tied back, shark-tooth necklace resting against his chest. His arms were crossed, tail flicking once in tension, but he did not step forward. He knew better. This was a woman's domain, the sacred work of bringing new life from the sea's embrace. His eyes followed your every movement, pride and something deeper flickering there. Admiration for the power you wielded so quietly, so fiercely.
Kiyru cried out, her grip tightening on the arms of the midwives. You placed one hand on her swollen belly, the other placed on her chest, seeking Eywa's guidance through the spiritual connection. You felt the child's heartbeat, strong, but struggling. "Breathe with the tide," you murmured. "Let it carry you. Eywa sees you both."
The midwives adjusted their hold, guiding, encouraging. You pressed down carefully on her stomach, ensuring movement inside. Slowly, with careful pressure and your directed touch, the baby began to turn. You looked up at Kiyru, commanding she begin to push again. Fierce and unyielding she did, her face set in determination.
Minutes stretched like hours. Then, a shift. One final exertion, and a small slippery form glided into the water. Instinct taking over, the baby wirggled its way to the surface, ready to take its First Breath.
The eldest midwife's hands were there in an instant. She lifted her just enough to clear the tiny mouth and nose. A soft gurgle, then silence. You leaned in, your own hands joining hers, one supporting the babies head while the other gently stroked along her back in the known rhythm meant to coax the First Breath. Her small chest rose. Hesitant, then expanded. A piercing cry rang out across the lagoon.
Kiyru sobbed in relief, her exhausted body trembling as the midwives guided the infant to her chest. Skin to skin, the connection immediate though the fresh tsaheylu. The new mother wrapped her arms around her daughter, tears falling free. The midwives stepped back slightly, forming a protective semicircle.
You remained kneeling in the shallows, one hand still resting on Kiyru's shoulder, the other brushing a damp strand from the newborn's tiny forehead. "She is strong," you whispered, voice carrying the weight of Eywa's blessing. "Like her mother."
The birthing pool seemed to shimmer brighter now, the golden evening light shining through the ripples as if Eywa herself celebrated. Kiyru's breathing steadied, her exhaustion giving way to quiet wonder as she gazed down at the tiny face pressed to her heart. A thread of life connecting them directly to Eywa's great web.
You stepped back slightly, allowing mother and child to grow comfortable with their bond. You wiped your forehead, wet with the sea water and your own sweat. You looked over at the other midwives, cleaning the afterbirth, offering natural broth to the mother. They were the backbone of the People, the keepers of continuity, the ones who carried the future in their palms.
Only now did everyone release a breath of ease, releasing the tension everyone had held in their lungs.
Aonung stepped to the very edge of the pool, kneeling low so his shadow fell gently across the water. His eyes, usually sharp with the confidence of a leader, were soft, almost vulnerable as they moved from the newborn to Kiyru, then finally to you.
He didn't speak at first. He simply watched, tail still, breathing measured. He leaned closer, just for you to hear. "All my life I've been taught to lead, to hunt, to protect." His fingers flexed once against the edge of the platform. "But this... what you've done here, what all of you have done, it's power I can never touch. Not like this."
You rose slowly from the water, droplets tracing glowing paths down your skin. Meeting his gaze, you saw the truth there. Not envy, but a deep, abiding respect.
"It isn't about touching it," you said quietly, stepping closer, water lapping at your hips. "It's about knowing when to stand back. When to let the women carry what only we can carry." Your hand lifted, brushing a stray curl behind your ear. "You protect the reef so we can nurture what lives within it. That is partnership. That is balance." You said, watching Kiyru and her new baby.
"Still," he murmured, "watching you command the tide itself... seeing Kiyru find her strength because of yours... it reminds me every day why I chose you. Why I'd choose you again, in every lifetime."
Kiyru rocked her daughter gently, whispering praises only meant for her. The clan lingered at the edges honoring the moment without intrusion.
"Labour," you whispered, carrying the weight of the day, of centuries of women before you, "is not just pain. It's creation. It's endurance. It's the quiet fury that brings life from the dark."
His hand found yours under the water's edge, fingers intertwining. "And you bear it beautifully," he replied. "Like the sea itself."
As the sun dipped lower, painting the lagoon in deepening amber and rose, the air filled with the gentle sounds of celebration. In that sacred circle of women, it bore new life at the very center.
Cam [ @highvern] and Em [ @gyuswhore] welcome you to the 2025 Formula One season! Handcrafted by Caratland's best writers, we're here to ask you to join us for the most riveting grid lineup the sport has ever seen. Catch all 26 destinations on our calendar, and all the drama that goes down in the paddocks with it, because soon it'll be Lights Out, and Away We Go!
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🏁 Race: Overtake by @sailorsoons
🏎️ Driver: Choi Seungcheol x f!reader
🛞 Race Stats: Seungcheol and your brother Joshua battle over everything - pole positions, championships, the title of Mercedes’ best driver. The one thing they were never supposed to fight over was you.
🏁 Paddock Pass
🏁 Race: all for one by @amourcheol
🏎️ Driver: Choi Seungcheol x f!reader
🛞 Race Stats: three-time world champion choi seungcheol races for greatness—even if it sacrifices red bull's constructor trophy. you, principal strategy engineer, cannot allow favouring the self-centred driver over the entire team. when a new red bull rookie threatens his position and certain rivals begin to tempt you, seungcheol must consider winning you over—a feat more difficult than a fourth championship.
Practice Session 🏁 Paddock Pass
🏁 Race: Off The Record by @soo0hee
🏎️ Driver: Yoon Jeonghan x reader
🛞 Race Stats: 3 seasons with sky sports. 3 seasons of navigating between drivers, the fia and stubborn team principals. 3 seasons and non had taken your breath the way 2025 had thus far. The reason? Yoon Jeonghan. Ferarris posterboy and the man haunting your gridwalks.
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🏁 Race: Revving for Love by @nerdycheol
🏎️ Driver: Yoon Jeonghan x f!reader
🛞 Race Stats: You didn’t expect the guy you swiped left on at the airport to show up at your new job — let alone be one of Formula 1’s top drivers. As the team’s new physiotherapist, you’re here to keep things professional — no distractions, especially not Jeonghan. Charming, smug, and all too aware you once swiped left on him. What starts as cooldowns and awkward stretches quickly turns into something messier. Jeonghan is flirty, unpredictable, and far too in sync with you — and despite your best efforts, he’s getting under your skin. And without you even noticing… the lines start to blur.
🏁 Paddock Pass
🏁 Race: Birdie by @aeristudios
🏎️ Driver: Joshua Hong x reader
🛞 Race Stats: It would be fate that you would be filming a documentary of the same F1 team as your former high school sweetheart: Joshua Hong, F1 golden boy. He still remembers you as Birdie— the one that flew away without saying goodbye. Now, years later, you have to look him in the eye as he recounts what his life has been like without you.
Practice Session 🏁 Paddock Pass
🏁 Race: build this dream together by @joshujin
🏎️ Driver: Joshua Hong x f!reader
🛞 Race Stats: As his race engineer, you’ve spent five amazing years guiding McLaren superstar, Joshua Hong, to victory after victory. But in that fifth year, you learn something horrifying about yourself: you’ve fallen in love with your driver. You’re not willing to let your heart get in the way of everything you’ve worked for, so you do the one thing you know is guaranteed to keep both of your careers safe: you leave.
Two years later, Joshua inadvertently comes crashing back into your life with an announcement that rocks the F1 world. Before you know it, you’re on his doorstep with an offer you know he won’t be able to refuse, ready to guide him back to where he needs to be—one last time.
Practice Session 🏁 Paddock Pass
🏁 Race: burn for the win by @mylovesstuffs
🏎️ Driver: Wen Junhui x f!reader
🛞 Race Stats: being the engineer who knows too much and the sister who’s had enough means standing at the eye of the storm while two men she cares about tear each other apart. jun’s pride could still cost him everything, and yet he refuses to fight to fix what’s broken; neither will minghao. she’s tired of the fallout, but no one listens. a crash was only the beginning. now, can anything bring them back?
Practice Session 🏁 Paddock Pass
🏁 Race: open channel by @sknyuz
🏎️ Driver: Wen Junhui x f!reader
🛞 Race Stats: open channel follows you: a young radio engineer who joins the haas f1 team as the apprentice to laura müller, the first female engineer in the paddock, now the chief engineer who has you under her wing—and as the unexpected successor to your own father, the long-time race engineer of haas’s most elusive driver: wen junhui.
junhui is cold to the media, clinical on the grid, and famously unreadable behind the visor. but when your voice cuts through the static, clear and steady, even he can’t help but lean in—though neither of you knows yet how deeply your pasts are tangled in the echoes of a long-ago memory on the track.
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🏁 Race: as seen on screen by @imnotshua
🏎️ Driver: Jeon Wonwoo x f!reader
🛞 Race Stats: Wonwoo doesn’t pay you any attention, not since you were both rookies - him on the track and you in the paddock. You’ve been at Ferrari for years, and now he’s joined the team you’re supposed to be working together, but it seems he still has that same stick up his ass whenever you have something to say.
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🏁 Race: behind the lens by @wheeboo
🏎️ Driver: Jeon Wonwoo x f!reader
🛞 Race Stats: Years ago, you and Jeon Wonwoo were inseparable. First loves, reckless hearts, and dreams too big to share—until it all fell apart. He chased after podiums; you stayed behind your lens. Five years later, you’re commissioned in the paddock as a global motorsport photographer for a behind-the-scenes shoot, and he’s back in the centre of your frame as F1’s quiet, unstoppable force. And for the first time in a long time, your photographs begin to feel real again. This time, will your frame capture an ending, or a second chance?
🏁 Paddock Pass
🏁 Race: playing with fire by @starlightkyeom
🏎️ Driver: Kwon Soonyoung x f!reader
🛞 Race Stats: soonyoung doesn't do relationships. or strings. or repeats all that often, honestly. he's one of the best drivers on the circuit and he doesn't need to. the one exception? you, his biggest rival's on-and-off partner. he's always your first call when your relationship is splashed across the headlines again and he never seems to care.
Practice Session 🏁 Paddock Pass
🏁 Race: heartbreak champion by @straylightdream
🏎️ Driver: Kwon Soonyoung x f!reader
🛞 Race Stats: After being together since you were fifteen, things hit a rough patch as your husband chases his goal of being world champion.
Practice Session 🏁 Paddock Pass
🏁 Race: Under Investigation by @diamonddaze01
🏎️ Driver: Lee Jihoon x f!reader
🛞 Race Stats: Lee Jihoon doesn’t break the rules. He bends them. Just enough to get away with it. Just enough to make your job harder, just enough to see if you’ll flinch. He’s testing the boundaries. And the worst part? You kind of want to see what happens if he crosses them.
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🏁 Race: heartbreaker by @sailorsoons
🏎️ Driver: Lee Jihoon x f!reader
🛞 Race Stats: Jihoon is suffering through a heartbreaker of a season with Ferrari. The car won’t cooperate, his teammate keeps outpacing him, and nothing seems to go right. Worst of all is what’s happening off the track. It seems racing is slipping through his fingers - and so are you.
Practice Session 🏁 Paddock Pass
🏁 Race: Burning Bridges by @bluehoodiewoozi
🏎️ Driver: Lee Seokmin x f!reader
🛞 Race Stats: When your fiancé chooses his Formula 1 career over you and makes it everyone’s problem, his teammate Seokmin is not about to just sit back and watch.
Practice Session 🏁 Paddock Pass
🏁 Race: red wine nights by @hannieoftheyear
🏎️ Driver: Lee Seokmin x f!reader
🛞 Race Stats: what's the worst time to hook up with your best friend and change your relationship forever? probably the night before he gets on a plane and flies far away to become a world famous star.
Practice Session 🏁 Paddock Pass
🏁 Race: Rumour by @gyuswhore
🏎️ Driver: Kim Mingyu x f!reader
🛞 Race Stats: It’s hard to dislike Mingyu, an acknowledgement he risks his modesty for. So when he approaches you with rose tinted glasses, clad in the team kit of his dreams, he’s ready to build a rapport of a lifetime with his brand new race engineer.
Until, the brakes screech loud enough for the entire paddock to hear.
It’s hard to dislike Mingyu, but you make it look easy.
Practice Session 🏁 Paddock Pass
🏁 Race: perfect strangers by @studioeisa
🏎️ Driver: Kim Mingyu x f!reader
🛞 Race Stats: for the first time in seven years, kim mingyu thinks he might actually have a shot at standing on the podium. he has a decent car, a good teammate, and... a girlfriend? after f1 tv erroneously tags a complete stranger as his 'partner', mingyu now has to reckon with being one half of the newest couple on the grid.
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🏁 Race: one track mind by @haologram
🏎️ Driver: Xu Minghao x f!reader
🛞 Race Stats: after years in the spotlight, you've learned one thing: how to get used to new environments, good and bad. despite the time and the friends you've made along the way, things never really change — and that includes the mentality that winning is the only option.
Practice Session 🏁 Paddock Pass
🏁 Race: victory lap by @minisugakoobies
🏎️ Driver: Xu Minghao x f!reader
🛞 Race Stats: minghao's just led his team to another championship - so why can't he enjoy it? he's jaded, having grown disillusioned with his life, and in desperate need of the familiar spark that’s driven him all these years. lucky for him, a chance encounter with the enemy of his rival will set his ignition ablaze with one wild ride.
🏁 Paddock Pass
🏁 Race: bae-watching by @shinysobi
🏎️ Driver: Boo Seungkwan x reader
🛞 Race Stats: boo seungkwan is over it, really. he's been on the sports circuit for years, but covering any f1 championship gets harder every time. on top of that, he's supposed to get a "fresh angle" on a game that has none-until he's staring down the barrel of history, when she appears right beside the ferrari chief engineer. he's looking at you, but you have stopped looking at him a decade ago.
🏁 Paddock Pass
🏁 Race: along the rubble or the dust by @heartepub
🏎️ Driver: Boo Seungkwan x f!reader
🛞 Race Stats: in the high-octane world of formula one, boo seungkwan has clawed his way up with a mix of charm, grit, skill, and pure luck. he knows, more than anyone else, how coincidence can be a turning point. when, in an improbable series of events, his childhood friend starts lurking in the paddock as his new performance engineer, he gets the distinct feeling that this is about to be one of them. even if (or especially because) he’d rather trust you with his life than with his heart.
🏁 Paddock Pass
🏁 Race: Podium Pleasers by @shadowkoo
🏎️ Driver: Chwe Hansol x f!reader
🛞 Race Stats: F1 driver Vernon is no stranger to stunning women whispering wicked things in his ear during race season, but no voice has stopped his heart quite like yours. The ‘missing’ younger sister of one of his oldest friends. The girl who disappeared two years ago without a word. And now, you’re on his lap with your bare breasts pressed against his chest. He’s horrified to learn that you’re working at an exclusive strip club, tangled in a complicated contract where sex appeal is currency, personal relationships are forbidden, and your freedom is nothing but a twisted illusion. He wants you out, but walking away from a fantasy life built on status and money isn’t that simple. So, in a last-ditch effort, he offers you something else. Something real. A fresh start on the circuit as his assistant, where you can rebuild your future, possibly even a future by his side.
Practice Session 🏁 Paddock Pass
🏁 Race: slow and steady by @haoboutyou
🏎️ Driver: Chwe Hansol x f!reader
🛞 Race Stats: Aston Martin— once a top class, championship winning team, has become riddled with bad press. What better way to cover it up than throwing your driver under the bus? In a not-so elaborate scheme, Vernon and rising star Y/n are entrapped in a dating scandal to cover up the company’s ass, subjecting them to the wrath of public scrutiny instead. Will the awkward dates and busy schedules make way for something more? Or will they let their relationship be dictated by greedy corporations?
🏁 Paddock Pass
🏁 Race: This Town by @wqnwoos
🏎️ Driver: Lee Chan x reader
🛞 Race Stats: Ten years ago, Lee Chan left your hometown without ever looking back. Now, after a crash that loses him the championship, he’s back and asking for your forgiveness — but you’re not sure if you’re ready to risk your best friend leaving you again.
🏁 Paddock Pass
🏁 Race: The Boundary Concept by @kkooongie
🏎️ Driver: Lee Chan x f!reader
🛞 Race Stats: Lee Chan didn't know which was worse: the fact that he still liked you since high school (despite shutting down completely whenever you were around) or the fact that you wanted to meet up with him... for a research paper. But hey, he was willing to take any crumbs as long as he got an opportunity to make you realise he was a super cool racer now. That is, assuming he didn't crash under the intense pressure. Or, in which, you never knew writing a paper on the boundary concept would make you question the boundaries between you and Chan.
teaser • series masterlist • part one • part two
🔞 18+, minors DNI 🚨 minors and blank blogs will be blocked
🏎️💨 Brought to you by @camandemstudios' Lights Out Collab
As his race engineer, you’ve spent five amazing years guiding McLaren superstar, Joshua Hong, to victory after victory. But in that fifth year, you learn something horrifying about yourself: you’ve fallen in love with your driver. You’re not willing to let your heart get in the way of everything you’ve worked for, so you do the one thing you know is guaranteed to keep both of your careers safe: you leave.
Two years later, Joshua inadvertently comes crashing back into your life with an announcement that rocks the F1 world. Before you know it, you’re on his doorstep with an offer you know he won’t be able to refuse, ready to guide him back to where he needs to be—one last time.
♫ Nothing's Gonna Stop Us Now Starship
F1 GLOSSARY FOR THIS FIC
PAIRING: f1 driver!joshua x race engineer!reader
WC: 31.5k / 93.9k (complete)
TAGS: fem!reader, flashbacks, reader faces the typical misogyny you would expect in a male-dominated sport, descriptions of a crash during a race but no one gets hurt, nauseating levels of girl power, side characters portrayed by other idols (katseye, le sserafim, twice, and bts)
SMUT TAGS: as always, i will mark the beginning and end of all smut scenes, unprotected piv, sex on the hood of a car, workplace sex, fully clothed sex bc there’s something very sexy to me about needing someone so bad you can’t even be bothered to get naked, will add more when we come to it
A/N: so as you'll probably find out very fast... i know nothing about f1 LMAO. if i think too hard about it, i really had no business joining this collab, but i have zero regrets bc i had soooo much fun writing it. it was one of those fics that kinda just wrote itself (ofc except when i would spend an ungodly amount of time reading about cars and """TyREs""", boys who go vroom vroom, engineering, etc.). so if i say something super wrong (f1 academy excluded bc i really decided to do whatever tf i wanted with that one LOL), just ignore it pls hahaha. i hope you enjoy it as much as i liked writing it! please be sure to check out all the amazing work in the collab!
A FEW VERY IMPORTANT THANKS: thank you to our "stewards," who very patiently answered many of my Qs throughout this process haha, esp @sailorsoons, @studioeisa, @100vern, @amourcheol, and @diamonddaze01! thank you to ALL the writers for creating such a FUN and safe space. it really made this the most ideal first collab experience—an esp big thank you to @hannieoftheyear, @mylovesstuffs, @haologram, @aeristudios, @soo0hee, and @kkooongie. AND THE BIGGEST THANK YOU TO CAM @highvern AND EM @gyuswhore FOR 1. HOSTING THIS 2. INVITING ME 3. GIVING ME A LITTLE HOME IN A COMMUNITY THAT OFTEN OVERWHELMS ME. doing the lord's work. ok enough yapping. let's get into it hehe <3
ABU DHABI GRAND PRIX 2023
"I can't believe this... I can't fucking believe this."
Joshua’s voice comes through the radio so soft, it’s barely audible over the roar of his engine. Your instinct is to keep your eyes on the screen, confirm that your driver’s tires are fine, fuel levels okay, no other car on his ass. But it’s useless because Joshua is seconds from the finish line with no chance for anyone else to take it and no time penalties to serve.
“Believe it, Shua,” you say into your mic as you swivel your chair around and away from your monitor. Your eyes immediately find the signature papaya orange MCL60 approaching the checkered flag like a bullet. “You did it.”
The words are bittersweet, and if this had been last season, you would’ve been jumping up and down with the rest of the team, screaming into Joshua’s earpiece and losing your goddamn mind. Today, though, you stay glued to your seat. Even when the wind of Joshua crossing the finish line right before your eyes whips at your face, even when the world explodes around you in a vivacious spray of confetti and champagne, even when Joshua Hong becomes a two-time F1 world champion—you stay seated.
“We did it,” he corrects, sounding as calm as you feel. You wonder if you sound it, though—if you sound lonely too, because you are. “And that’s not what I can’t believe.”
You watch as his car starts to slow across the track. “Oh yeah? Always knew you were going to bag another title, did you?” you joke. He doesn’t laugh. You clear your throat and sigh, knowing you’ve been skirting around the devastation of this all. “What can’t you believe, Shua?”
Silence. His car feels impossibly far from you even though it’s only been seconds. You think the irony is cruel. You wait a few more moments for his response, and when you receive none, you assume he’s already disconnected from the radio. Just before you take your headset off, he answers you. “I can’t believe that you’re really leaving me.”
Your stomach twists painfully. He makes his way back, pulling into the pit lane, where he parks next to the first place sign meant for him. Immediately, staff members are already swarming the car—some to tend to the car, some to offer him water, some to scream and cry and congratulate. But still, he stays inside his vehicle, and he stays connected to you. There are a multitude of things you want to tell him.
You want to tell him you aren’t leaving him because you want to; you’re sparing both of your careers from the scrutiny that would inevitably come if you stayed. You want to tell him he’s currently the best driver on the grid. Your absence isn’t going to change that, especially when he’s so seasoned, that most of what you do now is just play music for him and inform him how many seconds he has until he reaches the next car. You want to tell him this is the right thing to do, no matter how horrible it feels.
Above all, you just want to tell him you love him—that although you only found out a few months ago, you think you fell in love with him the moment you both turned your radios on the first time you raced together—and that’s why you have to go. That’s why you can’t be his race engineer a second longer. In the end, “I can’t either” is what you settle on. I’m so sorry rings loudly in your head but never leaves your mouth.
“So this is it, huh?” His breath comes out shaky and you know him well enough to know it’s not from the adrenaline of winning another world title.
“This is it,” you confirm, a knot forming in your throat.
“It was a good run, L/N.” You think you hear a knot in his too.
“The best run, Hong.” You can’t help your voice from cracking when you add: “The best of my life.”
“Mine too,” he says with no hesitation, though his voice sounds watery now. You feel your heart break.
“Shua,” you croak.
“Hm?”
“Thank you. For the past five years, for genuinely believing I could get you here, for… being my… my friend.” The word hurts you in unimaginable ways. “The best friend. Thanks.”
“You don’t need to thank me. It was easy,” he responds. “You made everything easy—all of it. I should thank you… you… you make this sport worthwhile.” You press your lips together to keep from breaking out into uncontrollable sobs, nodding to yourself as you try to wrap your mind around this being your last real moment with Joshua. He sighs deeply, another brief silence engulfing the two of you before he speaks again. “I’ll see you out there?”
You hum because you can’t bring yourself to tell him he won’t. As you take your headphones off, the first of your tears fall and you let them; it’s the one time you can without being judged for being too emotional or too feminine. Every grown man on Team McLaren is bawling right now, anyway. You slide off your seat and watch from the pit wall as Joshua exits his vehicle a few moments later and waves at the deafening crowd. For five years, you’ve guided Joshua through every F1 track in the world, you weathered countless storms—literal and figurative—together, and you’ve made him a world champion twice.
But for almost ten years, since the time you started as a low-ranking mechanic at McLaren, you also endured misogynistic slights from the more old-school members of your team, comments that it doesn’t take much to do your job when Joshua Hong is the driver, and teasing that you were only in this to snag a rich husband off the grid. You persevered. You clawed your way up the ranks. You earned the respect you wanted so badly, and as much as you want to say fuck it and just stay, you can’t. Because being around Joshua when you’re knowingly in love with him feels impossible. And if you can’t hide it, then you’ll have to say it. And if you say it, your career will be over, and you can’t let it be tarnished now—not when it’s at its peak. Not when Joshua is at his either. Loving him will ruin everything you worked for. Loving him will not only cut you at the knees, but every woman after you who vies for this position. And it’s not going to happen.
Joshua doesn’t see you out there. You leave long before he even gets off the track and long before his time is freed up post photo ops and interviews. You can’t stay and confront the betrayal that’s been dancing in his eyes for weeks, even though he swore up and down that he was happy you found something new and exciting. You can’t let him wrap his arms around you one last time while he whispers heartfelt thank yous for an amazing season—an amazing five seasons—into your ear, confetti raining down and champagne soaking the both of you through to your bones. You can’t do any of it because if you do, you’ll lose your nerve and you’ll stay.
And you can’t. You have a flight to catch and the best F1 driver in the world to forget about.
Abu Dhabi two years ago was the last time you saw or heard from Joshua. A small part of you hoped he would reach out, but you knew that was a selfish thing to want; after all, you were the one that ran off without a proper goodbye after a five-year career together. Still, there were a lot of days you looked at your phone and wished he would send one of his silly memes or just ask how the job was going. Conversely, though, you never texted either. Not when he bombed his very next season, and not when he lost this season’s title by a hair. But now… now feels like as good a time as any to text.
The computer lab is in an uproar as your current class of female drivers stop what they’re doing to leap out of their seats and crowd around the massive flat screen television mounted on the back wall, gaping at it. You gape from your desk at the front of the classroom.
“Whoa, didn’t you work with him, Mickie?” For McLaren—a nickname that kind of irritated you at first but have grown accustomed to.
“She was his race engineer!”
“He’s crazy!”
Saki, who had been at your desk to ask a question when you noticed Joshua on the TV and immediately unmuted it, speaks softly—surely not meant to be heard amongst the other girls’ shouting. “He did seem tired.”
You tear your eyes off Joshua to frown at the student. You’re unsure if she was talking to you or to herself, but the observation shakes you to your core anyway. You would never admit it, but you watched every single race of his since you left. Before this, you don’t know that you would describe him as tired, but now, you’re not sure if you managed to miss something your student saw. You choose not to respond, finding your way back to your ex-driver’s face.
“There’s no way he’s serious! Is he serious?”
“Why wouldn’t he be serious? His career has been tanking.”
“Yeah, maybe it’s because his race engineers haven’t been as good as Mick.”
“Maybe it’s time to get ahead of it and just retire while people still like him.”
“Shut up, Sophia!”
“Don’t talk to each other like that,” you mumble half-heartedly, too distracted by the TV to really reinforce the reprimand.
“He’s a legend! He had one bad season—”
“Two,” someone says.
“Well, that’s not fair, he did pretty well this season.”
“—and now no one will give him a break.”
“Girl. He’s giving himself a break,” another voice chimes in.
“Anything other than first place is for losers.”
“This isn’t a break, this is career suici—”
“Okay!” a voice cuts sharply into the noise. You don’t flinch the way the girls do, eyes glued to the screen as Joshua patiently answers questions. The unmistakable clacking of the CEO’s heels striking the floor have all the girls straightening their posture. “Crazy news, I know.”
The TV turns off and you fight the urge to whine alongside the girls. You turn to look at Park Jihyo, who puts the remote back down on the edge of your desk where she found it.
“I know you’re all excited to be here together, but the season starts in just three months, and we’re hitting the ground running,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest and looking every driver in the eye. “And you aren’t going to let news about the millionth man in F1 derail your chances at getting into a major team, now are you, ladies?”
There’s a chorus of nos as Jihyo nods once and claps her hands before making a shooing motion.
“Good. Because there’s no room for distractions when you’re a woman,” she reminds them. It’s something you’ve heard nonstop since coming to F1 Academy as a technical executive and instructor. Most of the time, you felt like it was being drilled into your head, not the girls’. “Now get back to working on… whatever engineering thing Y/N has you working on.” You snort. “You’re due at the gym for cardiovascular training in two hours and I don’t want to hear that a single one of you was late, understood?”
“Understood!” a bunch of girls chirp as they hurriedly turn back to their respective computers. You sigh, ready to get back to guiding and teaching them, when Jihyo steps into your path. She smiles mischievously.
“What…?” you ask slowly, subconsciously slinking away from her as she leans forward.
“Got a minute?”
You want to say no, but as close as you personally are to Jihyo, she’s still your boss and you refuse to show her any sort of disrespect in front of the students, whether or not it’s a joke.
“Sure,” you say, nodding for her to enter your office ahead of you before turning back to the girls. “Listen up. You feel something off in your steering—slight pull to the right, but there’s no warning on the dash. You’re in the points with 10 laps to go. Give me a few minutes with CEO Park and when I’m back, I want to hear what you’re telling your engineer and what your game plan is.”
The girls don’t bother responding, immediately turning back to their notebooks or computers and parsing out their thoughts. You follow Jihyo into the office attached to your classroom, closing the door behind you. She takes the seat at your desk across from your own, obviously expecting you to sit there. Instead, you plop onto the couch face down, making your boss roll her eyes at you.
“So,” she starts slowly and awkwardly, “how are you feeling…?”
You stare at her blankly, cheek pressed into the fabric of the sofa. “Fine?”
“Pfft.” She kicks her heels off before she sinks lower in her seat, making herself just as comfortable as you. “Joshua Hong just announced a sabbatical and you’re ‘fine’?”
The words are surreal. You just watched a news broadcast of his announcement and the subsequent press conference, and still, your brain wants to convince you Jihyo is lying. The sabbatical is one thing—that was becoming a more normalized event in the sport as drivers started to focus on their families and their mental health. But Joshua’s own words during the interview was another.
Joshua, what does this sabbatical mean for your career? Do you plan on returning to to the track?
I’m not sure at the moment what it means. Maybe it’s time for me to rest and get my head back in the game for next season. Maybe it’s the beginning of an early retirement. I don’t know. I just know it’s needed and I’m grateful McLaren is working with me to make it happen.
No hesitation. The words “early retirement” really came out of Joshua “I’m Going to Be Buried in an MCL60” Hong’s stupid, pretty mouth. You never thought you’d see the day.
“Why would Joshua Hong’s career decisions affect me?” you ask stubbornly, knowing you’re being purposefully daft. “We don’t work together anymore.” You throw a hand up to gesture lazily at your office. “Obviously. You poached me.”
Jihyo lets out a single bark of laughter. “HA! Poached! That’s funny considering you had your foot halfway out of McLaren when I reached out to you. Why was that again?” she asks with fake forgetfulness. “Oh, right! You fell in love with your driver.”
“Every day I regret telling you anything about myself.”
“You didn’t tell me. Drunk you did.”
You wave your hand at her in a silent “whatever.”
“Well, if you’re so ‘fine,’ I have a favor to ask of you.”
“Okay?” you sigh, feeling very much like the teenage girls outside of your office right now. It’s crazy what a man can do to your mood even two years after completely abandoning him. “You need me to look over more designs for this season?”
Jihyo scoffs like she’s about to say no before stopping herself. “Actually, yes, I do, but that’s not what my favor is. Especially because that’s not a favor, that’s your job.” You try not to laugh. “I need you to poach someone for me.”
You immediately tense. She doesn’t continue, letting the words really sink in. You scramble up onto your knees from where you were sprawled across the couch. “What the hell are you saying right now?”
“I’m saying that the best driver on the grid is on sabbatical a measly 2-hour flight from here, for who knows how long, and these girls could benefit from learning from the best of the absolute fucking best.”
“Joshua wants to rest,” you immediately argue. “And frankly, he needs it! The man has been behind some kind of wheel for an ungodly amount of years!”
“And you don’t think going from his schedule at McLaren to a schedule teaching girls here won’t be a significant change of pace for him?” she asks incredulously. “Please! Tell me that the transition didn’t feel like a full-on retirement, even for you.”
Jihyo isn’t wrong. Being a race engineer was deceptively tiring. A lot of people reduced it to sitting at a monitor for two hours, but your days were long and grueling and a lot more demanding than just race days. You were involved in what felt like countless hours of engineering debriefs, research and development, spreadsheets (god, the spreadsheets), and not to mention, Joshua made you somewhat of his personal therapist, begging you to follow him around the facility when he was in for practice sessions or training. If you stood your ground and refused, you’d find him following you around. Not to mention the traveling. Or the actual race days.
Coming to F1 Academy was a breath of fresh air. Sure, you came feeling like the wind had been knocked out of you, but that had more to do with leaving Joshua than anything else. F1 Academy slowed life down for you. The schedule wasn’t completely less forgiving; you were still on a race schedule, but instead of traveling to 21 different countries and having 24 different races over the course of nine months, you only had to attend 7 races in 6 different countries in roughly the same amount of time. On top of that, you weren’t a superstar driver’s race engineer. You weren’t anybody’s engineer; all you had to do was supervise and step in if someone was struggling with a student driver. Compared to F1, it practically felt like vacation. And even more than that, it felt meaningful, cultivating the careers of aspiring female drivers and giving them a path into a male-dominated sport. You know better than anyone else that Joshua would absolutely love it.
“I think this would be good for Hong, and I think this would be good for you,” she tells you.
You try not to balk at her. “Do you hear yourself? You think it would be good for your technical executive and head engineering instructor to work with the man she left her last position for? You said it yourself! I was in love with him!” You ignore the way Jihyo very obviously tries to keep from rolling her eyes at your use of the word “was.”
“You can deny it all you want but I know there is something very… unresolved there,” she says, lip curling in mock disgust at the sheer thought of emotions. “And even if it’s not romantic—”
“What do you mean?!” you laugh incredulously. “It should not be romantic if we’re going to be working here together! You should actually be discouraging that as my boss.”
“Pfft,” she waves a hand. “I’m not in HR. That is not my job. If I want to ship two of my employees—”
“He’s not even an employee yet.”
“—then I will ship two of my employees.”
“You are so ridiculous.”
“Besides, you didn’t even let me finish,” she pouts at you. You nod in defeat and let her continue. “Like I was saying, even if it’s not romantic—and I’ll proudly be the first to admit I hope it’s romantic!” she says the disclaimer quickly and in one breath, “I’d still love to see you fix your friendship with him. I know it mattered a lot to both of you.”
Your relationship to Jihyo changed overnight. One day, she was your funny, albeit intimidating boss, and then with the help of several bottles of soju and an Academy staff karaoke night, she was suddenly visiting your office at least twice a day, you were constantly hanging out outside of work, and you knew everything about each other. Including how much you cherished Joshua, not as someone you were in love with, but as a human being you loved, period.
“But I won’t pretend this is selfless,” she sighs. “We’re three seasons into the Academy, going on four, and we have yet to see any of our graduates enter F1.” You fidget uncomfortably. It’s a stress point for the entire organization and something you’re reminded of in what feels like every meeting. “I don’t need to remind you what little time we have to prove this program a success.”
Three more seasons after this next one.
When the program was conceived, F1 agreed to see what the Academy could achieve in seven seasons. They wanted at least two female drivers in F1 by then, but the stretch goal was to have the winning graduate from every season on a team, even as reserve drivers. That didn’t happen, but they could still get two girls in there; it would just mean having to do it very, very soon.
“No…” you shake your head. “You don’t need to remind me.”
You sit on your couch properly and stare at Jihyo, who refuses to continue speaking. She’s letting you stew in your thoughts, well aware your overactive brain will be better at convincing you than she ever will.
Finally, you groan. She doesn’t even have the decency to wait for you to agree that Joshua is the best answer before she’s clapping excitedly. She’s infuriating but she’s right. It would be mutually beneficial; the girls would inherit a wealth of knowledge from a driver like him, and he would see what you get to every day: how easy it is to make a difference when your life isn’t solely on the track. And you don’t know why he’s taken this break, but you have a nagging feeling that’s exactly what he needs.
“Okay, okay, relax,” you huff, rolling your eyes. “How do we even do this? McLaren would’ve had him sign an ironclad agreement that guarantees his return to the team from sabbatical… unless he decides to retire.” You feel your stomach lurch at the idea.
Jihyo waves a hand like the legalities of Joshua’s employment don’t matter to her. “You don’t worry your beautiful, little head about that. While you were all busy screaming at the TV like banshees, I was already on the phone convincing the big guy to let us at him.”
“You asked the CEO of McLaren? And he agreed to you stealing Joshua during his sabbatical…?”
It doesn’t sound anything like the staunch businessman you came to know over the decade you spent at his organization. He was nice enough, but he was also incredibly greedy—in all the ways that rich men always are. But there was nothing he was greedier about than talent. When he liked a driver—and more importantly, when a driver delivered wins, and therefore money—he kept him forever. Even if that meant convoluted contracts with tricky fine prints. You doubt that has changed.
“No,” she says, smirking and looking incredibly pleased with herself, “I did not ask. I bartered. I already had a leg up since that tangerine orange eyesore of a company of yours is our biggest proponent.”
“Papaya.”
“Whatever.” If McLaren’s CEO’s greed was good for one thing, it was that he wanted the best of the best, and that absolutely included women. As such, he’s been the only CEO very enthusiastically circling the Academy looking for his next star. “I told him if he gave me Hong during his sabbatical, he could have first pick from our litter of talented ladies during any one season he’s interested in,” Jihyo informs you.
You stare blankly at her. “Like the NBA draft…?”
“Girl, I only know cars. I don’t know what that means.”
“Right,” you nod, opting to move on instead of explain. “What if that girl doesn’t want to sign with McLaren?”
Jihyo scoffs. “Then she doesn’t sign with McLaren! I’m not the devil, Y/N; I’m not selling souls here. I’m just giving him the first chance to meet and talk to a driver of his choice before any of the other neanderthals. Convincing her he’s good enough to sign with him is all on him.”
You hum in understanding. “Okay, so why can’t he just tell Joshua himself?”
“So that’s my hiccup,” she groans. “He said he’s all ours if he says yes, but he seems convinced that this is the last thing Hong would want to do.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Okay… well then, he doesn’t know him at all. This is the exact kind of thing he’d want to do.” You know because he invited you to enough non-profit events he supported in the off season to volunteer with him, join him on a panel about F1, or just show face. This is exactly up his alley.
Jihyo shrugs. “He says, ‘The boy has lost his spark,’” she imitates him in an exaggeratedly deep and hoarse voice. “Even if that’s true, I have the perfect person to give him that spark right back!” She grins widely, blinking her eyes rapidly at you.
“Your faith in me is astronomical.”
“No, your doubt in yourself is astronomical,” she corrects, rolling her eyes. “I’m willing to bet $100,000 that even two years after quitting each other cold turkey, Joshua Hong is still willing to bend over backwards for you.”
You wince at the wording. You don’t like the idea that you quit him because it wasn’t like that. You quit the chance to stay in love with him.
“He has never bent over backwards for me.” In fact, you’d argue the roles were reversed. It was kind of in your job description as his race engineer: bend over backwards to make sure your driver becomes a renowned champion.
“Oh, Y/N,” she sighs, smiling softly. “My naive child.” You glare. “No bet?” she asks innocently before shrugging. “Okay, smart move for you, honestly. You would’ve been out a pretty penny.” She starts slipping her feet back into her heels, obviously ready to go off to whatever her next endeavor is. Probably plotting what other ways she can complicate your life. “Look,” she sighs, slapping her hands against her lap when she finishes putting her shoes on, “if he doesn’t want to do it, then he doesn’t want to do it and I’ll just have to take no for an answer. It would suck because I’d still have to hold up my end of the bargain with McLaren either way, but we obviously can’t force the guy to do anything. It would just be a nice plus for not only the girls, but for you. I know it.”
You don’t bother trying to deny it, not because you agree; you actually vehemently disagree, and you have the evidence to prove it would not be good for you.
Exhibit A: in the months following your realization you were in love with Joshua Hong, you were a nauseating mix of absolutely miserable and absolutely thrilled any time you were with him (almost all the time). It was exhausting and it sucked the life out of you.
Exhibit B: you were always distracted. Maybe never during a race because your only focus was making sure your driver won and that he won safely. But every other moment of the day, you were thinking about Joshua, talking to Joshua, listening to Joshua, trying not to scream while Joshua followed you around everywhere, watching Joshua, averting your eyes when Joshua looked up, talking to Wonwoo about Joshua, studying Joshua’s stats, debriefing Joshua’s last race, wondering if you’d see Joshua, daydreaming about Joshua, getting hopelessly lovesick over Joshua—Joshua, Joshua, Joshua!!!
None of that can be good for you.
You don’t deny that it would be good for you because you agree with her; you just don’t have the energy to confront the questions that would require denying it. The main question being: would any of that even be a problem if you’re not in love with him anymore? Because wasn’t that the point of leaving McLaren? To stop being in love? And if you’re not in love with him anymore, then why are you so worried about having to be in his proximity?
You take a deep breath as Jihyo stands. “When do I go?” you ask, looking up at her as she walks to the door of your office. She looks back at you and smiles.
“I have the company plane ready for you at Heathrow. Wheels up in an hour.” Your mouth drops in shock. She turns to leave before seeming to remember something. “Oh, and your sub is standing in the hall ready to take over for the girls.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“Wrong. I’m efficient.”
SPANISH GRAND PRIX 2023
“I can’t lose again, Y/N. Not this one.”
“You’re not going to. I won’t let you.”
There was something about racing Spain that made Joshua more on edge than any other race—more than Abu Dhabi, even. He was typically a cool and level-headed driver; he never cursed, never told you to shut up the way other drivers told their engineers to, and he always took your advice seriously, never steamrolling your suggestions, at least not without some semblance of a discussion first.
He was good at tamping down his hunger for the podium; it’s what made him an outstanding driver. But every time he set foot in Circuit de Barcelona-Catalunya, he became voracious. It started your second year with him, and you’re not sure why. He usually had a healthy enough lead in points by the time they got to Barcelona that winning wasn’t as high stakes as he made it feel. On top of that, it wasn’t even the native Angeleno’s home track, at least not technically. His third year in F1, he picked everything up and moved to Barcelona. When he told you he planned to, you just gawked at him.
“You’re moving for a circuit?”
“I’m moving for my favorite circuit,” he said cheekily.
You couldn’t blame him. Racers did more extreme things for less. This is his favorite track, and in the five years you’ve worked together, he’s only lost it once—last year. And since then, his intensity over it has been cranked up, and if he loses again this year, you know you’ll never hear the end of it. You’ll also never sleep again because at this point, Joshua and you feel like one. If he loses this, it’s a massive loss for you too. You want this for him just as badly.
“So then let me do something!” he shouts, voice laced with frustration you aren’t used to but also aren’t fazed by. This is your job, calming your driver down enough to make him see what you do. Right now, you see a clear way to first. “He’s killing my race!” he yells. “Let me send it! I can take him.”
A few of the guys on the pit wall throw incredulous looks at you upon hearing the transmission, and you know it’s because they have no idea why the driver with the most points on the grid right now is asking a woman permission for anything.
“You send it now and clip a wing, the weekend is over, Shua,” you remind him, voice even. “You’re better, you’re faster, and you’re smarter.” You run over the numbers on your monitor. “There’s a way in. We’re going to take P3 in the next few and we’re going to do it in a way that keeps the spot. I need you to trust me.”
He says your name with thinning patience. “I’m not sitting behind this fucker for even one more lap, do you understand the words coming out of my mouth?”
You clench your jaw to bite back the remark on the tip of your tongue just as the head engineer freezes beside you, side-eyeing you to gauge your reaction. You don’t bother holding back your glare when you turn to your boss, muting your mic and letting him have your irritation instead of Joshua. “And what are you looking at, Jeon?”
“Literally just the monitor,” Wonwoo mumbles, making a show of leaning far too forward for someone with glasses on and watching it intently. You’re lucky your boss has also become your friend or you’re sure you would’ve been thrown right off the wall.
You take a deep breath before you unmute. “I get it, Shua, I promise I do,” you soothe him. “I want you to win just as badly. I’m right here with you. A loss for you is a loss for me too. But right now, winning means you’re going to have to trust me and listen to me. It’s been five years and I have never led you astray. I would literally lay down and die before I do something that’s not in your best interest. Do you understand?”
There’s a beat of silence as his car erratically swerves again, Ferrari defending aggressively enough to warrant a time penalty if, god forbid, Joshua did attempt an overtake and ended up running off the track. “Copy,” he finally says. You release a breath.
“Plan 2 minus 1 confirmed,” you announce to the team radio, praying to whatever god is listening that Ferrari’s pit wall is tuned into and eavesdropping on your channel. “Be patient with me, Shua,” you add, already beginning to sell your bluff. “We’ll get him after, okay?”
“I’m trusting you.”
Everyone’s eyes slide to you as you point at the pit crew and nod. They jump into action, bringing out the lollipop, jack, tires, fuel, and everything else they need for a pit stop. Except Joshua’s not taking a pit stop but no one needs to know that.
“Think they’re watching?” you mutter to Wonwoo, who’s the only one who knows about the silly name you and Joshua gave this plan. You were both bored on a rare, uneventful day and thinking up random race scenarios in the head engineer’s garage when it was born.
Wonwoo doesn’t even turn to look at the other team’s pit wall. “Oh yeah,” he says, leaning back and smirking. “Trust me, they’re watching.”
“You can’t fucking pit him right now,” a strategist suddenly stands from his seat and shouts at you from down the row. “It’s too early to pit and he’ll get caught behind the cars in the lane right now! You’re going to screw him over!”
“Sit your fucking ass down,” Wonwoo cuts in, glaring at him. “You’ll talk to Joshua Hong’s race engineer with some fucking respect or you’re off the wall.” You feel your face warm a bit at being called Joshua Hong’s anything. “We’re a team! You should be embarrassed letting anyone else see you yell at a teammate like that.”
The strategist turns a furious shade of red before sitting back down, not bothering to apologize.
“It’s okay,” you mutter under your breath so no one aside from Wonwoo can hear. “Makes it more believable.” He scoffs but doesn’t respond. “Box this lap, Shua,” you say clearly into your mic, completely ignoring the other men on the wall.
“Fucking ridiculous,” you hear the strategist mumble, a few others agreeing with him. Really, the only people who have any trust in you are Joshua and Wonwoo, and they’re the only ones that count for anything anyway.
“Are you sure?” your driver asks, but his voice lacks any of the frustration it had just a moment ago. You want to call him a bad actor but you know to anyone else who doesn’t know him as intimately, it passes well enough as doubt. “It’s too early. My tires can hang on.”
“Positive. Box this lap. We’re undercutting him and taking P3 on the next one.”
Wonwoo swivels in his chair to watch the track, subtly side-eyeing the other walls for a brief moment before averting his eyes. “Ferrari’s taking the bait. Their pit is setting up. How do you even know they’ll defend the undercut?”
You watch unblinkingly as the two drivers get closer to the pit lane. “Joshua’s been on his ass for the last 7 laps without letting up. That’s gotta do something to a driver’s nerves. Even if P3 can go a few more without swapping tires, I’m banking on Ferrari being nervous enough to defend anything they think Joshua is doing just for the sake of it.”
Wonwoo whistles and says something you don’t register because the cars are arriving. And they’re doing exactly what you hoped they would. You watch as the Ferrari driver ahead of McLaren defends an undercut that Joshua won’t be taking. He pulls into the pit lane to take the early stop he didn’t even need and you just baited him into, effectively stuck behind the cars the strategist was so worried about.
Wonwoo grins as you shake a silent fist in the air, trying to refrain from shouting a FUCK YEAH into the team channel.
“You with me, Shua?” your voice borders on shouting as you stand from excitement.
“Oh, I’m with you, baby!” Joshua whoops and laughs as he starts pushing, his speed reaching upwards of 205 mph now.
You look over your shoulder just as the Ferrari pit wall watches Joshua completely blow past the pit lane, some looking absolutely baffled, most glaring over at you and your retreating pit crew, realizing immediately it was a fake out. You refrain from waving and turn back to the monitor instead.
“You sneaky, sneaky girl,” Joshua breathes between laughter.
You smirk, noticing the mouthy strategist’s head is now conveniently buried in his work. “Glad you remembered 2 minus 1.” You note you’ll have to change the name of the plan now. “Push hard. Gap to P2 is 0.6. P1, 1 second.”
“You want me attacking?”
You look at the strategist directly to Wonwoo’s right. He nods. “Both P2 and 1 are on old rubber,” he informs you. “They’ll both have to box soon… and it’ll be the fourth pit stop for both of them.”
“The fourth?!” you ask incredulously.
You’re on lap 40 out of 66. The circuit has some of the roughest turns in F1 and is known to eat at tires faster than any other, so it’s common for drivers to take three, sometimes four stops total at the Spanish Grand Prix. The fact that the drivers are already going on their fourth with more than a quarter of the race to go tells you they’re maxing their laps too hard, and if they keep it up, they’ll be pushing five pit stops.
“That leaves more than enough laps for them to wear their tires out again and box a fifth time before the race is even over.”
“That’s only if they continue driving the way they have been,” another strategist notes. You point at him and nod.
“Yes. And we can bet that they will because when we get Joshua to P1, they’ll be panicking and driving even more recklessly than they already are, and they’ll be forced to box.” No one has an argument for that. “So we run Joshua for several more laps until we can’t anymore, and he’ll only need to box that one time before he takes the win.”
You look to the performance engineer for confirmation and he gives you a thumbs up. “He’s good to wait. That works. He goes once, the other two go two more times; they won’t be able to catch up.”
The strategist tilts his head and winces a little. “But you do have Kim Mingyu in P1, so all bets are off.”
You heave an irritated sigh. The Red Bull driver is known for being reckless and risky in the name of winning. You wouldn’t put it past him to forego a pit stop entirely even if a blown tire—or worse—was likely. But like you said, Joshua is better, faster, and smarter. He trusted you to get him to P3; it’s time for you to return the favor.
“Shua,” you say, sitting back in your seat as you watch the feed. “P2 is staying center but leaving room on the outside going into turns.”
He hears the order you don’t give loud and clear. “Easy enough,” he huffs, breathing hard.
You watch as he takes the information you’ve given him and uses it to easily overtake Kim Mingyu’s teammate, going wide on the turn and pulling ahead. You look over at the Red Bull pit wall, and when you watch multiple strategists throw their hands in the air or grab fistfuls of their own hair, you can’t help but smile. The smile just grows wider when you hear Joshua’s adrenaline-fueled shouting in your ear.
“Woo!” he yells as he guns it toward Mingyu. “That’s what I’m talking about! This is my track!”
You roll your eyes but laugh all the same. “P1 is due for a pit stop any lap now,” you inform him, shaking your head at his antics. “Leave him some space and keep it steady.”
If it were anyone else, you’d let him try and take it, but with Mingyu’s track record of causing accidents with his uncompromising—and usually illegal—defense, you’re not going to risk Joshua’s safety for a few seconds on Red Bull.
“You got it,” he agrees without challenge, easing up on the accelerator.
You review numbers with the strategists in the meantime, Joshua’s entire team keeping track of Red Bull’s channel for whenever they decide to box Mingyu. After a few moments, his voice comes through your headset again.
“Hey, Y/N.”
You hum distractedly as a strategist runs numbers on your own monitor. “What is it?” you ask when he doesn’t respond.
“Sorry, by the way.”
You frown, holding a finger up to the strategist, who immediately returns to his seat. “For what?”
“Losing my cool with you.”
“Pfft,” you laugh. “That was you losing your cool?”
From the way he speaks, you know he’s smiling. “Yeah… what, was it not mean enough for you?”
“Hardly,” you snicker. “Mildly annoying but not mean.”
“Well, I’m sorry anyway,” he says, grunting a little from the force of taking a turn. “You’re right. Five years in and you still haven’t let me down.”
You nod to yourself, a funny feeling settling at the bottom of your stomach. You wanted to please Joshua from the start; it was the opportunity of a lifetime being a race engineer for such a prolific team, and you were determined to do a damn good job at it, regardless of who your driver was—better than any man they could’ve and wanted to put in your place. But then you met your rookie, and he was kind and trusting and so receptive to your ideas and strategies, and most importantly of all, he never ever doubted you just because you were a woman. Your ambition multiplied tenfold after meeting him, and you really didn’t think that was possible. He just made it so easy to want to do anything to ensure his victory. He didn’t cringe at being the only driver in McLaren history with a female engineer; it was a fact he was proud of, and a fact he brought up at every single post-race interview without fail.
“Y/N is the brains behind the wheel. I’m just the guy that follows directions.”
“I don’t know, you should ask Y/N. She knows better than I do, honestly. I’m not sure why she doesn’t join me on these things.”
“I couldn’t have done this without my race engineer. She’s the best of the best and I’m lucky to have a woman like her on my team.”
His advocacy of you actually made you a regularly viral topic on F1 forums and broadcasts and had invites to interviews consistently coming in, so of all the drivers you could’ve been dropped into the lap of, you’re endlessly grateful it was Joshua’s. You don’t care that they only gave you to him because he was a rookie and they had reservations about the both of you. Five years later and neither of you have let the other down.
“Yup, and I’m not starting tonight,” you say, smiling.
“Me neither. Don’t plan on ever starting.”
The strategist you were just working with taps you on the shoulder and nods in the general direction of Red Bull’s pit wall. You nod a silent thank you before warning Joshua, “They’re boxing P1 in the next few laps, Shua, get ready.”
“Copy.”
You turn to the performance engineer. “Can he max out once P1 pulls off?”
He blows out air as he studies his monitor. “Temp’s rising and tires are fading. I’d say he can go for one. Two max. If he goes for two, we’ll have to box him sooner—maybe even the lap right after.”
“And if we max for one?”
“We can put off a stop for… maybe five more laps if we’re being safe.”
“Shua, once he pulls in, push it,” you decide in that split second. “One lap, then hold it steady.”
“One? I can go—”
“One.”
“One. Copy,” he repeats, huffing an amused laugh. Your nerves are wound too tight to ask him what’s so funny.
You watch as Red Bull pulls into the pit lane, their crew in a frenzy as Joshua floors right past, the roar of his engine shaking your bones and the wind of his speed slicing at your face. Lap after lap, you never get tired of that feeling.
Mingyu’s team finishes faster than you’d like, and even with the few seconds it takes his lollipop man to safely clear him for departure, the driver is speeding away what feels like a millisecond after he stopped.
“Alright, Shua, he’s got fresh tires.” You glance at the strategists for a number. “He’ll be on you in 1.7.”
“And he’ll stay behind me,” he says confidently.
“Right… until we box you,” you remind him.
He snorts. “Won’t matter.”
You roll your eyes. “Lap’s almost up,” you tell Joshua when he approaches the pit lane again. “I want you easing up even if it means you give him P1.”
Surprisingly, Joshua doesn’t argue, and it feels more like the driver you work with on any other circuit aside from Barcelona. “Copy.”
When he finishes the lap, he follows directions, relaxing on the gas while managing to hold Red Bull off. “Stay clean!” you practically bark at him when he defends an attempt at an overtake a little too aggressively. “A time penalty at this point will kill us. Keep it cute, Hong.”
He laughs, knowing the last name only comes out when his driving is making you nervous. “Cute. Got it, L/N.”
He and Mingyu do their little dance for two more laps, Joshua never giving an inch, before it’s time to box your driver. “Nice job keeping him at bay,” you tell him. “Time to swap. P2 will pull ahead, but you should be in and out of here before P3 catches up. We’ll get you P1 back.”
“Counting on it,” he says as he pulls into the pit lane.
He swaps his tires and refuels with no issues, back on the track exactly where you told him he’d be: at P2, a healthy distance from P3, chasing Mingyu. You watch them closely as the race gets nearer and nearer to its end, the laps winding down and down until there are only five left. You’re sweating through your clothes and it isn’t because of the glaring sun.
It’s because Kim Mingyu was due for a pit stop seven laps ago and he hasn’t taken it, nor does he show any sign of taking it.
“What is he fucking doing?” the performance engineer mutters.
“Fuck if I know!” you shout in frustration. You point at a strategist. “Tune into Red Bull.”
You don’t like to listen in on other teams because you’re paranoid that what you did to Ferrari earlier will happen to you, but you need Joshua to win first place today. You watch as they find Red Bull’s channel, their brows furrowed as they listen to the transmission.
“They’re telling him it’s wisest to box this lap but they’re leaving the call up to him. He says he can hold Hong off and finish it without stopping.”
“Shua,” you immediately call out to him.
“His tires have to be fucked,” Joshua says through gritted teeth. He hardly ever curses so you know his newfound patience is quickly dissipating again. “Why isn’t he fucking boxing?”
“He’s refusing,” you relay the information to him. “He’s going to finish this on dead tires.”
“Is that what he calls strategy? What the fuck is Red Bull snorting? I’m gon—” You turn Joshua’s volume on your headset down as someone waves for your attention.
“He’s not going to finish at all because the tires are going to blow,” Wonwoo corrects you. “He probably thinks he’s fine because the right side is fine, but the left side has to be completely degraded by now.”
The circuit’s rough turns and abrasive track meant that the left side’s tires were constantly wearing faster than the right’s.
“Then what the fuck?” you ask dumbly, turning Joshua’s volume back up to find him still droning on. You simply tune him out, trying not to think about how his rant will absolutely go viral on social media later.
“His team is just enabling him,” the eavesdropping strategist says.
The performance engineer nods. “With the natural degradation of his tires and the sun, he has to be pushing at least… 105? 110 Celsius?”
You look over at the Red Bull pit, and although a few of the strategists are visibly frantic, their team principal and head engineer look largely unbothered, and it disgusts you. Their desperation for a few points can kill Mingyu. It can kill Joshua.
“They’re reporting his left side at 150,” your eavesdropper says, stunned. “They’re finally telling him to box now. He’s still refusing.”
Your veins run cold. “Oh my god. He’s not only stupid, he’s fucking crazy,” you murmur to yourself. “He’s fucking crazy!” you shout and before anyone can respond, you’re talking to your driver again, interrupting his rant.
“—and another thing! Kim Mingyu is—”
“Joshua, back off.”
“Whoa, ‘Joshua’? Getting real serious in here,” he finds it in himself to joke.
“Shut up and put some fucking distance between you and P1 now!” you snap.
“Ope, yeah, actually getting serious…” he grumbles to himself. He eases up the tiniest bit, probably thinking that will appease you but he’s still too close for comfort. “What’s going on? I’m not giving this asshole any more space than this.” You watch with dread as they approach turn 10, the toughest turn on the circuit because of how hard drivers have to brake. If Mingyu’s tire is going to give out, it’s going to be here. “We only have three laps left and—”
“He’s overcooking!” Something in your voice must signal how distraught you feel to Joshua because you watch as his car slows another fraction of a second. “His team is reporting his left tires at 150! He’s going to let—”
“FUCK!”
It’s the last thing you hear from your driver before Mingyu’s front left tire explodes as he takes the turn with little deceleration. The sound reaches you even at the pit wall, sounding like a gunshot ringing through the circuit, making you flinch so hard, you accidentally step back into Wonwoo. A huge cloud of smoke immediately covers the car you’re responsible for, so opaque, you can no longer see even a sliver of McLaren’s color.
Your heart feels like it’s stopping. Both Red Bull and McLaren’s walls mirror each other now—every person on their feet, every pair of eyes on the black RB19 as it fishtails violently across the track, cutting through the racing line like an unruly blade. You want to scream Joshua’s name—beg him to tell you what’s happening—but you know it will only pull his focus. Instead, you turn his volume all the way up and endure the roar of his engine and the sound of Mingyu’s car screeching across the track. Mingyu’s right side crashes into the barrier, sending him completely off course, where he spins twice before coming to a rest what feels like years later. The car is still intact, smoke rising but no sign of fire.
You want to run out onto the asphalt. You swear your worry for Joshua can bring you there faster than any of these stupid fucking race cars can right now. But as a yellow flag emerges from the flag post closest to them, you remember you were hired to do a job, and as far as you know, you’re still on that job until you see or hear otherwise.
“Teams, be aware, yellow flags,” the steward announces over the radio. “Turn 10, car 9, front left tire failure. Driver is out of the car and uninjured. Marshals on site. Proceed with caution.”
“Only car 9,” Wonwoo breathes. “They would’ve included Joshua if—”
Just then, papaya orange cuts through the smoke, the cloud dispersing around Joshua’s car as he makes it out of the accident, going half the speed he was when it happened. You exhale so hard, it comes out as a groan, and suddenly everyone’s hands are on you, on each other, slapping backs and pulling in for hugs.
“Joshua,” you breathe into your mic, relieved.
“There we go again with the ‘Joshua,’” he says playfully. You shake your head but revel in the ounce of normalcy in what you think might’ve been the scariest moment of your life. “Is he okay?” he asks, voice serious now.
“He’s okay,” you assure him. “He’s out of the car and uninjured. He’s fine.”
Joshua clears his throat. “Okay, good. Let’s finish this then.”
After Joshua wins, after he’s thoroughly checked for smoke inhalation, and after he celebrates in the first place spot on the podium, he doesn’t pose for photos or sign autographs or take questions like he usually does—like the CEO wants him to. Instead, the first thing the driver does is head to the garage, right to you. He has his racing suit unzipped and peeled off his upper body, the sleeves of it tied around his waist and his toned, Barcelona-tanned arms on full display under his tank. You have only a moment to feel flustered by them before those same arms are pulling you in and squeezing you tightly. He’s drenched in sweat and he smells like smoke and grease and like… boy (not in the good way), but you melt into him all the same. He embraces you after every race. It’s always a hug, a thank you, and a reminder that you’re the best. Today, it’s different.
He clings to you for far longer than usual, and every time you think he must finally be pulling away, he doesn’t. He speaks right into your hair. “Thank you,” he whispers. “Thank you. You warned me with just enough time. I only avoided crashing right into him because of you.”
“Because of the team,” you correct.
“No,” he says simply, like it’s an actual fact. “No. No one on the team—no one in my life—is ever going to have my back the way you do. Thank you.”
You tighten your own hold on him against your will, and you just force yourself to nod and accept it. “I’ll always have your back.”
Joshua leans back but keeps his hands on your shoulders. He’s smiling that beautiful smile—wide and unbridled and all-consuming. The one that reaches his eyes and creates those endearing lines at the corners of them. “Let’s eat. Just you and me. My treat.”
You two have had dinner together countless times, whether with other team members or alone. Tonight, it feels worlds different, and it only takes you half a moment—as you watch him stare down at you like you’re his biggest blessing—to realize why. Half a moment to realize something you’re sure your heart has already known for years.
You’re in love with Joshua Hong.
In retrospect, you should’ve absolutely denied that dinner you had the last time Joshua raced Barcelona—at least the last time he raced with you as his engineer. You didn’t.
He took you to a restaurant he frequented on the off season. He claimed it had the best paella, and it was good, but you really didn’t know enough about paella to say it was the best. He waxed poetic about how much he loved Barcelona without ever really telling you anything substantial about it, just droning on and on about the architecture and the food and the music and Circuit de Barcelona-Catalunya, laughing and nodding when you casually mentioned Spain’s bad habit of colonizing countries.
“You’re right,” he sighed. “I guess it isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”
“Well, you live here and you love it. I suppose I’ll also try to love it. At least for tonight.”
You never told him but you did love it. For that one night, you loved Spain and Barcelona and even the stupid circuit, and you think it was the one and only night you allowed yourself to feel your love for him too. When dinner was over, he seemed eager to keep the night going, so you did. Then, somehow you were in his home, just minutes from the circuit, drunk off wine he swore was also the best, and you watched as his eyes progressively got heavier and heavier, until he was asleep on the floor next to you, and you confronted the horrifying feelings stirring in your chest. You didn’t tell Joshua for another few months, but you decided right then that it was your last season with McLaren. With him.
You should’ve just left Spain for the next location like you always did, and maybe you’d still be his race engineer, and he would have two more titles under his belt by now. Or maybe falling in love was inevitable and you were always meant to be exactly where you are.
You land in Barcelona a measly three hours after your conversation with Jihyo, and you don’t know how she does it, but the woman manages to have a driver ready for you, already knowing exactly where to go. His home.
His press conference ended hours ago, and you’d watched the rest of it on your phone on the drive over to try and curb your growing anxiety as you started to recognize the streets leading to his majestic, obnoxiously priced home. It didn’t help much, his words only making you more nervous and infinitely sweatier.
“We’re here, ma’am,” the driver announces even though you don’t need him to. It looks exactly the way it did the first and last time you were here—even better now with the sunset serving as the backdrop.
“Thank you,” you say shakily, undoing your seatbelt and getting out with your purse, the only thing you brought with you. “I’ll, um…”
“Miss Park instructed I wait for you as long as you need,” he supplies, turning back to you and smiling brightly.
“Perfect. Thank you,” you repeat, closing the door and turning toward the house. You shake your head and whisper to yourself, “This is fucking insane.”
The car pulls away and out of the driveway, parking on the street to give you some illusion of privacy as you have a meltdown in your head. The entire plane ride here, all you did was watch and rewatch Joshua’s press conference, trying to find signs of why he was taking his sabbatical or which way he was leaning toward: rest or retirement. Of course, you had no idea because you can’t tell that kind of information by just staring at the way he smiles or nods and listens attentively or the way his jaw clenches when he’s asked a question about last season.
But it was a nice distraction from the fact that you were about to face someone you loved so wholly but were never supposed to fall in love with in the first place. And it stopped you from asking yourself if you still love him even now—even two years later with zero contact during that time. Without that distraction, you feel your brain maxing out.
“This is fucking insane,” you repeat.
Will he hate me for how I left? you wonder. What if he just slams the door in my face? What if I cry?!
The last thought has you panicking because the idea of crying in front of Joshua right now makes you want to beg the driver to take you back to the airport. So before you can psych yourself out, you walk forward. You walk forward until you’re at his door, until your finger is pressed against his doorbell, until you’re sure you’ll pass out from holding your breath in anticipation. Until the door finally opens.
And although he’s a little more tired and a little more worn down by life, Joshua is just as beautiful as you always knew him to be.
He’s the same in a lot of ways. His hair is still dark and long enough to have to be styled away from his face during races. He wears all the same, plain silver hoops and studs in all the piercings in his ears. His arms are fighting against the confines of his T-shirt, as threatening as ever. He’s wearing the pair of glasses he wore whenever he wasn’t racing or doing some media event. But you spot the little changes too. You notice his skin has become a little paler, a little duller. The space under his eyes is just a shade darker than they used to be. His posture isn’t as straight and proper—not as careful as he had always been about it. You wonder if he sees the sameness in you too. You wonder what differences he sees, if he spots any at all.
His eyes widen for a moment before his brows immediately pull down into a confused frown, and if you weren’t so terrified, you would laugh at the way he looks behind him into his own home, then behind you like he’s waiting for someone to pop out and scream, “Got you! It was a prank!” in his face. Several seconds pass and when that doesn’t happen, he starts stammering.
“I… wh—? What… wh—I… you—what?”
You can’t help the small laugh that escapes you. “Hi,” you say softly. “I’m sorry to drop by so unexpectedly.” His frown deepens like he’s even more confused you’re actually real and speaking. “I was in the neighborhood,” you say before scoffing at yourself. “That’s a dumb joke. I wasn’t. You don’t even have a neighborhood—you just… own all this land.” You frown a little at the fact that you’re just now realizing Joshua’s nearest neighbors are at the bottom of the hill. “I was not in the neighborhood. I flew here. From London,” you clarify. “Okay, anyway. I saw your announcement today, and I was—oof!”
You grunt as all however many pounds of Joshua’s pure muscle slam into you, his arms immediately wrapping around you like they never forgot what it was like to have you there in the first place. You try not to audibly sigh, but you know he feels it when the tension in your shoulders dissolves and you sag against him, your own hands coming up to rub his back. The last time he hugged you in Barcelona, he smelled disgusting. Today, he smells fresh, clean, and… woody. He smells like he always did when he used to follow you around the McLaren facility instead of practicing or working out.
“Hi,” you murmur against his shoulder.
“Hi,” he says, voice deep and raspy. You always loved hearing it directly in your ear like this. This is better though; you feel the vibrations of it against your own chest. “I missed you.”
You want to go back to the Academy and throttle Jihyo in the face. You don’t know why on earth she thought you coming over here to convince Joshua to go back with you was a good idea. Two years did absolutely nothing to help you forget and move on. All it took was Joshua telling you he missed you, and you were right there again, in the McLaren garage on Circuit de Barcelona-Catalunya, realizing you were in love with the man in your arms. You were there, at the McLaren Technology Center, meeting your rookie driver for the first time. In Vegas, trying slot machines and tilting your heads in confusion because neither of you understood the point. In Silverstone, where he first received the question of whether or not the rumors that you two were dating were true. In Abu Dhabi. Leaving him for London.
Your fingers clench around the back of his shirt against your will, but he doesn’t pull away or complain, instead pulling you in even tighter. It’s only been a handful of seconds and already, you have the answer to your question.
If you’re not in love with him anymore, then why are you so worried? Well, because two years apparently wasn’t enough. After a few moments, you find the courage to say, “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t” is all he says back. So you don’t. It feels like ages have passed when you pull away, but when you do, you feel a little lighter and a little less terrified. He lets his arms fall to his side but he doesn’t step away. “I assume we have a long conversation ahead of us?” he asks, smiling tiredly.
You nod. “I think so.”
“Come on in then.”
It’s not as awkward as you thought it was going to be and that’s probably because of Joshua himself. Without missing a beat, he falls right into the same rhythm the two of you used to have.
He asks you something simple like how your day is going. You answer mindlessly.
“It’s fine.”
He nudges you with his elbow but says nothing else. You immediately give into him.
“It’s going really well; Wonwoo liked my presentation.” (He celebrates you with a hug and all kinds of praise that make your heart thunder).
“It’s literally just… fine. Nothing remarkable, nothing bad.” (“Okay, then let’s make it remarkable starting now.”)
“It’s shit and I don’t want to talk about it.” (“Alright, we won’t talk about it. Can we… eat about it?”)
But today is a little less like that. Today, your answer is: “Who the fuck cares about me right now? What do you mean you’re taking a sabbatical?”
He snorts before sighing. “Can I offer you a water? Juice? I have wine?”
You glare at him. “Joshua.”
“Two years without a peep from you and the first thing you say to me is my government name,” he whines. “Harsh.”
The reminder that the two years you spent apart is your fault has you pausing and biting your cheek to keep from pushing even harder. He doesn’t notice the turmoil on your face though as he turns to grab two water bottles from his fridge before leading you to his backyard. You didn’t get to see it since it was the middle of the night the one and only time you visited, but in the light of the sunset, it’s truly majestic. Joshua could’ve just shown you a photo of his backyard and you would’ve immediately understood why he loves Barcelona so much. It’s not surprising that he has a sprawling view, seeing as his home sits at the top of a hill, but that’s not what impresses you most. It’s not even the massive pool or its waterfall or the outdoor bar or the half-court basketball court or the McLaren go-kart in the corner that has you slack jawed. It’s the ambiance.
It’s the infinite stringed lighting hung over the space and dappling the entire backyard with a soft, warm glow. It’s the firepit he already has going and the book he has open, face down on his outdoor sectional, spine battered and cracked. It’s the opened bottle of wine and the singular glass next to it, half full. It’s the slow, jazzy music he has playing over his installed outdoor speaker system. It’s the fact that this is the most Joshua space you’ve ever seen. It’s the fact that you can tell he’s trying his best to self-soothe right now.
“Wow.”
He looks over at you and once he sees the awe on your face, he gives you your first favorite smile of this trip. It’s close-lipped this time, but his eyes still crinkle in the corners, sparkling even more under these lights. “You like it?” he asks, sitting down where he was obviously lounging before you came barging in.
He pats the space next to him even though the sectional is more than big enough for you to choose any other seat. You don’t have the willpower to sit anywhere other than right next to him, though. He hands you the water bottle he retrieved for you, setting his own on the side table next to his wine. When he’s done settling in, Joshua turns toward you, one arm propped up on the back of the sectional, and stares at you like he’s waiting for you to speak. You don’t, simply staring back. He laughs a little as he averts his gaze, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose with his knuckle.
You don’t ask again and he doesn’t wait for you to. He takes a deep breath before meeting your gaze once more.
“I’m just tired, Y/N,” he states plainly. And he sounds it. He sounds more tired now than he ever did on a schedule that had him racing in 21 different countries a majority of his year—training the rest of it. You can’t believe Saki, a student who’s never even spoken a word to this man, clocked it before you did.
“Tired of what, Shua?” you ask, not meaning your voice to come out in the whisper it does. He smiles at the nickname and you feel your heart beat a little harder for him.
“Racing,” he answers like it’s obvious, and in some ways, it is, but he’s still the last person you expect to say that. Your immediate frown makes him chuckle.
“How are you laughing?” you ask incredulously. “What do you mean you’re tired of racing?”
“Come on, don’t pretend like you don’t understand,” he shrugs, rolling his eyes playfully. “You’re still in this world. I know the Academy is at seven of the circuits the same weekends we are.”
You feel your cheeks warming at the unspoken accusation: your girls would race my tracks on my weekends and you still didn’t come find me. You still didn’t bother talking to me. Joshua would never say that, and even if he did, he would never deliver it so callously, but that’s almost why you feel like you have to do it on his behalf. You get a sinking feeling he won’t blame you for anything and that somehow feels worse than punishment.
“Even if you didn’t see it with your own eyes, I know you know how bad my first season without you was. Is it so surprising I’ve grown tired?” he makes his point. “And yeah, this past one wasn’t as terrible—”
“You placed third in points,” you interrupt. “That’s fantastic, Shua.”
He pauses, watching you carefully. You aren’t sure what he’s studying on your face—if maybe he thinks you’re only saying that to spare his feelings. Just as you’re about to assure him you’re not, he says, “It’s not about placement.”
You refrain from raising one eyebrow at him skeptically. You nod slowly, trying to understand because as far as you know, it’s only about placement to these men. To you, it’s about building and fixing cars, studying numbers you find fascinating, solving problems for Joshua. For the drivers? Nothing matters aside from winning.
“I… don’t follow,” you finally admit. He looks down and exhales slowly through his nose, not impatiently but heavily—under an obvious weight he’s shouldering on his own. “You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to,” you force the words out of your mouth. They’re not the words you want to say. What you really want is to violently shake the truth out of him.
“I just… realized a lot about myself this season,” he finally says. “I did a lot better than I did last year, so you’d think I’d be happy my career isn’t over and that 2024 was just a fluke, but I… I didn’t really care.” You don’t voice any of the surprise you feel, not wanting to interrupt his train of thought as he picks at nonexistent lint on his pants. “You remember how I feel about the circuit here,” he states it more than he asks. You nod anyway. “The one time I lost it, I was in a bad mood for weeks.”
“That’s generous,” you interject. “You were in a bad mood until you raced and won it the next season.”
He rolls his eyes and suppresses a smile as he shakes his head and finally looks away from his own lap and back at you. “Yeah, well,” he sighs, smile fading. “I lost so many races in 2024, including Catalunya, and I didn’t give a shit.” Your eyebrows rise at the declaration. “I didn’t feel mad or frustrated or panicked or embarrassed. For the first time in my life, I truly just… did not care.”
“Oh,” you manage to squeak. It’s not what you were expecting when you came here.
You’re not sure what you were expecting. Maybe you thought you’d come here and have to convince Joshua he was still the best driver on the grid regardless of two less-than-stellar seasons. Maybe you thought you would just find Joshua resting, already equipped with a game plan for how to tackle his next year with McLaren. Or maybe—and probably most likely—you thought you’d come here and not get a chance to say or hear anything at all. Maybe you expected a door slammed in your face. What you didn’t expect was for Joshua Hong to not care. He cared entirely too much.
He was always a little too involved in the design and build of the cars, disagreeing with engineers on matters he sometimes didn’t even fully understand. He was, to the designers’ dismay, right most of the time (and you like to think it was because he was unconsciously absorbing your unsolicited lectures) but it was considered annoying for a driver to be so involved. He didn’t let anyone outside of you and Wonwoo touch his helmet pre-race (something about how it wiped away the good luck), and the one time someone did, he insisted on an entirely different helmet, one he had hidden away in the paddock in case someone did touch his original one. You were in charge of keeping emergency good luck helmets after that. Every call, every decision, every penalty—anything that happened on the track—was something that could make or break his entire month. He was infinitely better than other drivers at keeping his cool and checking his temper before it even culminated into words, but if something bad happened during a race, no matter how small, his vexation with himself showed easily. It was evident in his intense obsession with running strategies with you and Wonwoo, in his insistence he perform the same simulations over and over again until he was sure he wouldn’t make the same mistakes, in the way he’d restlessly fidget with his hands before the next race as he wondered aloud if it would be better this time.
All of that was normal to you. Easy. Joshua not caring is not easy.
“I imagine whatever you’re feeling that’s making your face do that is how I should feel,” he mutters, smirking.
You clear your throat and school your face into a neutral expression. “What was my face doing?”
“You looked horrified,” he informs you, reaching for his wine glass. He offers it to you first and when you decline, he brings it to his lips, tilting his head back for a sip. Your eyes can’t help but go down to his neck, where you watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. “I thought a sabbatical would horrify me too,” he says, breaking you out of your daze and sucking air through his teeth briefly before smacking his lips a few times. You have no idea why wine drinkers do that but you don’t bother wasting a question on something so trivial.
“So… you’re retiring…?”
“No,” he says, setting his glass back on the table.
“Oh. Good.”
“But I might.”
You frown. “Oh…” Not good.
He shrugs far too nonchalantly for your liking. “I don’t know yet. I guess we’ll see after this. My sabbatical will last throughout the 2026 season, then I’ll be back at the drawing table.”
“You’ll be back on the track,” you say resolutely. He raises his eyebrows in amusement at you. “You will, Shua. There isn’t a world where you’re not racing. That’s… that’s weird!”
“Oh, is that what it is,” he snorts. “Weird? And what’s so weird about it?” he asks, obviously unconvinced. Just the fact that he has to ask what’s weird is weird. The real Joshua Hong would know why the idea of him retiring from racing so early on in his career is weird.
“What is happening?” you ask yourself under your breath instead of dignifying him with an answer. Louder, you tell him, “Look, you had a hard two seasons—I get it, you got stuck with an engineer that wasn’t ready—”
“He was ready,” he says, smiling tightly. “He was great—said and did all the right things, made all the right calls, seemed to have been receptive to whatever you told him about me because he was prepared for everything. He was fine, Y/N.”
You falter. This entire time, you attributed his bad season to the struggle of acclimating to a new partner, and maybe that was just your ego talking, but if that wasn’t the reason for it, then Joshua isn’t mistaken and he isn’t lying to you. He really does not care.
“I do feel bad for him. He lost the spot because of my performance; McLaren thought it wasn’t working, so he got demoted back to wherever he came from. I’m not sure, I didn’t talk to him much.”
Every sentence out of the McLaren star’s mouth is sending you reeling. After your first meeting, you and Joshua could probably easily win a Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? style game based on each other’s lives. And after your first race, you knew you two were going to be attached at the hip. You can’t imagine spending an entire season not talking to your assigned driver, least of all Joshua.
“So when I got my next engineer this year, I did better so I wouldn’t lose sleep over messing up someone else’s career,” he informs you. “But… it was honestly soul-crushing—having to pretend to care… having to try. For the first time in my life, this felt like work, Y/N. Like… actual work. It felt like a fucking 9-5 I was dragging myself to every day.”
You try not to react to his cursing. It’s something you always wanted him to do more of because you have the mouth of a sailor, but hearing it like this—alongside the fact that he doesn’t care—feels wrong. You suddenly see why McLaren’s CEO was convinced Joshua wouldn’t want anything to do with the Academy. He really did lose his spark. The thought is devastating. You two practically started your careers together—everything you both ever worked for culminated in the five years you spent together. When you think of racing, you think of Joshua. When you think of the most fun and exhilarating times of your life, you only see memories stained with him. And now, he doesn’t care, he doesn’t find joy in it, and he’s seriously entertaining the idea of completely leaving it behind. It feels like he’s leaving you behind. As soon as you think it, you hate yourself for letting it even enter your brain. You’re the one that left first. To make it worse, he’s just trying to escape something that’s robbing him of joy; you went out of your way to escape him. You silently shake your head to yourself.
“I… I’m sorry,” you find yourself saying as if he could hear your thoughts and you needed to apologize for it.
“For what?” he laughs.
“I don’t even know,” you tell him honestly, slouching against his couch in defeat. He looks down at you curiously as you slide down even further. He mimics your movement until you’re shoulder to shoulder. “I guess… for leaving for starters.”
“I told you,” he says, looking away immediately and clearing his throat. “You don’t have to do that.”
“But I do,” you argue, turning away and watching the flames dance in his fire pit. “It was kind of sudden—the decision, I mean. I didn’t really give anyone time to process it… not you, not Wonwoo.” You stop there because those are the only people you really care about inconveniencing. “And then that last race, I—”
“I really don’t want to talk about Abu Dhabi, Y/N,” he interrupts without looking at you. You glance at him and find his eyes on the fire too. When he doesn’t expand on why he’d rather not talk about it, you look away once more.
“Okay,” you agree slowly. “I won’t talk about it. Just know I’m sorry.”
“Okay,” he parrots back. You try not to wince, knowing that’s as much of an acceptance you’re going to get… so not an acceptance at all, really. “Are we done talking about all this BS now?” he asks, pushing his shoulder against yours. He nudges but doesn’t pull away after, keeping his bicep pressed to yours. “I mean, you’re here… in Barcelona, with me!”
The excitement in his voice is so palpable, you want to slide all the way down until you’re sprawled across the floor, kicking and giggling. You look up to find him already looking down at you, a soft smile on his wine-stained lips. You wish you could reach up and just kiss him—that you could run your fingers through his long hair and see if it’s as silky as it always looks.
You smile, forcing yourself to look away. “Yeah, I’m here. With you.”
“Not that I’m complaining,” he starts, “because I’m really happy you’re here and you’re always welcome.” Your heart screams. “But why are you here?”
The easy answer is that Park Jihyo, the most power-hungry, stubborn, and arguably sadistic CEO in all of F1, manipulated you into kidnapping Joshua by any means necessary. The honest answer—the one you only realize is the actual answer at this very moment—is that you’re going to make Abu Dhabi up to Joshua. If he can’t find it in himself to forgive you, that’s fine and you respect it. You can live with that, but you can’t live with the idea of him quitting on something he loves as much as racing. You’re not only going to bring those girls at the Academy an absolute legend of a driver; you’re also going to revive his love for the sport while you’re at it. You’re going to be his engineer again, and this time, the checkered flag is going to be at the starting line of the 2027 season. Jihyo is wrong; you will not be taking no for an answer, and you will be forcing this man to go back to London with you if you have to.
Your heart starts beating erratically, adrenaline suddenly pumping through your system the way it used to when you two were still partners preparing for a race. You abruptly push yourself up on the couch, jostling and startling Joshua since he was leaning on your shoulder. He sits up too.
“I am here,” you start with renewed ambition, turning so that you’re fully facing him. He mirrors you, eyes widening a little at your sudden burst of energy. “Because Jihyo and I have a lovely offer for you.”
“Park Jihyo,” he says. “Your CEO.”
You nod, glad he already knows who she is. “Yes! My boss. We saw the news of your sabbatical and she asked if I would come speak with you.”
He seems to deflate a little, brows furrowing together in what you perceive as perplexity. “Oh. Sure. What do you need to speak with me about then?”
“Keep an open mind, okay, Shua?”
One corner of his mouth quirks up in a small smile. “Okay, Y/N.”
“We’d love for you to come work with us at F1 Academy as a mentor for the current class of drivers.”
It takes a startling amount of energy to refrain from shrieking this at him now that you have absolutely zero doubt about how badly Joshua needs to be at the Academy with you.
“Wh—”
“The girls are great, Joshua,” your words are tumbling out of you now, very clearly desperate for a yes from the man. “They’re young and green and hungry and bright! Oh my god, they’re so fucking bright!” The bewildered expression on Joshua’s face settles into a soft, amused smile, and you take it as encouragement that you’re already on your way to convincing him. “They’re such a talented bunch this season—I mean, they have been every single season! It’s like they were born to do this. Every time they get out on the track, I think of you.”
You’re a little mortified at how truthful you’re being, but you know better than anyone how to get Joshua to where he needs to be. Your honesty and vulnerability over the radio always warmed him up to your suggestions, and if that’s what will make him come back to London with you, you’ll allow him to have it.
“Me?” he asks dubiously even though it’s obvious he’s pleased.
“Yes, you.” He smiles and shakes his head at you like you’re being silly but you don’t care. “Granted, they’re much slower—they are in F4 cars, after all,” you continue, “but when I watch them on the asphalt… when I see the way they drive like it’s the last time they’re ever going to be on the track because it might actually be, I think to myself, this must have been what you were like just before we met at McLaren. And it feels so special, y’know? To watch such talented people and know that some of them can possibly become the next Joshua Hong.”
You pause to glance at him, a little surprised to find his face unnervingly close to yours with an expression you don’t think you’ve ever seen on it. He almost looks like he’s frowning—like you’ve confused him so much, he’s no longer comprehending what you’re saying. It’s his eyes that give him away, though. They’ve always been his tell. He watches you carefully, eyes glassy, unmoving, and trained on you. His gaze is full of warmth and tenderness and affection, and it steals your breath to be on the receiving end of it.
“They’re, um,” you stumble over your words, having lost your train of thought.
“Yeah?” he encourages you quietly when you don’t continue, blinking rapidly. He’s close enough that you feel his breath on your lips when he speaks.
“Wh… what?”
He glances down briefly before looking back up at your eyes. Did he just look at my lips? “They’re…?”
Right. The Academy. “Uh, yes, yeah. The girls—they… they’re—”
You clear your throat uncomfortably, forcing yourself to break his eye contact and turn back toward the fire. You’ll never be able to speak otherwise. He inhales deeply as you find the words you were trying to say, following your lead and turning away as well.
“They have so much potential, Shua,” you say, all your previous energy gone now. You feel something more invasive seeping into its place. You feel the self-consciousness, the doubt, the discomfort, the excitement of being near someone you’re in love with again. “They already have the talent and the resources. They just need a little something to push them over the top. They need someone to teach them what being a driver—a good, respectable driver—really means.”
You see his head turn toward you in your peripherals but you don’t meet his eyes this time; you don’t want to risk every thought flying out of your already near-empty head again.
“And the current staff is great, don’t get me wrong, but…” you sigh, shaking your head, “the lead racing instructor has been out of the sport for decades, and as kind and well-meaning as he is, he doesn’t know the first thing about empowering young women.”
“I don’t either, Y/N,” he says like he thinks he’s reminding you of a fact.
You scoff. “Of course you do.” You take the risk and look at him now. You’re relieved to see that he’s no longer looking at you as intensely as before. Instead, he seems genuinely baffled this time. “Shua… you don’t actually believe you don’t know how to empower women, do you?” you ask, clearly amused.
He raises an eyebrow at you. “What on earth makes you think I know how to do that? I’ve literally been surrounded by a sea of men my entire life. You’re literally the only woman I know other than my mom.” You laugh loudly at that, feeling some of the wound up nerves in you loosen a little. “What are you laughing at?” he deadpans, glaring at you even though you know he’s equally amused. Always the eyes. “I’m being 1,000 percent serious.”
“I know,” you say, your laughter dwindling down to a satisfied sigh. You know his mother well and you don’t know how it isn’t abundantly clear to him where he learned how to treat women so well. “But that doesn’t mean anything.”
He doesn’t respond, turning back to the fire and staring at it hard like you’ve just given him a calculus problem to solve. You smile and admire his profile for a moment before speaking, the orange glow of the flames dancing across his smooth, tan skin.
“Shua, did you know my contract with McLaren was only supposed to last a year?” you ask him even though you know the answer.
“What?”
“Your race engineer was supposed to be a man named Min Yoongi,” you inform him. “The year you debuted, Wonwoo told me that there would be an open slot for a new race engineer and that he was putting my name in the ring. I was told the position was as good as mine. But then the CEO brought him Yoongi’s resume. He was an external candidate from some aerospace engineering company.”
“But they chose you,” Joshua says, sounding happy that it turned out that way.
“No,” you correct him, shaking your head. “They chose Yoongi.”
His head snaps toward you like you just said the most offensive thing. “What? No… it was you.”
You suppress a laugh at the fact that he’s trying to rewrite your own history for you. “No, it was Yoongi. He was not only a very qualified engineer, he was also the CEO’s nephew.”
“Not the fucking nepotism,” he groans, throwing his head back onto the sectional. Joshua was one of very few F1 drivers that came into the sport from absolutely nothing, so you know why he’s irritated.
You sigh. “The only people who know about this are the CEO, Wonwoo, and me. Now you,” you tell him. “I know it’s not but I sometimes feel like it’s embarrassing for me to share this because I like to think I earned the spot—and I did. Later on. But initially, that spot only really became mine because I begged for it.”
“What?” he asks a third time, this one with a bit of bite. He lifts his head up off the sectional once more, narrowing his eyes at you. “What the fuck do you mean you begged?”
“Exactly that. I barged into the CEO’s office with Wonwoo and a 32-slide Powerpoint presentation, and I showed him every reason why I deserved the spot while Wonwoo practically held him hostage for me,” you recall, smirking. Joshua doesn’t look the least bit entertained, though.
It felt so humiliating and demeaning back then, but it just makes you laugh now—only because it turned out fine. The thought of any of your girls going through that makes you want to tear your hair out, though.
“In the end, he agreed to a 1-year contract. He told me he would give me a chance with his new rookie, and if I performed well, he would give me a ‘real’ contract.” Joshua’s mouth drops open the tiniest bit. “I knew how he felt about talent,” you say. “I knew that all that mattered was how much we won, but I underestimated how badly he wanted McLaren to be a family business. So even though we had a wildly successful debut, and even though you literally turned F1 on its head—” Joshua snorts in faux modesty. “—Wonwoo warned me about halfway through the season that the CEO was going to give the role to Yoongi and that I would return to my old position.”
“So… what happened…?”
You smile widely. “You happened. Instead of talking about your background and your upbringing and your talent, you spent every single interview that season talking about me. Crediting me. Praising me.”
He frowns. “Okay… I don’t get it…?”
You sigh. “I forget that at the end of the day, you’re just a man.”
He huffs out a single laugh. “Forgive me for being born this way.”
“I forgive you, I guess,” you shrug dramatically. He rolls his eyes but smiles all the same. “See, you empowered me without even realizing it,” you point out. “By the time the season was over, we were being touted as F1’s dream team. I was reached out to so many times for interviews that McLaren’s comms team assigned me my own PR manager. The CEO was forced to turn his nephew away and give me a real contract, unless he wanted to lose out on all the media attention and risk messing with our chemistry, and therefore messing with your success.”
One of Joshua’s eyebrows twitches at that.
“Our on-track chemistry,” you mumble your correction quickly, face burning.
“Right,” he says, clearing his throat and doing a horrible job of concealing a smirk.
“Anyway, my point is… your advocacy of my work literally saved my career. Even with F1 Academy—when Jihyo approached me, she told me I was her first choice because the coverage on my career was inspiring to girls trying to get into the sport.” Pride blooms in your chest when Joshua reaches over to squeeze your hand quickly at that bit before pulling away. It’s nothing new; his victory had always been yours, and yours his. “So if you were able to be such a strong ally to me and my career without even knowing it,” you say, hoping this will push you across the finish line, “what do you think you’ll be able to do with these students when you’re actually trying?”
“Ah,” he says, nodding as he finally sees where your story was going. He narrows his eyes at you all of a sudden. “Whoa, you’re really good at that.”
You smirk. “I know. I did convince the CEO of McLaren to give me that first contract.”
He laughs. “Convincing woman, indeed.” He pauses, biting his lip in thought before scooting closer and leaning his shoulder into you once more. You try not to stiffen at the contact. “I’m sorry you had to beg. I hate hearing that. You deserved it. I would’ve never won those titles without you.”
“Yes yo—”
“No, I wouldn’t have,” he says with a calm certainty, so much so that something stops you from arguing with him. He looks down at you and smiles your favorite smile, this time with all his teeth showing. “We really were the dream team, huh?”
You grin back, leaning right back into his shoulder subconsciously. “We were.”
“Think we’ll become the dream team of the Academy too?”
Your smile drops right off your face as you search his face for any signs that he’s joking with you. The crinkles around his eyes just deepen.
“When’s our flight to London?”
LAS VEGAS GRAND PRIX 2018
“You doing anything after this?”
“I don’t know. Sleeping?”
“Weird question, but would you want to meet my mom?”
It’s an uphill battle to keep from stammering in surprise as the eyes of every strategist on the pit wall who’s tuned into Joshua’s channel slide to you. The driver grunts on a tighter turn before speaking again.
“Hello?”
Wonwoo clears his throat then turns to the others, demanding bits of random information about the drivers just ahead and behind Joshua in a thinly veiled attempt to distract them.
“Your mom?” you repeat. “Clear to take him.”
“Yup,” he responds through gritted teeth as he overtakes P5. “She flew in from LA last night to watch. She’s in the paddock right now. I’m taking her to dinner at the buffet at the Wynn if you want to join us. I ma—nice try, buddy,” he says, defending an attack from the driver he just stole P5 from.
Your mouth waters at the mere mention of a buffet. It’s the one thing you make time to do every year when F1 comes to the city, whether it’s with Wonwoo, another coworker you can stomach, or even by yourself (you’re not above eating at a buffet on your own, especially not a Vegas buffet).
“Oh, that’s a good one,” you comment. Your favorite, actually. “Have you been?”
“Nope. You can show me and my mom your favorites.”
You can’t deny you’re incredibly curious about the woman who raised this year’s star rookie all by herself without the riches it usually requires drivers to participate in the sport. You shouldn’t be so surprised; you and Joshua had become fast friends, spending almost all your time together since both of your lives were run by McLaren. Meeting his mom would be fun! So why does it make you want to throw up then run right off the pit wall and head into the first salon that will take you for a last minute hair, nail, brow, everything appointment?
“She wants to meet you,” Joshua adds, not-at-all helping the nerves.
Your eyebrows rise. “And why is that? Gap to P4 is 0.8.”
“Copy.” He drives the city easily and calmly—far calmer than a lot of other drivers are about being on their home track. “Something about you being the only woman I’ll ever have the time to talk to so she might as well befriend you.”
Even with how focused you’re trying to be on the race, you laugh suddenly at that. “That’s kind of sad.”
“I don’t think so!” he says lightheartedly. “You’re my best friend at this point.”
Your laugh settles into a soft smile as you nod. “You’re within DRS. Take him on the next straight, bestie.” He chuckles at that before obeying, his car pulling ahead and taking P4 from Mercedes. “I’ll come,” you decide. “But only if you snag us podium.”
He scoffs. “Don’t insult me. I’ll get you first.”
His confidence is well-placed because he delivers, standing right in the middle of the podium when the race is over, and sure enough, a few hours later, you’re seated across from him and right next to his mother at the buffet, her hand wrapped around yours as you both cackle at stories she’s sharing about her son and your driver. And Joshua, endearingly, doesn’t complain or blush in embarrassment; he just watches the two of you contentedly, absentmindedly picking at the scraps of his food he’s too full to finish. There’s a soft smile on his lips that reach up into his eyes, and you can tell he’s happy in a way he isn’t usually. So when the laughter dies down to giggles and his mom sighs, you vocalize an observation.
“You two are really close, huh?” Joshua’s eyes were already on you, and once he hears your question, his eyebrows rise a little. His mom hums and tilts her head, a lot like the way he does when he thinks.
“Yes, I always wanted to be a mother who could also be best friends with my child,” she says, nodding with her eyes still trained on the ceiling as she seemingly thinks aloud. “I suppose the fact that it was always only the two of us helped push us even closer together.” Her gaze comes back down to her son. “Hm, Josh?”
It’s virtually the only fact about Joshua you knew before meeting him. If there’s anything F1 had a hard-on for, it was a Cinderella story, and Joshua certainly had one of those. They’re rare to come by in the sport, with families easily spending hundreds of thousands of dollars to give their child a chance—not even a guarantee they’ll make it. And even though the details of his Cinderella story are still a closely held secret, everyone knew McLaren’s newest driver was the child of a single immigrant mother who worked several jobs and went into severe debt to get him into F1.
He averts his eyes from yours, suddenly finding the tiny bits of his steak that were too well done for him to enjoy more interesting. He nods as he pushes them around with his fork. “Mhm, right, eomma.”
“I sometimes felt guilty when he was growing up—”
“Eomma,” Joshua sighs the word like a warning. Like he doesn’t want to hear whatever she’s about to say for the millionth time. His exasperation barely passes as so, though. He still says it so politely, it doesn’t deter the woman next to you at all.
“Why is that?” you ask, too curious for your own good. Joshua throws you a withering look and you have the shame to offer a small, embarrassed smile.
“Well, I had to work multiple jobs for practically all of Joshua’s childhood. Money was never steady or guaranteed. He was alone for a lot of it,” she says, turning to you when Joshua refuses to look up at her.
You can tell so clearly where the driver gets his charming, expressive eyes from. You can see everything she’s telling you right there, in her eyes. The days she worked as a cleaner, the nights she labored as an overnight caretaker, and the weekends she “took it easy” as a part-time cashier at a gas station. You see how little money it still brought in and how she cried on the hardest days because she just sorely missed her son—her son, who had to get ready for school by himself, feed himself, put himself to bed. You see the panic in her eyes from when Joshua started getting into trouble in his late teens. Street racing.
“Street racing?” you ask incredulously. “But you were in the McLaren development program! They would’ve never taken on a street racer!”
“That’s why we don’t share that information freely, eomma,” Joshua deadpans, trying to glare at his mom. He fails when his lips immediately begin to quirk up into a smile.
She scoffs and waves a hand at him. “She’s your engineer! She’s the one who wants what’s best for you most in this world! After me, of course.” She winks at you.
You grin. It’s nice to feel like you’re a part of this small club—this small club of people responsible for Joshua Hong’s safety, success, and happiness. The small club of people he allows to get close.
“I won’t tell anyone, Shua,” you assure him. He spares you a brief smile that churns the obscene amount of food in your stomach before his eyes slide back to his mom. “I’m honestly just… surprised.”
“That a good boy like him was speeding around the city avoiding the LAPD every night?” his mom asks, glaring right back at her son. Hers is a lot more convincing and he looks back at you to avoid it.
That’s exactly it. Those big, shiny eyes. His obnoxiously pink lips, constantly curled into a delicate smile. His exceedingly gentle nature (off the track at least). This man was illegally racing on the streets of Los Angeles as a teenager?
“Yeah, I was surprised too,” his mom sighs, shaking her head and clicking her tongue at him.
You laugh. “Nope, cannot imagine that.”
“Well, he was,” she huffs, obviously remembering the grey hairs it got her. “And the only reason I found out was because it was one of the times I got let off work early, and I caught him coming back in. This boy can’t lie for shit. He practically told me everything before I could even finish asking where he’d been.”
You laugh gleefully at that as Joshua groans, cheeks turning a touch redder. You find it hilarious he’s more embarrassed about this than he was about his mom recalling how he cried so hard saying bye to her on his first day of kindergarten, he peed his pants and had to go home.
“I wanted to do better than my parents did,” she says contemplatively when you both stop laughing at him. “They were so… set in their ways and so hard on me. And if it had been them, Joshua would’ve been black and blue by morning.” He looks up at his mom with such fierce love, protectiveness, and respect, it makes you feel like you shouldn’t be here. It makes you feel like you’re witnessing something special that was never meant for you. “But I always told myself I’d do better, even if it was just a little bit. Because then, he’d be better, and maybe if he had kids later on, they’d be even better too. Little by little… each of us doing better than the ones before.”
“You were better, eomma,” Joshua says resolutely. “Are better.”
She smiles softly at him before looking back at you. “I took a few days to think about everything before figuring out what to do with him and his reckless behavior—” She shoots him another scathing look that he chuckles at. “—and the man who hired me to take care of his elderly father during the night… when he heard about why I was so distraught, he told me about a program I could look into for Joshua. For karting, then if he was good enough, eventually—”
“Formula One,” you both say. She nods, grinning.
“He was in the development driver program two years later,” she informs you, filled to the brim with pride.
“And competing in Formula four years after that,” you mutter as you try to recall the stats you read on Joshua what felt like eons ago now. “And now debuting in F1.”
If you sound like you’re in awe of him, it’s because you are. The odds were stacked against him in every way possible, and you already knew that, but hearing that he was practically plucked off the streets and dropped into McLaren is astounding to you. Most drivers spent their entire lives karting before breaking into a team, and it couldn’t have been easy for him to not only compete against that caliber, but on top of that, have to navigate the transition from racing a street car to a kart. Suddenly, his even temperament and intense dedication to kindness is even more impressive to you.
“Wow, Shua, I had no idea,” you breathe. He shrugs one shoulder as he finally sets his fork down and sits back, throwing an arm over the empty chair next to him and crossing his legs.
“It’s not something I dwell on too much,” he states, and you can tell he’s not just saying it to be modest.
If the commentators of F1 weren’t dedicated to mentioning Joshua was raised by a single mother with little money every single race, you’d have no idea. He has the same air of self-assuredness and poise his wealthy and nepo baby counterparts do. And after getting to know his mom, you know that confidence has everything to do with how he was raised.
“You did a really good job with him,” you say quietly.
His mom, who never once let go of your hand since you both finished eating, squeezes you and sighs happily, resting her head against yours. You smile and lean right back into her, trying not to think about how you never had this—how you might have traded your privileged upbringing for the struggles Joshua experienced if it meant that you at least had this kind of love.
“Thank you,” she says just as quietly, patting your hand with her free one. “The guilt has subsided for the most part. It seems silly to think about it too long when it was obviously worth it. Right, Josh?”
She asks it like she needs the reassurance that sacrificing her time with her child to provide a better life for him was worth it—like she needs the forgiveness. Joshua stands and slides himself into the space on the other side of his mom, his arms snaking around her. He even includes you, his arm reaching across her back and his hand hooking around the juncture where your neck meets your shoulder.
“Of course, eomma,” he says. “Look at my life. Everything is thanks to you. I won’t ever be able to thank you enough for all the sacrifices you made.”
Later, after you’ve said your goodbyes and have made promises to keep in touch via the numbers you exchanged, Joshua will walk you back to your hotel and you’ll think about how maybe his hunger to win isn’t driven by the thrill of the race the way the other drivers’ are. Maybe it’s driven by his duty to his mother. You’ll understand him a little bit more, and your own need to get him to the podium as many times as possible will increase exponentially.
“Oh my god!”
The screams are shrill and grating and have been going for a minute straight nonstop, but you can’t help the face-splitting grin as you watch your girls swarm an immediately flustered Joshua Hong.
“I can’t believe this!”
“I have your poster in my bedroom back home!”
“Oh my god!”
“My dad took me to see you at Silverstone in 2021! It was insane! You made podium that day!”
“Aw, that’s—” Whatever he was about to say is cut off by another piercing screech. He tries not to flinch and you try not to cackle.
“You’re my idol!”
“Oh my god!”
“You’re even more handsome in person!” Joshua throws you the most helpless look as some of the girls start to ooo and ahh at his face.
“Soooo handsome!”
“What’s your skincare routine?”
“Oh my god!”
“You look unreal! ML!” Eunchae, a younger student, looks back at you from where she’s sandwiched between two other girls pushing to get near the driver. “ML, isn’t he so pretty?!” She wags her eyebrows at you and your smile immediately drops as you glare at her. She simply giggles.
“Okay, girls!” you call, clapping your hands loudly. “Let’s maybe give the super duper pretty F1 legend some room, yes?” There’s another round of shrieks and laughing as Joshua rolls his eyes. “Take a seat, please.”
You never need to raise your voice with them; the students at the Academy are always respectful every season, and being one of the younger staff members, a lot of them treat you like some kind of revered older sister. The girls scramble to their seats and Joshua is finally able to fully enter the classroom, joining you where you’re leaning up against your desk at the front. He gives you a bewildered look.
“You hold so much power,” he mutters, smiling a little. You snort before gesturing to him.
“I don’t know if you guys know him, but this is Joshua Hong,” you say sarcastically, inspiring a new round of giggles. “He’s going to be spending time with us this season.”
There’s a chorus of excited gasps and whisper-shrieking at the news, the girls straightening up in their seats like they’re trying their best not to fully stand up in their elation. You know this was the last thing they expected after watching the news of Joshua’s sabbatical two days ago.
“Is this where you’ve been, ML?!” Sophia screeches, referring to your sudden departure to get Joshua, plus the full day you missed yesterday trying to get him situated at the Academy since a certain CEO insisted he begin immediately. A full day that included unceremoniously sending the current driving instructor off on a mandated vacation—not that the near 70-year-old minded at all.
“Oh my god,” Megan gasps again, face turning pale. “Are you going back to being his engineer after his sabbatical, Mick?” The others look horrified at the mere thought. She turns to the driver now, having zero issues with glaring at the two-time world champion. “Are you stealing Mickie back?! Because you can’t have her!”
“Yeah!” Eunchae throws her support behind her. “ML is my favorite instructor!”
“Okay, well you’re not special, she’s mine too!” someone shouts.
“Who do you think you are!” Joshua balks at that one.
“She’s probably contracted,” Saki points out quietly. The girls within her vicinity nod in agreement but she mostly goes unheard by the other more raucous students.
“I am not stealing… Mickie…?” Joshua asks, turning to you with one eyebrow raised in question. You shake your head and mutter you’ll explain later. “Not that I could. She’s made it very clear how much she loves it here.” The entire room seems to sag with relief, straightened postures all gone now.
You smile. “Though I will say, I am flattered by how fiercely you all feel about me,” you say. “But no, I’m not going anywhere. Now if you would all be quiet and let the man introduce himself, maybe we’ll be able to tell you what he’s doing here.” There isn’t a single noise from the girls as they all stare up at the two of you with wide, expectant eyes.
“Hi,” Joshua greets them with a chuckle, raising his hand in a small wave. “I’m Joshua. You can call me Josh or just Hong.”
Some students start whispering, probably about how crazy it is to be told they can call the best driver on the grid by a nickname, regardless of how basic it is. You’d react the same if you were told the same by any of the drivers you admired at their age.
“I am currently on sabbatical from F1, as you…” he gestures to Megan who looks like a deer caught in headlights.
“Megan,” she informs him.
He nods. “Ah, yes. I’m on a break right now, as Megan so generously reminded everyone,” he says, smiling. Both of you laugh a little when she sinks in her seat, blushing as she mouths a silent apology. “And I’m actually here to help with instructing you this season.”
If you thought the screaming was loud before, you were obviously sorely mistaken. The students jump out of their seats, all shouting over the other as they immediately begin dreaming up fantasies about being Joshua Hong’s singular prodigy F1 Academy class. You laugh as you let them revel in the joy and excitement of the moment, knowing the next few months are going to be incredibly rough on them physically and mentally in comparison. Plus, it will be a fond memory for them no matter where in Formula they end up.
Joshua grins at you as you both wait for their energy to simmer back down; you know from experience it could be a while. “They’re so funny.”
You return his smile, shaking your head as you do. “Definitely a bunch of characters this season,” you agree. “Don’t tell any other graduating class, but I’ve had the most fun with this group so far and all we’ve done is prep.”
Both of you watch as Megan bounces over to Saki, who has remained in her seat the entire time, excitedly grabbing her shoulders and shaking violently as she shouts nonsense. Saki lets her, simply smiling up at her though she makes no move to get up or make even a fraction of the same noise.
He snickers. “Reminds me of high school.”
“It basically is high school except if you gave all the teen girls a 1,200-pound car and let them drive up to 165 miles per hour,” you say nonchalantly.
“Fun,” he says just as the girls finally begin to take their seats once more. You wave your hands to quiet down the last few shouting students.
“Like CEO Park said, the season is only three months away,” you remind them. “We’re incredibly lucky to have Joshua—” ever the complainer, the driver coughs loudly at your use of his full name. “—here with us,” you say, frowning at him briefly for the interruption, “but even with how early we have him, we’re already behind if we’re going to get you a proper curriculum.”
“How behind?” someone in the back asks.
“How long have you been here again?” you ask, feigning ignorance. “However long that is. That’s how behind we are.”
“What?! We’ve been here for two months!”
You nod. “Yeah, and that’s two, whole months of learning from someone who isn’t Joshua Hong… a.k.a. your teacher.”
“Right…” Sophia breathes. “We’ve just been learning from a random grandpa…”
“Sophia!” the girl next to her shoves her.
“What?!”
You try to ignore their antics and continue. “Your original driving instructor is on vacation—”
“Did you guys fire him?!”
“I mean, if it was for Joshua Hong, then I’m fine with it.”
“Well, let’s not start rumors,” Joshua laughs nervously.
“How will he feed his family?!”
“His family is grown,” Megan scoffs. “Also, he’s a millionaire, hello?”
“Right,” Sophia says again.
“Girls, please. He’s not fired. He’s on vacation,” you sigh, squeezing the bridge of your nose. There are a few apologies as you try to get your train of thought back on track. “Joshua—”
He coughs again, louder and more openly in your face this time. You try not to curl your lip at him in disgust in front of the girls, so you instead glare at him for a moment.
“Aw, you guys really are best friends!” Your head whips toward the students to find Eunchae smiling widely. The observation takes you by surprise because of course he is, but after two years, you’re not sure that’s something he’d want to call you anymore.
“How can you tell? They’re just… standing there,” another student deadpans.
“How can you not? They’re doing the whole glaring and giggling and silent communicating thing!” You and Joshua frown at each other. “See!”
“We’re never going to hear what Mickie has to say,” Saki sighs, this time loud and clear. She isn’t annoyed or exasperated; she says it the way she says most things. As fact.
“Okay, okay!” Megan nods. “Everybody shut up now. For real.”
“Please stop telling each other to shut up,” you remind them. You’ve been reminding them since they first came together in your classroom two months ago. You glance at the clock. “You menaces have wasted so much time today. Gym is already in 15 minutes and all we did was discuss the morning simulation and scream over a man.”
“Once again, sorry I was born this way,” he mutters to you.
“Inside jokes! Bestie behavior!” Eunchae accuses.
“Be quiet!” Megan whispers.
“Look, we’re obviously not going to get through anything else today,” you say, glaring at the clock. “But before I release you to swarm Joshua—”
“Sorry, what?”
“—I want us all to be on the same page. Joshua is going to shadow me for the rest of this week, just so he can gain his footing and learn all of you menaces’ names. Then first thing next week, you’ll be hitting the simulators to show him what he’s working with.” There’s a hum of nervous murmuring. “You’ll each be running five laps on Silverstone so he can assess what he needs to do with each of you,” you inform them.
“Five?!” Sophia exclaims. “That’s it?!”
These girls might lack decorum but they don’t lack confidence. If they’re nervous, you know it’s because they fear they’ll choke in front of Joshua and lose the chance to make up for it in time.
“Yup,” Joshua says casually, making you smile at the fact that he’s comfortable enough to answer questions himself. “A lot can happen in five laps. I’ll honestly be able to tell a lot about your driving style, reaction times, and emotion regulation within the first two.”
“And the other three…?” Megan asks, raising an eyebrow.
“To see how well you do under the pressure of a world-renowned driver watching,” you answer. It shuts everyone up even though Joshua laughs and shakes his head.
“She’s kidding,” he assures the wide-eyed girls as you mouth that you aren’t. “It’s just to confirm whatever I take note of.”
You shrug a shoulder. “Okay, well then it’s for me to see how well you do under the pressure of a world-renowned driver watching, and trust me, I will be using what I learn about you in class.” The girls look just as horrified at that, and you don’t bother trying to assuage the nerves; it’ll be a million times worse when the season starts. “Once the simulations are done and we have all the proper data, from there… well…” You look over at Joshua, whose eyes are on you, following your lead. You sigh. “We get you ready to kick ass by the time the season starts.”
“I have a question!”
“If it has nothing to do with the curriculum, no.” Eunchae’s hand immediately goes down, making you smirk. “Okay, go ahead and spend your last ten minutes annoying your new teacher all your non-curriculum related questions.”
Joshua barely has a word of protest out before he’s surrounded by aspiring female drivers and dozens of questions. He throws you a few helpless looks, but you just stand off to the side, smiling at the image of a flustered Joshua Hong bombarded by the class that the Academy’s very first F1 driver will graduate from.
This season is going to be the season, and you’re sure of it.
“Your CEO seriously scares me.”
You look up from the several new car designs scattered across your desk to find Joshua leaning against the frame of your open office door. You smile, leaning back in your chair and letting your neck and shoulder muscles relax for the first time in two hours.
“She definitely knows what she wants and she will not hesitate to steam roll everyone in her way,” you agree. “But I’ve grown to admire it… or else the fear will eat me alive.”
He laughs and fakes a shudder. “I’ll have nightmares.” You shake your head at him but laugh along anyway. “Hey,” he says when his laughs peter off, looking like he just remembered something. “Why do the students call you Mickie and ML?”
“Take a wild guess.” He tilts his head, and when he doesn’t come up with an answer, you nod at the McLaren poster on your wall. “Ah,” he nods. “McLaren.”
“Mhm,” you hum affirmatively. “They won’t let me forget.”
“Do you want to forget?”
He keeps his face carefully blank, but it’s clear what he’s asking. It’s easy for you to immediately shake your head. “Never. Don’t tell them because I pretend to make a fuss over it sometimes, but I love the nickname.”
He smiles softly, leaning his head against the frame in exhaustion. He’s spent this entire first day being pulled in every direction by students, by staff, by you, signing all kinds of forms, completing random trainings, and introducing himself to everyone (though absolutely no one actually needed a legitimate introduction to Joshua Hong). You know he’s, at best, in dire need of a nap and at worst, rethinking all his choices. Although if it were the latter, he would never tell you.
He doesn’t say anything initially, simply staring at you from where he uses the doorframe as a vertical makeshift bed. You got used to this a long time ago; Joshua was constantly going quiet and the staring apparently came hand in hand with that. You asked him once what he was thinking about whenever that happened, and he said he was taking time to just enjoy the moment. It was a sentiment you could appreciate, especially with how fast-paced his life was. You were used to it, but you couldn’t help the way it still made your heart beat violently in your chest. It seems you’re constantly stuck in a battle between wanting Joshua’s attention on you and wanting to be invisible to him.
“I like it here,” he says eventually.
“Do you?” you ask, unable to keep the excitement from seeping into your question.
He smiles a little wider and nods against the frame. “Yeah. I do.”
You look down at your designs. Your final choice is due to Jihyo in the morning, but right now, you care more about making Joshua feel welcome, especially since you were the one who forced him to be here. You look back up at him. “Want to come over and eat some dinner? Tell me more about how much you love it here—”
“Like,” he corrects. You ignore it.
“How much you love it here, and maybe help me with all this crap?” You gesture weakly to the papers covering every last inch of your desk.
He lifts his head as his eyes lazily drop to the surface. His eyebrows rise. “Designs?” You nod. He grins. “Hell yeah.”
You smile. “Thought so.”
It’s nice to know that even though everything feels like it’s changed, it seems this is one of the things about Joshua that hasn’t: his near-neurotic need to be thoroughly involved in every single decision made around his car. Though this isn’t his car, he will be teaching the girls the best way to race them, and you know he’s going to want his frustratingly big, talented (veiny) hands all over anything having to do with it.
It doesn’t take you long to pack up, say bye to Jihyo, and lead Joshua through the public transportation system of London, to your favorite burger spot, and to your apartment. And as you’re putting the key in your door, you’re horrified to realize this will be the first time Joshua is in your home, and it will only be the second time (save for your recruitment two days ago) hanging out knowing that you’re head over heels in love with him.
You get brief visions of Joshua cringing in disgust at whatever horrors lie behind this door, and you shudder. Obviously, you didn’t quite think this through.
“Mmm, is everything okay?” Joshua asks, looking at you with curious eyes when you don’t turn your key in the lock. “Your precious smashburgers are going to get cold.”
You throw an irritated glare at him before shaking your head. “I just… um, I’m suddenly remembering that I’m not sure when the last time I cleaned my apartment was…?” You roll your lips in between your teeth in embarrassment.
He gives you one of his big, crinkly smiles. “Oh my god, who cares?” You stare at him blankly and blink once. He rolls his eyes and sighs. “You do. Of course you do. Okay, fine.” He presses his back against the wall opposite your door and cocks an eyebrow at you. “How long do you want?”
You smile bashfully. “Give me five minutes?”
“Three,” he deadpans, lifting the brown paper bag he’s carrying so that it’s in line with his head. “Cold burgers were not part of the deal, L/N.”
“You make a good point, Hong,” you mutter, quickly turning your lock and opening your door just enough to squeeze through without letting the man see anything inside. “Three it is!”
You slam the door and let your backpack and laptop case fall to the floor as you assess the damage. You wince.
Three bras hanging on the backs of your breakfast stools, air dried from when you did laundry last week. Spreadsheets, driver profiles, and contracts you printed out because you were getting a migraine staring at your laptop until three in the morning over the weekend—all strewn across your entire dining table, some even on the floor. The incomplete LEGO McLaren F1 MCL60 on your coffee table that you foolishly started the night before the girls arrived at the Academy and still haven’t continued (you’re sure there are several blocks missing by now). Your yoga mat rolled out in front of the TV from when you told yourself you’d find a video online to walk you through a workout but ended up falling asleep on the floor instead. A mug, a glass, and a small pan from when you drank your coffee and ate your pancakes straight out of the pan this morning, rushing to get to the Academy before Joshua did. You succeeded but at what cost? Now you have to figure out what to prioritize cleaning in the three measly minutes you have.
You figure the LEGO set will take too long to set aside and you don’t want to risk losing any more blocks than you possibly already have. The bras are a no-brainer and are already in your hands, being thrown into your bedroom haphazardly with the door quickly shut behind them as you decide the dishes need to go too. You wash and scrub like a madman, and you thank god for the wildly expensive nonstick set Jihyo got you as a housewarming gift when she saw your sad 12-year-old pan because everything cleans easily and quickly. You manage to get your yoga mat rolled up and thrown into your spare bedroom and are in the middle of organizing your dining table when Joshua knocks once. He doesn’t bother waiting, simply opening the door and yelling, “Burger time! I’m coming in!”
You smile. “It’s fine, come in. I just don’t want to hear about how messy it is in here, okay? I am barely home and when I am, I only really sleep and—”
“I love it,” he says as the door clicks shut behind him. You roll your eyes and are about to make an exaggerated quip about his beautiful Barcelona mansion when you look up at him.
As always, it’s in the eyes that you clearly see he’s being absolutely genuine as he looks around, smiling at every little thing in here—the art of circuits and cars you have on the walls, awards you received throughout your career, books on the shelves that you read ages ago and haven’t touched since. He looks through everything like they’re all the most important things he’ll ever lay eyes on.
You try not to stammer as you pile your spreadsheets together. “Oh. Thanks.”
“It’s so you. I love it. Feels like a home. It’s not messy at all,” he assures you, putting the burgers on your kitchen counter before walking over to your coffee table. You could’ve guessed that would be the first thing he’d notice, and maybe you subconsciously chose to keep the LEGO set out because of that. He points at it and gasps. “This is sick! I have a friend who loves putting these kinds of things together. Didn’t realize F1 had LEGO builds.”
You nod as you decide the dining table is tidy enough to eat at without getting the crumbs and grease of your dinner on your work. “Yeah, it’s the MCL60. The—”
“The last car we raced together,” he finishes, glancing at you and smiling. It somehow hurts more to see how happy that makes him than it would if he was just angry at you for everything that happened the last day you both raced the MCL60. “This is awesome.”
You set the table as you let him absentmindedly work on your car. When you finish and he doesn’t seem like he plans on doing anything else, you ditch the table and bring the plates, napkins, and burgers to him on the couch.
“Thank you,” he says distractedly as you set his burger next to the car. He places three more blocks before reaching for his plate and leaning back into the couch. He laughs when he notices you’re already several bites into your burger. “Good?”
You nod, cheeks too full to say anything. He takes his first bite and his eyes get so wide, you have to try your best to keep from choking as you start laughing. “See,” you say when you’re sure you’re not going to die. “Good!”
“Amazing,” he insists, shaking his head. “This just made me realize I haven’t had a good burger since, like, May.”
You frown, thinking back to what race he had in May. “Miami? Why not Austin or Vegas?”
He snorts. “BBQ for Austin, buffet for Vegas, Miami for everything else I miss from the States.”
You smile. “And now you’re having an amazing burger in London.”
He shakes his head regretfully as he takes another massive bite and shamelessly talks with his mouth full—another thing you got used to a long time ago. “Feels like cheating.”
“Kinda does, huh?” you giggle.
He watches you in amusement, chewing through his insane bites. You both eat in comfortable silence, smiling or laughing a little for no reason whenever you make eye contact. When you’re both done, you go to collect his plate but he refuses, collecting yours instead and washing both plates for you. You’re glad you decided on cleaning the dishes over the LEGO set.
“You can keep building the car if you want,” you say as you go to lay out the designs you brought home from work on the dining table, effectively replacing one work mess with another. “I think I can settle on the final tweaks pretty fast.”
“How about I help you with designs because I might actually lose my mind not getting a say in them,” he starts, making you snort, “and then I finish your car for you since knowing you, you will never get back to it.”
You stop to look up and you find him drying his hands on your towel, smiling to himself. It’s been two years and the smallest things still take your breath away. Like the fact that he knows your life is almost entirely run by your career—that having a LEGO set to finish is just a part of a fantasy where you do cutesy things like that to unwind. Or the fact that he’ll finish it for you at all. Even now, you feel like you’ve been punched in the gut just watching him dry his hands. His profile, the way his lips constantly look like they’re keeping a secret, the strands of hair that have fallen away from the rest and brush against his forehead. Your gaze follows his arms down. His large hands, adorned with silver rings—all of them always changing except the pinkie ring on his right hand. From head to toe, there isn’t a part of him that doesn’t make you feel like you’re incapable of speaking—like you’ve never even known a single word in the English language to begin with.
He finishes drying his hands and looks up. You quickly avert your eyes back to the papers before you, and you sit down abruptly, barely noticing the way your chair screeches against the floor because of how loud your thoughts are.
“So what are we working with?” he asks, taking the seat next to you instead of across. You try not to stiffen when he reaches into your space to pick up one of the designs.
You clear your throat and force yourself to explain where you’re at: almost completely done, just running through some last tweaks that your team of engineers have suggested, each of them coming up with several solutions you need to sift through and pick. And as you continue talking, your nerves settle and you both get into a familiar flow you didn’t realize you sorely missed until now. There’s no one else you can talk like this with and be assured they’re having just as good a time as you are. You walk him through each decision made for the current iteration of the car and why it was made. You even answer questions about the cars from past seasons and the issues you faced before, and you’re pleased to find that although he still doesn’t know a lot of the technical things—as all people with no background in engineering wouldn’t—his opinions and input are just as valuable as they always were when you were still at McLaren. He gives you the most valuable perspective to have: the driver’s itself.
Hours pass and even when you both have final decisions made to present to Jihyo in the morning, he insists on helping you get through the rest of the work he noticed despite your frantic three-minute tidying. And when that’s done, he also insists on finishing the LEGO set, though you do more watching and bossing around than actual helping (“So typical of a race engineer,” according to Joshua).
You’re not sure when either of you fall asleep. The last thing you remember is laying on your stomach on the couch, watching him look for the correct blocks through heavy lids, and the next thing you know, you’re in your bed, waking up in the same clothes from the night before, your nightstand clock reading 5:01 a.m. And when you walk out to your living room in a confused daze, wrapped in your blanket, you find Joshua draped across your couch. He’s far too big to be sleeping on it. You can’t help but pout a little at his sleeping form under the jacket he was wearing last night—in place of a blanket he didn’t bother waking you up for. He’s on his side facing the TV, one arm tucked under the throw pillow under his head and the other hanging off the couch, along with one leg. He’s practically half off the sofa. You gently remove his jacket and slip your blanket off your shoulders, placing it on him instead. He stirs under it but stays asleep, readjusting and immediately bunching the blanket under his chin with his fists. You try hard not to, but you can’t help when your hand reaches out and brushes the strands of hair on his forehead back. His lips twitch a little and he exhales through his nose.
You retreat back into your room, quietly showering and getting ready for work before coming back out to cook breakfast (and wash the dishes immediately after). Joshua doesn’t wake up during the entirety of it, so you set his plate on the coffee table in front of him next to the now finished MCL60, and yours across from him. You take your seat on the floor facing him, enjoying being able to openly stare at him without being scared you’ll get caught. Then, when you know you’re both about 30 minutes from officially running late for work, you wake him up.
“Shua,” you start softly as you begin cutting into your pancake. “Shuaaaaa.” He groans in his sleep and you smile around your fork. “Shua, I made pancaaaakes,” you sing-song gently in between bites. “They’re yummyyyyy. I even made eggs and bacooooon.”
He doesn’t stir. You roll your eyes.
“Joshua Hong,” you say a little louder.
“‘S not my name,” he mutters sleepily.
“Okay, I’ll call you Shua… but only if you wake up.” Nothing again. A moment later he snores once and you sigh. “Joshua, we’re going to be late.”
A whiny groan escapes him. “Five minutes, baby,” he breathes. “‘M tired.”
You freeze, eyes wide. “Shua,” you call a little more sharply.
“Mmm,” he hums, turning on his side so that his back is to you like that will help drown your voice out.
“Joshua!” your voice escalates to a shout as the panic of him calling you a pet name in his sleep starts to take you in its grasp. “Wake the fuck up!” you practically screech as you take your house slipper and throw it at his head. “I made you breakfast, you idiot!”
“Ungh!” he grunts, turning over, sitting up on his elbows, and looking around with barely open eyes, a deep frown etched on his face. You momentarily forget what he just called you as you suppress a giggle at how disheveled and disoriented he looks. “What…?”
You point at his plate with your fork. His gaze follows before going back up to your face. You smile tightly and squeak, “Breakfast!”
“Mmph.” He runs a hand over his face and groans as he turns over on his stomach, wraps the blanket around him more tightly, and squishes his cheek against the couch. You think he’s fallen back asleep until he mumbles, “Feed me.”
You scoff. “I already cooked for you and you want me to spoonfeed you too?”
“I carried you to bed and tucked you in last night, you monster,” he grumbles, mouth barely forming around the words as he drifts back to a half-asleep state. “Feed me.”
Your cheeks get hot at the information, and when you think about the three bras you threw into your room and had to step over numerous times this morning, you start to feel like your face is on fire.
“Food,” he demands when you say and do nothing. You glare at him as you wonder if it’s too late to tell Jihyo you regret all of this and you both need to fire him and send him back to Spain immediately.
“The nerve,” you complain under your breath as you set your own fork down and scoot to his side of the coffee table. “Helpless, little driver needs his race engineer to do everything for him.”
You glare harder when you notice traces of amusement on his mouth. You begin cutting his pancake, and when you bring it up to his lips and he smells the sweetness of the syrup right under his nose, he lifts his head just enough to be able to open his mouth. You feed him, wincing when his lips close around the fork with his eyes still shut. They’re a little chapped from sleeping in the coldness of your living room, but you still desperately want to press your lips to them.
“S’good,” he mumbles, nodding as he lets his head fall back against the fabric. You sigh when a light snore immediately follows.
You call Jihyo and let her know both of you will be a little late for the morning meeting, and you ignore the way she cackles at the fact that Joshua very clearly spent the night at your place. He doesn’t wake up until the plates are empty, cleaned, and in the drying rack, and you finally (and violently) yank the blanket off him and return it to your room. By the time you’ve both stopped by his hotel room and gotten him a change of clothes, you’re nearly an hour late. And when you can’t escape the smirks Jihyo throws at you during your design presentation (and throughout the entire day), you have zero qualms about blaming Joshua.
AUSTRALIAN GRAND PRIX 2018 FP3
“Radio check.”
“Sunday morning, rain is falling.”
“Okay, okay, enough.”
You roll your eyes as you shake your head at the driver’s surprisingly amazing singing. Your boss suppresses his own smile as he watches over your shoulder, supervising your last practice run of the weekend with the McLaren rookie. You’ve already spent an insane amount of time with Joshua since meeting him. From the jump, both of you were on the same page about needing to get along well to create the best possible conditions for racing—conditions founded on trust. Day in and day out, you two were working together, taking breaks together, eating together, napping in Wonwoo’s office together, and following each other around the McLaren facility every moment in between, just getting to know each other.
You’re confident the two of you will work just fine; you’re confident the chemistry and compatibility will translate onto the track. Still, ever since you secured this position, this weekend has been keeping you up at night, worried that something will go wrong and your already frail one-year contract will be torn to shreds right in front of you.
“Enough with the singing or the song?” Joshua asks, breaking you out of your thoughts as he takes what would be his formation lap if he makes it to the race tomorrow—when he makes it to the race tomorrow.
“Yes,” you answer.
“Wow,” he sighs. “My mom tells me I could’ve been an idol in another life and you don’t even want to hear?”
“Your mom has to be nice to you.”
There are a few beats of silence before he reluctantly says, “Fair.”
You snort. “I’m kidding. You actually have a really nice voice,” you assure him as you watch his stats on your monitor. “I’m just… a little nervous. Especially because a man named Wonwoo is breathing down my neck.”
He immediately steps away and drops into the seat next to you, glaring at you before turning to his own monitor. You grin. “Sounds like a micromanager.”
“Watch it,” Wonwoo cuts into the line. He sounds intimidating, but you’ve worked with him long enough to know he’s a good sport, and Joshua has already hung out with the man a few times outside of work.
“Ope,” your driver squeaks. “Sorry.” Wonwoo smiles but doesn’t respond, and the line falls silent again. A moment later, Joshua asks, “Why are you nervous? We’re just practicing.”
You know that he knows it’s not just practicing. This weekend is his debut into F1, and this is Free Practice 3, his last practice before he goes into qualifying later today. The first two practice sessions were largely about fine-tuning the car to his needs and making sure he felt comfortable. This last session is going to be the biggest indicator of where Joshua will fall for qualifying because it’s the one that will focus on his timing. “Just practicing,” you repeat with a scoff. “Why am I more nervous than you?”
He laughs easily and you do your best to stifle the sudden urge to strangle him and his easygoing attitude. “I’m saving my nerves for tomorrow.”
“We need to get through qualifying first.”
“We will,” he says it with so much conviction, that if he left it there, it would be enough.
Even with the stress of having such a temporary contract (that Joshua doesn’t even know about), you would accept it and believe him. Because in the short time you’ve been working with him, you know he wouldn’t lead you astray. He doesn’t stop there, though.
“I trust you. You trust me,” he states, not even needing to ask you to confirm that you do. You’re glad he doesn’t. “And that’s going to be enough. Okay?”
You exhale slowly and nod more to yourself than anybody else. “Okay.”
“Okay!” he shouts suddenly, making you flinch. The man hardly ever raises his voice; in fact, he’s so softspoken, you had your volume turned up fairly high. Wonwoo snorts and turns it down on the monitor for you. “Where do you want me, boss?”
You look over at the performance strategist, who quickly rattles off numbers at you. When he’s done, you ask Joshua, “Everything’s feeling good?”
“Yup,” he answers, popping the p. “Drives like a dream.”
“Then you’re ready to go,” you tell him. “We’ll begin taking your time when you cross the starting line—about four seconds out.”
“Copy.” His voice comes out lower and with a bit of an edge to it, and you realize this is what it sounds like when Joshua Hong is locking in. It gives you a bit of a thrill. “What are we aiming for?”
He would need at least a 1:16 lap to safely pass qualifying later, and 1:14—his average time for this track on the simulator—would be entirely too fast. It would actually be a record-breaking pace for this track, and it would show your cards to the other teams too early in the season. You have to sandbag it at least a little, no matter how badly you want to see him full send.
“Let’s give it 95%,” you decide. That would put him at around a 1:17 lap—enough to be in the middle of the pack while keeping how fast the car really is a secret.
“You got it.”
Joshua crosses the starting line and becomes a different person. He becomes one with his car, flying with it, turning with it, groaning with it, and ultimately forgetting anyone else around him exists. His breathing is more labored and his communication on the line is more clipped, brief, and straightforward. He doesn’t make conversation the way some of the other drivers do, so you don’t either, following his lead and giving him what he needs to concentrate. He finishes the first lap at 1:18:32.
“You can afford to shave half a second,” you tell him. He confirms his understanding before going for his next lap.
“Big guy said to send him at 90% his regular speed,” Wonwoo reminds you offline.
“And I say 95,” you shoot back, smiling sweetly at him. He sighs deeply through his nose.
“You should be doing whatever you can to extend your contract. That includes listening to the CEO. Y’know, the dude in charge of said contract?”
You scoff and put yourself on mute. “Wonwoo, sending Joshua at 90% his full power would put him at almost two minutes a lap. The longest this track takes is a minute and a half! Do you really think I’m going to let him come in last a full 30 seconds after everyone else?” Wonwoo winces. “Exactly! It was a ridiculous thing to demand in the first place!”
“It’s your job on the line,” he reminds you.
“Yeah, well, it’s his too,” you say. “Those drivers are already writing him off as an underdog rookie that’s not good enough to be here, and even worse to them, not rich enough to be here,” you point out. You’ve overheard enough of them talk about Joshua to know he has no friends on that track right now—not even in his own teammate. “Those assholes are always going to think he’s beneath them. I’ll sandbag it and make him seem average but I’m not going to make him the laughing stock of this weekend just because ‘the big guy’ said so.”
Wonwoo has nothing to respond to that with. He just nods, a ghost of a smile on his lips as he turns back to his monitor, allowing you to work. You unmute yourself and continue to do your job. The trash talk isn’t even something that bothers Joshua; he’s so focused on himself and his own growth that he doesn’t find it interesting enough to tune in to what the other drivers are saying about him on his downtime. But it bothers you. Because that’s your driver for the next year, and he’s your friend now too. Plus, you refuse to let people think you’re the race engineer for a loser. This race is going to be the last time anyone has anything stupid to say about Joshua Hong. His next lap comes in at 1:17:52, and though it fluctuates each time by anywhere from a quarter of a second to a half second, he averages just under 1:17:30 across all 13 laps he takes, and you’re more than pleased with his performance.
It turns out, though, that McLaren’s CEO is not. As soon as Joshua is back in the garage cooling down as the engineers check his vehicle and debrief, the tall, daunting man is at your side, giving you a tight smile—the one that tells you he’s trying not to make a scene right now—asking to speak with you privately.
“I thought we agreed we’d start Joshua at 90% power during FP3,” he states once you’re alone.
“I made a call to put him at 95,” you say, fighting to keep your voice from wavering. As stubborn as you are, you’re still human and you’re still afraid he’ll rip this opportunity away from you. “He finished with an average time that put him at P16. I think that’s still sufficient as far as sandbagging goes, and we don’t have to humiliate him in the process. The other driver got P5. I don’t see why it would matter where Joshua lands after that.”
He stares at you hard before he smirks and shrugs. “Well, if the first year race engineer says it’s sufficient, then it must be,” he says, snorting. “You’ve got spunk and I can appreciate it—I’ll give you that.” His expression turns serious again. “But come qualifying, I don't want any surprises. Hong can finish any place you want him, except for first. He doesn’t get pole position.”
You fight to refrain from glaring. You don’t have to ask why; you know it’s because he wants the other McLaren driver there. CEOs are here for one thing, and that’s to secure the constructor’s championship, and right now they’re putting all their hopes into Joshua’s teammate. You should technically align your goals with theirs, and up until a few months ago, you were. But Joshua is the kind of person who’s hard not to prioritize, and you decided long ago without even knowing it that you will be prioritizing him. Winning him a driver’s championship is a lot more important to you than where McLaren lands at the end of the season.
“Are we clear?” your CEO asks.
“Crystal.”
“Perfect. Good job today.” He dismisses you.
You leave with a genuine smile on your face because in a handful of minutes, the man annihilated any trace of nervousness you had about this weekend. You couldn’t give less of a shit about qualifying or pole position. You’re getting Joshua on the podium, and you’ll laugh in the CEO’s face when you point out that you were told to stay away from pole position, but he didn’t say anything about winning the race. Joshua trusts you, and you’re going to deliver.
You watch the girls stretch with each other as they all wait to start their five laps on the simulator. Joshua stands next to you, tilting his head back and forth too, like he’s warming his own neck up for a race. You smile but don’t point out the habit.
“You remember my debut race?” he asks, a McLaren cap pulled down so low over his face, you can barely see his eyes. You give up trying to and turn back to the students.
“Of course,” you answer. “It almost lost me my job before I even really started.”
Joshua shakes his head. “Now that I know your contract was so… temporary, I don’t understand why you took the risk getting me to the podium.”
You think about the day of that race. You had Joshua stay back for qualifying, snagging an easy P11—a nice, safe middle-of-the-pack position that would gain the attention of absolutely no one. Come race time, no one was prepared for the random driver who placed so low to dominate most of the race. Then, he brought it home, and he became the first-ever rookie to win his debut race. His teammate placed P4, booted off the podium because of Joshua. And you reveled in it. A first place trophy for your driver, and you got to piss everyone off while you were at it. Even when the CEO was screaming in your face and Wonwoo was freaking out over your position, you were high off the feeling of everyone looking at Joshua the way they did that day—like he was a god amongst men. And no one could stay mad at you either; within a week, Joshua had several interviews and appearances lined up, and F1 was immediately obsessed with his rags to riches story. After a few races, even the CEO was putting all his resources behind Joshua too. And sure, he tried to give the star rookie to his nepo baby nephew at one point, but he didn’t. Because at the end of the day, Joshua became a star with you backing him.
Looking back at it now, you’re not sure how you didn’t realize how much you loved him sooner. Back then, you told yourself it was your pride. Or that it was your intense need to win. To prove to the world you and Joshua weren’t a pair to skip over. But now, you see it for what it is: even as early as it was, you loved him too much to let anyone make a mockery of him—to let anyone be a priority over him.
“I needed you on the podium,” you say simply. It’s as honest as you can be without having to sacrifice a more important, more sacred truth. “You deserved it and the world needed to see it. And they did.”
He smiles bashfully as he nudges your elbow with his. You know it’s his shy smile because it shows none of his teeth and the corners turn down a little in a weak attempt to suppress his happiness. “Are you only being nice to me so I don’t go too hard on your students?” he jokes.
“Yes,” you answer immediately, making him laugh. You grin at the sound, and you’re thankful for the segue. “You ready to become a teacher?”
He exhales through his mouth then claps and rubs his hands together. “Absolutely. I’m going to make legends out of the girlies.”
Joshua hasn’t even been here a full week and he’s already picking up random phrases and lingo from the students and using it every moment he can. You roll your eyes but smile anyway.
“Alright!” you call across the room at the girls. “Any volunteers to go first? If not, we’ll just go in random order.”
“Actually,” Joshua cuts in, surprising you. He quietly asks if he can change things up and you motion for him to take it away before you step aside, all-too-willing—as always—to give him the driver’s seat. “I came up with an order I want to see. So we’re going to have Sophia go first.”
The student perks up from where she’s seated on the ground, immediately untangling herself from the stretch she’s in as she stands and grins at her new driving teacher. “Good choice!” she says, glossy lips turning into her signature smirk as she looks over her shoulder at her classmates. “Watch and learn, girlies.”
You sigh but don’t say anything, allowing Joshua to handle his class however he wants to. And he just smiles good-naturedly like he always does. The other girls scoff and roll their eyes, though most of them are smiling too because they’ve lived with Sophia for two months now; they know she’s too confident for her own good and incredibly full of herself, but they also know she’d lay down on the track in the middle of a grand prix before she let anyone or anything hurt any of them.
“Ready?” Joshua asks, motioning to the simulator. Sophia climbs up the rig like she and the other students have several times before.
“Born ready,” she says as she settles into the chair and starts strapping herself in.
The simulator is probably the most expensive thing the Academy has. It’s a top tier, state-of-the-art system that boasts a 360 ultra high definition screen, perfectly mimics the F4 car the girls will be driving, and recreates the conditions of every track in the world to the last crack and pebble. It’s in a dark, concrete room, and it reminds you of playing video games until the sun rises—thrilling but also kind of depressing.
“Okay, the rest of you, go watch in the waiting room,”Joshua orders. There are TVs that will show both Sophia in the rig and what she’s seeing on the screen waiting for the girls in there.
The students file out and when it’s just the three of you left, Joshua nods. “Alright, we’ll go into the control room and I’ll evaluate you from in there while Y/N—ML works with you.” You smirk at how bad he is at referring to you by your Academy nicknames.
“Got it, Josh!” Sophia chirps, making you shake your head in amusement.
“Good luck, kid,” you call as the two of you exit into the neighboring control room—a space with one wall entirely made up of screens showing Sophia at different angles, the simulation itself, and her stats. It’s usually full of engineers tapping away on their monitors on an official evaluation day, but today, it’s just you and Joshua.
You take a seat at one of the many computers and put your headphones on as the driver plops down next to you.
“So why Sophia?” you ask as you pull up what you need on your monitor.
“I think you’ll get it when we’re done,” Joshua says without looking away from the screens.
You turn away from your computer to make fun of him for being so mysterious, but when you look at him, you’re thrust into one of those moments that leaves you shellshocked and breathless. He’s not doing anything special. Actually, he’s slouched in his seat, half manspreading, and his arms are crossed as he frowns at the screen in concentration, so really, it’s the opposite of special because you imagine this is what he looked like as a moody, street-racing teenager. But his hat is pulled down low, and for once, you can’t tell what he’s thinking because you can’t see his eyes, and you’re forced to take in everything else about him. His lips and the way they part slightly when he seems to mentally take note of something. A jawline that could cut glass. His Adam’s apple bobbing when he swallows nothing. How thick his neck is from years of training it to handle the G-force of F1. The way his long hair pokes out the back of his hat, slightly curling up against the nape of his neck like they can’t bear to be apart from him for a second. You almost scoff at his hair. Is this rock bottom? Being jealous of his hair?
“Ready, Sophia?” he asks into a microphone that feeds into both her headset and the waiting room.
“Yup!” she shouts, making you wince. You turn down her volume and Joshua laughs.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry for all the times I shouted into my mic,” he says, tilting his head up a tiny bit so he can see you better from under the lid of his hat. The apology makes you realize it’s the first time he’s ever seen you actually do your job.
“You should be,” you joke. “You should be especially sorry for how loudly and how often you sang Maroon 5.”
Joshua grins mischievously at that. “Never.”
You roll your eyes as you unmute yourself and speak to Sophia. “Okay, we’ll take a formation lap, then your evaluation begins,” you tell her.
“Got it.”
“I believe the word you’re looking for is ‘copy,’” you correct her. Joshua laughs, probably thinking of all the lingo he had to learn too.
“Right, right. Copy.”
Sophia’s evaluation starts not long after that, and her first lap goes smoothly, aside from all the gloating she does to no one but herself. At any other stage of your life, it might have annoyed you, but you just smile at it now, a little fond of all the random bursts that include: “I’m the gnarliest bitch on this track,” “I’m the shit!” and your personal favorite, “I am Sophia La-motherfuckin’-forteza!” Though as a teacher, you do have to tell her to stop cursing. On her third lap, just when you can tell she’s starting to get a little too comfortable, Joshua leans forward and changes a few settings on his own monitor. You raise an eyebrow when the system processes his commands, and Sophia’s computer-run teammate flanks her.
“Tell her to let them through.”
Both your eyebrows rise now. “You want Sophia to give up her position. To her teammate.”
He looks at you and smirks. “Yes, that’s exactly what I want Sophia to do.”
You think back to the times Joshua has been told to give up his spot. Once, during his debut race. He was more than willing, but he was committed to listening to you. And you told him to hold his position so he could secure the podium.The second time was the grand prix immediately following that one, when the CEO wanted you to bend to his will as a lesson. You did, but only because you had already proven your point. Joshua still ended up in the points, and laughably enough, ahead of his teammate, who got a DNF because he took a turn too fast and crashed into the barrier. Both times, your driver never questioned the order. He trusted you to know what the best choices for him were.
You shrug. “Your funeral.” You speak to Sophia now. “Team order: let them pass.”
“What?!” she shrieks. Thankfully, you’re well into her evaluation now that you know the perfect volume to have her at. “What do you mean team order? There’s no team!”
You snort. “I’m not sure if you were ever informed of this, but Formula One is comprised fully of teams, Sophia,” you say sarcastically. “And yours is ordering you to let them pass.”
“But why?!” she whines just as Joshua leans forward and makes the car tailing her a touch more aggressive. She swerves dangerously to block it.
“Strategy. Let them through, and keep it clean,” you say, reciting exactly what you would tell Joshua if it were him, “I promise you there will be opportunities to prove yourself later. I’ll make sure of it. Move aside. We gotta let them have this one.”
“No,” she says through gritted teeth. You exhale through your nose slowly, and you can tell from the way he tries hard to refrain from staring, that it fascinates Joshua to see you on this side of the track. “I only have a lap and a half left!”
“Sophia—”
“I’m faster!” she shouts. “It doesn’t make sense!” She grunts as she blocks another attempt for her teammate to pass her up.
“Keep it clean, Laforteza!” you bark at her. Joshua shudders. You frown at him and he shrugs.
“PTSD,” he mutters and you roll your eyes at him.
“Tell them to back off!” she pleads. “I’ve got this! I—god, get off my ass!”
You groan as her defense sends the car off track. “That’s a penalty,” you grumble.
“I don’t care! I’m not moving!”
Joshua smirks and shakes his head, leaning forward and pressing a single button. The simulator shuts down. He stands as he speaks into the mic. “Yeah, because you just failed.”
Reviews happen with all the other girls, and when Sophia emerges from the simulator room, she’s red and sweaty and angry, but she remains silent, simply choosing to stand in front of you and Joshua to receive her marks. The other students watch with huge eyes.
“Any idea why I chose you first?” Joshua asks. Sophia shakes her head. “A girl like you—confident on the verge of being arrogant… I don’t want to see the first time you get shaken to be on the track during a race, when it matters the most,” he explains. “I needed to lay the pressure on thick.” Sophia closes her eyes briefly like she knows she lost the race before she even started. “And I’ll give it to you,” Joshua continues, nodding, “you weren’t nervous under the regular pressures of the race. But no race is ‘regular.’ I wanted to see how good you are when you’re emotional. I wanted to see how you treat your engineer when you don’t agree. I wanted to see how well you listen.”
You suppress the urge to tell him how impressed you are; his read on her is scarily accurate.
“You failed this evaluation, but you’re not a failure, Sophia,” he reminds her. “This isn’t just an exercise in knocking your confidence because frankly, you’re going to need every ounce of it when you’re a female driver surrounded by men. I’m not interested in doing that; the rest of F1 will be eager to do it themselves.” The girls all wince but it’s a truth they need to hear.
You glance at him, and though they’re in the shadow of his hat, from this angle, you see his eyes. It makes you fall in love even harder seeing how genuine he is.
“This season, I want you working on how to reign in that confidence so that it works for you. I want you to be confident that your engineer has your best interest at heart, and confident that you’re always going to perform your best despite the times this sport feels anything but fair. Okay?”
“Okay,” she says, nodding. “Got it, Mr. Hong.”
You laugh. “Mr. Hong?”
“Turn on teacher mode for ten minutes and they don’t want to call me by my name anymore,” Joshua huffs in a faux complaint. He turns to you. “Any feedback?”
You nod. “It’s okay to disagree with calls,” you tell her. “I mean, that’s probably debatable person to person actually—” Joshua grins. “—but a good engineer and a good driver will find a way to compromise. There’s a reason why this evaluation is a joint effort, and it’s not just because Joshua’s been shadowing me.”
“Or because you’re best friends?” Eunchae asks. You glare at her and she immediately pretends to be preoccupied with the wall.
“It’s because,” you say emphatically at Eunchae before turning back to Sophia, “you can’t win without the other. You’re a team—probably more than your actual F1 team will ever be a team to you.” Your ex-driver nods pensively.
“A driver is only as good as their engineer,” Joshua states. Sophia nods. “Any questions?” he asks. She shakes her head, obviously completely depleted of anger. She just looks exhausted now. “Okay, good job otherwise, Laforteza. Fantastic reflexes and even better trash talk.”
You grin as Sophia finally smiles. “Thanks.”
“But stop cussing,” Joshua adds, making the room laugh. Before he can announce the next student’s turn, Eunchae raises her hand.
“If this has nothing to do with evaluations—”
She interrupts you. “No, it does! Well, kinda. But it definitely has to do with what Josh just said! Promise!” You narrow your eyes at her and she stares at you with her huge, puppy eyes. You finally nod at her to continue. “How do you build trust with an engineer? What if they suck? Wasn’t your engineer after ML really bad? How did you build trust after ML left?”
You inhale sharply and Joshua coughs in surprise at the bluntness of her question. Eunchae doesn’t seem to understand how personal of a question she just asked—why would she?
“Uh…” he stammers, stumped for the first time since he’s gotten to the Academy. “That’s a good question…” he says, trying to buy himself some time. “Y/N—ML—no sorry, you know what? I can’t keep calling her that. Or Mickie. It’s weird.”
The girls mostly laugh but you don’t miss the wicked, little twinkle in Eunchae’s eyes and the small, matching smile that accompanies it. You know she’s just bookmarking everything that happens as evidence for her little “best friend” agenda.
“I built trust with Y/N before we ever even raced together. I don’t think you necessarily need to be best friends with your engineer—”
“But you two are, right,” Eunchae states more than asks. “Best friends?”
“Of course,” Joshua says easily, and you can’t help the way your eyes widen a little at that. He doesn’t notice the way your gaze snaps to him, searching for signs that he’s lying or that it was a mistake and he misheard her. But he just continues with his train of thought, ignorant to how the two words just tilted your world on its axis. “She’s my best friend, but again, not everyone needs to be. In fact, it’s probably going to be rarer that you do become best friends with your engineer,” he says.
You never stopped thinking of him as your best friend, but after everything, he still considers you his too. Present tense. You strain to hear him over the blood rushing in your ears.
“But either way, get to know them. Learn how to communicate with each other. The more you know about each other, the easier it is to trust the other and see how compatible you are as partners.”
“And you’re compatible? As partners? You and ML? More than the next engineers you had after her?” Eunchae asks.
You only realize at this very moment that your student is a master actress. She really had the whole big, innocent eyes thing going for her—really fooled you into thinking she had a “Joshua and Y/N” are the cutest besties agenda—but it’s now, as she barely contains her excitement with every new question, that you remember at the end of the day, she’s still just a teenage girl. And teenage girls gain their life force from two things: terrorizing adults and shipping anyone with a pulse together. You narrow your eyes at her and sensing that you’re onto whatever she’s doing, Eunchae immediately sits back in her seat and her face drops all signs of mischief.
“I…” Joshua seems to be at a loss for words, searching for the right way to phrase his thoughts. He briefly meets your eyes, and he isn’t shy about holding your gaze for a few moments like he’ll find the answer somewhere on your faces. He gives you a small, sheepish smile before he turns back to Eunchae. When he continues, he tells her, “I wouldn’t say that I wasn’t compatible with the engineers that came after. I just wasn’t as willing to try to be, and you can clearly see where that got me.” The girls nod regretfully. “So take that as a lesson that your relationship with your engineer can make or break you.”
The words leave you feeling a little hollow.
“Okay, next one: Megan. Let’s go.”
Evaluations last the rest of the academic day, mostly without a hitch. Joshua noticed Megan’s almost neurotic need to study theory excessively, and correctly predicted her approach would be entirely too clinical. He tested Eunchae on her eagerness (a trait that often led to sheer recklessness), and she ended up crashing before the five laps were up. The only person he couldn’t peg was Saki, and you couldn’t blame him. She was an enigma, and she hardly spoke, but you knew what she was like as a driver so you weren’t surprised when she took every one of the F1 driver’s tests and elegantly crushed them. Suffice it to say, Joshua proved to be a fantastic, natural-born teacher.
You tell him as much at the end of the day, when everyone has left the Academy, the girls are back at their dorms, and the two of you are in your office, debriefing each performance.
“And you were worried you wouldn’t know how to do this,” you scoff as you both finish up your discussion. You gather your respective notes and leave them in two neat piles on your desk but make no move to get up. “You were born for this.”
His smile is lopsided as he shakes his head. “I think you just have too high an opinion of me.”
“Two things can be true at the same time.”
He laughs as you both slump in your seats, thoroughly exhausted from the day. You enjoy a brief and comfortable silence before he nudges your foot under the desk with his. You, as always (at least ever since your annoying epiphany at the 2023 Spanish Grand Prix), fight not to flinch. “Y’know, I think you were born for this,” he says like he’s thought about it. “As amazing as you were at McLaren, I think you’re exactly what these girls need.”
“And what is that?”
“Someone to look up to and show them it’s possible. Someone that will keep it real with them but believe in them fiercely.” The words have your heart thundering in your chest. “Huh,” he mutters like he’s just now realizing something, “I guess you are to them what you’ve always been to me.”
You snort at that and look at him incredulously. “What?”
He smiles softly, almost like he’s too tired to give you a smile any wider. “Don’t play dumb; we both know you’re the only reason my career has been as successful as it has. Even Eunchae knows it. She’s a nosy, little thing, huh?” You both snicker at that.
“Stop attributing all your success to me,” you groan. “It wasn’t me. You did absolutely fine this past season—even better than some of our seasons together.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“So what do you mean?”
He straightens up and leans forward, forearms resting on your desk as he stares at you intently. You sit up a little, feeling self-conscious all of a sudden. “I mean, you made it all feel… fun and worth it, and… I don’t know.” He shrugs. “You made anything we did together feel like… everything. It’s the only reason I worked so hard. It’s also the reason these girls work so hard. You make this all feel like it’s the best thing anyone can be doing.”
You’re not sure if Joshua understands what his words are coming across to you as. Your naive heart—the one that still belongs to him—wants to believe this is him realizing how special the bond you shared was. This is him catching up to what you knew two years ago. This is him telling you he’s always loved you just as much, and he’s always felt all the things you’ve felt too. But you know that’s not what he’s saying. You know that Joshua has always worn his heart on his sleeve, and that he’s never shied away from telling you everything that was on his mind. This is him appreciating your friendship.
“I could say the same about you,” you sigh, trying not to put so much weight in either of your words. “You’ve only been here a week, and it’s already been such a big reminder of how fun it is to work with you.”
“Work? Just work?” he scoffs. “You’re my best friend and we hang out every day, but the best you can come up with is I’m fun at work?”
You roll your eyes. “Sure, yeah, I guess the other stuff’s fun too.”
He glares at you before his smile wins out. “I meant it, by the way. You are my best friend. Even though so much has changed… you never stopped being my best friend.”
The confirmation that what he told Eunchae wasn’t just for optics or just a reflexive answer to her probing question is balm to your anxieties. After everything—after what you did in Abu Dhabi, he still considers you part of that special group. The one that consists of you and his mom. The one he trusts to love him and keep him safe. But still, neither of you have talked about that night, and as determined as he is to bury the fact that it ever even happened, you know it’s something you want to properly apologize for.
“You’re mine too,” you say before mustering up the courage to ask, “Should we talk about it?”
Joshua winces. “Sorry, I know how that sounded. I swear I didn’t mean to make it about… that.” He can’t even say it. He can’t even say that you left.
“It’s okay, I think we should talk about it at some point. Clear the air,” you say. “Best friends should be able to talk about hard things, right?”
He takes a beat to respond but he eventually nods. “Right. Okay then…” he starts hesitantly. “Should we get comfy?” He motions to your sofa and you nod.
You sit side-by-side, with no space between you, every bit of you from your shoulders down to your feet pressed up against Joshua like he thinks if the two of you are close enough, talking about this won’t hurt as much. There’s a pregnant pause of silence as you both try to figure out where you should even start. You would’ve guessed that he’d dance around the topic from the way he’s asked you to refrain from talking about this. You would’ve guessed wrong.
“Why’d you do it?” he asks quietly. It somehow still feels like he’s shouting the question at the top of his lungs. “Why’d you leave without saying goodbye?”
“I already had,” you say. “Or, I thought I already had.”
“That’s a copout,” he accuses you in the most polite way. He keeps his tone respectful and even though his words cut, his eyes stay kind. “Our last conversation wasn’t a goodbye. Even if it was, it wasn’t the goodbye our relationship deserved.” You know what he means by relationship—you know that being friends and coworkers to the degree you were constituted as a type of relationship. That doesn’t keep your heart from racing at the word.
“I know,” you agree. “And I’m sorry. I really did think it was our goodbye; it felt final enough to be one. But I see now that I was just… sad.” Joshua’s gaze is heavy and unrelenting, and you try not to squirm. “I was sad to leave, and I was scared I wasn’t making the right choice, and most of all… I knew if I had to say goodbye while looking you in the eye… I’d chicken out and stay.”
“I wouldn’t have let you,” he claims quickly and resolutely. “This was the chance of a lifetime for you. I never would’ve let you stay.”
You don’t tell him that the idea of that would’ve hurt just as much—that his refusal to keep you would’ve hurt you. There wasn’t a scenario that would’ve left you unscathed, so you tell him part of the truth.
“I just didn’t want to have to face you,” you admit. “I felt like I was betraying you by leaving you. I felt like I was ruining everything for you. I told myself it was a good enough goodbye, but I know it was just a way to make it easier on myself. I should’ve known leaving like that was a betrayal on its own.”
Joshua nods but doesn’t immediately say anything, simply processing the words. When he does speak, he doesn’t mince his words or try to hide his feelings, and you think this must be why he didn’t want to talk about it back in Barcelona; maybe he wanted to spare your feelings. Maybe he knew his honesty would be a lot for you.
“It should’ve been the happiest night of my life, and instead…” he shakes his head to himself. “I got off the podium, I finished my interviews, and I went to look for you just like I always do, and all I found was Wonwoo. He didn’t even have to say anything. He just had this… this look of pity on his face, and I knew you were gone. And now every time someone mentions that I’m a two-time world champion, or they even say ‘Abu Dhabi’… I think, ‘God, that was the worst night of my life.’”
The sharp inhale you take is involuntary, and you’re horrified to find your eyes immediately welling with tears already.
“Can you believe that? I was the youngest driver to win two championships, and I can’t stand to talk about the night it happened.”
“Shua, I’m so sorry.”
“I know,” he says, shoulder pressing firmly against yours in an attempt to comfort you. Because that’s the epitome of who Joshua Hong is—a man who comforts you when you’re the one who hurt him. “I’m not saying this to make you feel guilty. Like you said, it’s best we clear the air, and… I guess I just need you to know how badly it hurt.”
You nod, blinking rapidly and willing your tears to stay where they are. The last thing you want to do right now is make Joshua have to comfort you even more when it should be the other way around.
“After five years—five years closer to you than anyone else I’ve ever been in my life… the way it ended, with me alone on the track… it hurt,” he says, clearing his throat before continuing. “I didn’t think you betrayed me. I was sad to see you go, but all of your wins are my wins. We always said that, right? It was always going to be hard because any day without you is hard. But I was always going to be happy for you no matter what.”
You find the courage to look up at him then, and he turns to meet your gaze too. He smiles, reaching up to wipe at your eyes with a thumb before letting his hand fall on top of yours. He squeezes and doesn’t let go.
“I just wish I got the chance to tell you I was happy for you, I was proud of you, and I would always be there for you,” he says, sighing. “But I guess telling you now is better than nothing.”
“Shua,” you sniffle, shaking your head and laughing a little at how pathetically easy it is to make you cry when it comes to him. “If I could redo it…”
There are a lot of things you want to say. If I could redo it, I’d find a way to stay and love you without it ruining our careers. If I could redo it, I would’ve at least told you before I left. I would’ve told you I loved you, I’ll always love you, and that’s why I’m leaving.
“If I could redo it,” you repeat, voice a little shaky, “I would be brave and I would wait. And I would be there in the garage, waiting like I always did. You deserved a proper bye. I’m sorry I took that away from you.”
Joshua threads his fingers through yours properly now, eyes on your hands like he’s studying the way they fit. He squeezes again before nodding. “Thank you. I accept your apology.” You sigh slowly, smiling a little when you realize how badly you needed that. He doesn’t stop there, though. “And I’m sorry I didn’t text or call for the last two years. I thought I was bigger than that, but… seems like at the end of the day I’m still just a man—” you laugh at his imitation of your voice. “—and I let my pride keep me from checking in.”
“I could’ve checked in too,” you say. “But let’s not dwell on that. You’re here, we’re okay, and we know better now.”
He nods. “No Irish goodbyes please.”
“Never again.”
“Good,” he says, grinning. You sigh, leaning your head against his shoulder and willing your heart to shut up and let you have a quiet moment with your best friend.
“I’m really glad you came back with me, Shua,” you say after a few seconds. “It feels like you belong here.”
He hums. “Maybe I just belong wherever you are.”
The first thing your brain does upon hearing those words is curse Joshua Hong’s mother for raising the sweetest, most earnest man on planet Earth. The second thing it does is try to convince you to throw caution to the wind and just kiss his face senseless. Kiss his face senseless and confess everything you ran away from when you left him two years ago.
“Ew, cheesy,” you force yourself to say instead, as you lift your head up and take your hand back from his. He laughs when you get up from the couch to put space between yourselves. “Get up, cornball. Let’s get food.”
“I want tacos.”
“I don’t care,” you say defiantly as he laughs harder, like he knows why you’re suddenly being a brat. “You’ll eat whatever I decide we’re getting.”
“Fine. You’re the boss.”
“And don’t forget it.”
a/n: i'll be posting weekly! we're looking at three parts and an epilogue right now :) if you want to be on the tag list, plsplspls comment here because the initial tag list is from cam&em, and they will not be tagging you in each part! i'll be tagging you if you were on that list, but if you don't want to be, just send me a quick ask or message—no hard feelings at all! thanks for reading and hope you'll check out everyone else's work :)
teaser • series masterlist • part one • part two
🔞 18+, minors DNI 🚨 minors and blank blogs will be blocked
🏎️💨 Brought to you by @camandemstudios' Lights Out Collab
As his race engineer, you’ve spent five amazing years guiding McLaren superstar, Joshua Hong, to victory after victory. But in that fifth year, you learn something horrifying about yourself: you’ve fallen in love with your driver. You’re not willing to let your heart get in the way of everything you’ve worked for, so you do the one thing you know is guaranteed to keep both of your careers safe: you leave.
Two years later, Joshua inadvertently comes crashing back into your life with an announcement that rocks the F1 world. Before you know it, you’re on his doorstep with an offer you know he won’t be able to refuse, ready to guide him back to where he needs to be—one last time.
♫ Nothing's Gonna Stop Us Now Starship
F1 GLOSSARY FOR THIS FIC
PAIRING: f1 driver!joshua x race engineer!reader
WC: 31.5k / 93.9k (complete)
TAGS: fem!reader, flashbacks, reader faces the typical misogyny you would expect in a male-dominated sport, descriptions of a crash during a race but no one gets hurt, nauseating levels of girl power, side characters portrayed by other idols (katseye, le sserafim, twice, and bts)
SMUT TAGS: as always, i will mark the beginning and end of all smut scenes, unprotected piv, sex on the hood of a car, workplace sex, fully clothed sex bc there’s something very sexy to me about needing someone so bad you can’t even be bothered to get naked, will add more when we come to it
A/N: so as you'll probably find out very fast... i know nothing about f1 LMAO. if i think too hard about it, i really had no business joining this collab, but i have zero regrets bc i had soooo much fun writing it. it was one of those fics that kinda just wrote itself (ofc except when i would spend an ungodly amount of time reading about cars and """TyREs""", boys who go vroom vroom, engineering, etc.). so if i say something super wrong (f1 academy excluded bc i really decided to do whatever tf i wanted with that one LOL), just ignore it pls hahaha. i hope you enjoy it as much as i liked writing it! please be sure to check out all the amazing work in the collab!
A FEW VERY IMPORTANT THANKS: thank you to our "stewards," who very patiently answered many of my Qs throughout this process haha, esp @sailorsoons, @studioeisa, @100vern, @amourcheol, and @diamonddaze01! thank you to ALL the writers for creating such a FUN and safe space. it really made this the most ideal first collab experience—an esp big thank you to @hannieoftheyear, @mylovesstuffs, @haologram, @aeristudios, @soo0hee, and @kkooongie. AND THE BIGGEST THANK YOU TO CAM @highvern AND EM @gyuswhore FOR 1. HOSTING THIS 2. INVITING ME 3. GIVING ME A LITTLE HOME IN A COMMUNITY THAT OFTEN OVERWHELMS ME. doing the lord's work. ok enough yapping. let's get into it hehe <3
ABU DHABI GRAND PRIX 2023
"I can't believe this... I can't fucking believe this."
Joshua’s voice comes through the radio so soft, it’s barely audible over the roar of his engine. Your instinct is to keep your eyes on the screen, confirm that your driver’s tires are fine, fuel levels okay, no other car on his ass. But it’s useless because Joshua is seconds from the finish line with no chance for anyone else to take it and no time penalties to serve.
“Believe it, Shua,” you say into your mic as you swivel your chair around and away from your monitor. Your eyes immediately find the signature papaya orange MCL60 approaching the checkered flag like a bullet. “You did it.”
The words are bittersweet, and if this had been last season, you would’ve been jumping up and down with the rest of the team, screaming into Joshua’s earpiece and losing your goddamn mind. Today, though, you stay glued to your seat. Even when the wind of Joshua crossing the finish line right before your eyes whips at your face, even when the world explodes around you in a vivacious spray of confetti and champagne, even when Joshua Hong becomes a two-time F1 world champion—you stay seated.
“We did it,” he corrects, sounding as calm as you feel. You wonder if you sound it, though—if you sound lonely too, because you are. “And that’s not what I can’t believe.”
You watch as his car starts to slow across the track. “Oh yeah? Always knew you were going to bag another title, did you?” you joke. He doesn’t laugh. You clear your throat and sigh, knowing you’ve been skirting around the devastation of this all. “What can’t you believe, Shua?”
Silence. His car feels impossibly far from you even though it’s only been seconds. You think the irony is cruel. You wait a few more moments for his response, and when you receive none, you assume he’s already disconnected from the radio. Just before you take your headset off, he answers you. “I can’t believe that you’re really leaving me.”
Your stomach twists painfully. He makes his way back, pulling into the pit lane, where he parks next to the first place sign meant for him. Immediately, staff members are already swarming the car—some to tend to the car, some to offer him water, some to scream and cry and congratulate. But still, he stays inside his vehicle, and he stays connected to you. There are a multitude of things you want to tell him.
You want to tell him you aren’t leaving him because you want to; you’re sparing both of your careers from the scrutiny that would inevitably come if you stayed. You want to tell him he’s currently the best driver on the grid. Your absence isn’t going to change that, especially when he’s so seasoned, that most of what you do now is just play music for him and inform him how many seconds he has until he reaches the next car. You want to tell him this is the right thing to do, no matter how horrible it feels.
Above all, you just want to tell him you love him—that although you only found out a few months ago, you think you fell in love with him the moment you both turned your radios on the first time you raced together—and that’s why you have to go. That’s why you can’t be his race engineer a second longer. In the end, “I can’t either” is what you settle on. I’m so sorry rings loudly in your head but never leaves your mouth.
“So this is it, huh?” His breath comes out shaky and you know him well enough to know it’s not from the adrenaline of winning another world title.
“This is it,” you confirm, a knot forming in your throat.
“It was a good run, L/N.” You think you hear a knot in his too.
“The best run, Hong.” You can’t help your voice from cracking when you add: “The best of my life.”
“Mine too,” he says with no hesitation, though his voice sounds watery now. You feel your heart break.
“Shua,” you croak.
“Hm?”
“Thank you. For the past five years, for genuinely believing I could get you here, for… being my… my friend.” The word hurts you in unimaginable ways. “The best friend. Thanks.”
“You don’t need to thank me. It was easy,” he responds. “You made everything easy—all of it. I should thank you… you… you make this sport worthwhile.” You press your lips together to keep from breaking out into uncontrollable sobs, nodding to yourself as you try to wrap your mind around this being your last real moment with Joshua. He sighs deeply, another brief silence engulfing the two of you before he speaks again. “I’ll see you out there?”
You hum because you can’t bring yourself to tell him he won’t. As you take your headphones off, the first of your tears fall and you let them; it’s the one time you can without being judged for being too emotional or too feminine. Every grown man on Team McLaren is bawling right now, anyway. You slide off your seat and watch from the pit wall as Joshua exits his vehicle a few moments later and waves at the deafening crowd. For five years, you’ve guided Joshua through every F1 track in the world, you weathered countless storms—literal and figurative—together, and you’ve made him a world champion twice.
But for almost ten years, since the time you started as a low-ranking mechanic at McLaren, you also endured misogynistic slights from the more old-school members of your team, comments that it doesn’t take much to do your job when Joshua Hong is the driver, and teasing that you were only in this to snag a rich husband off the grid. You persevered. You clawed your way up the ranks. You earned the respect you wanted so badly, and as much as you want to say fuck it and just stay, you can’t. Because being around Joshua when you’re knowingly in love with him feels impossible. And if you can’t hide it, then you’ll have to say it. And if you say it, your career will be over, and you can’t let it be tarnished now—not when it’s at its peak. Not when Joshua is at his either. Loving him will ruin everything you worked for. Loving him will not only cut you at the knees, but every woman after you who vies for this position. And it’s not going to happen.
Joshua doesn’t see you out there. You leave long before he even gets off the track and long before his time is freed up post photo ops and interviews. You can’t stay and confront the betrayal that’s been dancing in his eyes for weeks, even though he swore up and down that he was happy you found something new and exciting. You can’t let him wrap his arms around you one last time while he whispers heartfelt thank yous for an amazing season—an amazing five seasons—into your ear, confetti raining down and champagne soaking the both of you through to your bones. You can’t do any of it because if you do, you’ll lose your nerve and you’ll stay.
And you can’t. You have a flight to catch and the best F1 driver in the world to forget about.
Abu Dhabi two years ago was the last time you saw or heard from Joshua. A small part of you hoped he would reach out, but you knew that was a selfish thing to want; after all, you were the one that ran off without a proper goodbye after a five-year career together. Still, there were a lot of days you looked at your phone and wished he would send one of his silly memes or just ask how the job was going. Conversely, though, you never texted either. Not when he bombed his very next season, and not when he lost this season’s title by a hair. But now… now feels like as good a time as any to text.
The computer lab is in an uproar as your current class of female drivers stop what they’re doing to leap out of their seats and crowd around the massive flat screen television mounted on the back wall, gaping at it. You gape from your desk at the front of the classroom.
“Whoa, didn’t you work with him, Mickie?” For McLaren—a nickname that kind of irritated you at first but have grown accustomed to.
“She was his race engineer!”
“He’s crazy!”
Saki, who had been at your desk to ask a question when you noticed Joshua on the TV and immediately unmuted it, speaks softly—surely not meant to be heard amongst the other girls’ shouting. “He did seem tired.”
You tear your eyes off Joshua to frown at the student. You’re unsure if she was talking to you or to herself, but the observation shakes you to your core anyway. You would never admit it, but you watched every single race of his since you left. Before this, you don’t know that you would describe him as tired, but now, you’re not sure if you managed to miss something your student saw. You choose not to respond, finding your way back to your ex-driver’s face.
“There’s no way he’s serious! Is he serious?”
“Why wouldn’t he be serious? His career has been tanking.”
“Yeah, maybe it’s because his race engineers haven’t been as good as Mick.”
“Maybe it’s time to get ahead of it and just retire while people still like him.”
“Shut up, Sophia!”
“Don’t talk to each other like that,” you mumble half-heartedly, too distracted by the TV to really reinforce the reprimand.
“He’s a legend! He had one bad season—”
“Two,” someone says.
“Well, that’s not fair, he did pretty well this season.”
“—and now no one will give him a break.”
“Girl. He’s giving himself a break,” another voice chimes in.
“Anything other than first place is for losers.”
“This isn’t a break, this is career suici—”
“Okay!” a voice cuts sharply into the noise. You don’t flinch the way the girls do, eyes glued to the screen as Joshua patiently answers questions. The unmistakable clacking of the CEO’s heels striking the floor have all the girls straightening their posture. “Crazy news, I know.”
The TV turns off and you fight the urge to whine alongside the girls. You turn to look at Park Jihyo, who puts the remote back down on the edge of your desk where she found it.
“I know you’re all excited to be here together, but the season starts in just three months, and we’re hitting the ground running,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest and looking every driver in the eye. “And you aren’t going to let news about the millionth man in F1 derail your chances at getting into a major team, now are you, ladies?”
There’s a chorus of nos as Jihyo nods once and claps her hands before making a shooing motion.
“Good. Because there’s no room for distractions when you’re a woman,” she reminds them. It’s something you’ve heard nonstop since coming to F1 Academy as a technical executive and instructor. Most of the time, you felt like it was being drilled into your head, not the girls’. “Now get back to working on… whatever engineering thing Y/N has you working on.” You snort. “You’re due at the gym for cardiovascular training in two hours and I don’t want to hear that a single one of you was late, understood?”
“Understood!” a bunch of girls chirp as they hurriedly turn back to their respective computers. You sigh, ready to get back to guiding and teaching them, when Jihyo steps into your path. She smiles mischievously.
“What…?” you ask slowly, subconsciously slinking away from her as she leans forward.
“Got a minute?”
You want to say no, but as close as you personally are to Jihyo, she’s still your boss and you refuse to show her any sort of disrespect in front of the students, whether or not it’s a joke.
“Sure,” you say, nodding for her to enter your office ahead of you before turning back to the girls. “Listen up. You feel something off in your steering—slight pull to the right, but there’s no warning on the dash. You’re in the points with 10 laps to go. Give me a few minutes with CEO Park and when I’m back, I want to hear what you’re telling your engineer and what your game plan is.”
The girls don’t bother responding, immediately turning back to their notebooks or computers and parsing out their thoughts. You follow Jihyo into the office attached to your classroom, closing the door behind you. She takes the seat at your desk across from your own, obviously expecting you to sit there. Instead, you plop onto the couch face down, making your boss roll her eyes at you.
“So,” she starts slowly and awkwardly, “how are you feeling…?”
You stare at her blankly, cheek pressed into the fabric of the sofa. “Fine?”
“Pfft.” She kicks her heels off before she sinks lower in her seat, making herself just as comfortable as you. “Joshua Hong just announced a sabbatical and you’re ‘fine’?”
The words are surreal. You just watched a news broadcast of his announcement and the subsequent press conference, and still, your brain wants to convince you Jihyo is lying. The sabbatical is one thing—that was becoming a more normalized event in the sport as drivers started to focus on their families and their mental health. But Joshua’s own words during the interview was another.
Joshua, what does this sabbatical mean for your career? Do you plan on returning to to the track?
I’m not sure at the moment what it means. Maybe it’s time for me to rest and get my head back in the game for next season. Maybe it’s the beginning of an early retirement. I don’t know. I just know it’s needed and I’m grateful McLaren is working with me to make it happen.
No hesitation. The words “early retirement” really came out of Joshua “I’m Going to Be Buried in an MCL60” Hong’s stupid, pretty mouth. You never thought you’d see the day.
“Why would Joshua Hong’s career decisions affect me?” you ask stubbornly, knowing you’re being purposefully daft. “We don’t work together anymore.” You throw a hand up to gesture lazily at your office. “Obviously. You poached me.”
Jihyo lets out a single bark of laughter. “HA! Poached! That’s funny considering you had your foot halfway out of McLaren when I reached out to you. Why was that again?” she asks with fake forgetfulness. “Oh, right! You fell in love with your driver.”
“Every day I regret telling you anything about myself.”
“You didn’t tell me. Drunk you did.”
You wave your hand at her in a silent “whatever.”
“Well, if you’re so ‘fine,’ I have a favor to ask of you.”
“Okay?” you sigh, feeling very much like the teenage girls outside of your office right now. It’s crazy what a man can do to your mood even two years after completely abandoning him. “You need me to look over more designs for this season?”
Jihyo scoffs like she’s about to say no before stopping herself. “Actually, yes, I do, but that’s not what my favor is. Especially because that’s not a favor, that’s your job.” You try not to laugh. “I need you to poach someone for me.”
You immediately tense. She doesn’t continue, letting the words really sink in. You scramble up onto your knees from where you were sprawled across the couch. “What the hell are you saying right now?”
“I’m saying that the best driver on the grid is on sabbatical a measly 2-hour flight from here, for who knows how long, and these girls could benefit from learning from the best of the absolute fucking best.”
“Joshua wants to rest,” you immediately argue. “And frankly, he needs it! The man has been behind some kind of wheel for an ungodly amount of years!”
“And you don’t think going from his schedule at McLaren to a schedule teaching girls here won’t be a significant change of pace for him?” she asks incredulously. “Please! Tell me that the transition didn’t feel like a full-on retirement, even for you.”
Jihyo isn’t wrong. Being a race engineer was deceptively tiring. A lot of people reduced it to sitting at a monitor for two hours, but your days were long and grueling and a lot more demanding than just race days. You were involved in what felt like countless hours of engineering debriefs, research and development, spreadsheets (god, the spreadsheets), and not to mention, Joshua made you somewhat of his personal therapist, begging you to follow him around the facility when he was in for practice sessions or training. If you stood your ground and refused, you’d find him following you around. Not to mention the traveling. Or the actual race days.
Coming to F1 Academy was a breath of fresh air. Sure, you came feeling like the wind had been knocked out of you, but that had more to do with leaving Joshua than anything else. F1 Academy slowed life down for you. The schedule wasn’t completely less forgiving; you were still on a race schedule, but instead of traveling to 21 different countries and having 24 different races over the course of nine months, you only had to attend 7 races in 6 different countries in roughly the same amount of time. On top of that, you weren’t a superstar driver’s race engineer. You weren’t anybody’s engineer; all you had to do was supervise and step in if someone was struggling with a student driver. Compared to F1, it practically felt like vacation. And even more than that, it felt meaningful, cultivating the careers of aspiring female drivers and giving them a path into a male-dominated sport. You know better than anyone else that Joshua would absolutely love it.
“I think this would be good for Hong, and I think this would be good for you,” she tells you.
You try not to balk at her. “Do you hear yourself? You think it would be good for your technical executive and head engineering instructor to work with the man she left her last position for? You said it yourself! I was in love with him!” You ignore the way Jihyo very obviously tries to keep from rolling her eyes at your use of the word “was.”
“You can deny it all you want but I know there is something very… unresolved there,” she says, lip curling in mock disgust at the sheer thought of emotions. “And even if it’s not romantic—”
“What do you mean?!” you laugh incredulously. “It should not be romantic if we’re going to be working here together! You should actually be discouraging that as my boss.”
“Pfft,” she waves a hand. “I’m not in HR. That is not my job. If I want to ship two of my employees—”
“He’s not even an employee yet.”
“—then I will ship two of my employees.”
“You are so ridiculous.”
“Besides, you didn’t even let me finish,” she pouts at you. You nod in defeat and let her continue. “Like I was saying, even if it’s not romantic—and I’ll proudly be the first to admit I hope it’s romantic!” she says the disclaimer quickly and in one breath, “I’d still love to see you fix your friendship with him. I know it mattered a lot to both of you.”
Your relationship to Jihyo changed overnight. One day, she was your funny, albeit intimidating boss, and then with the help of several bottles of soju and an Academy staff karaoke night, she was suddenly visiting your office at least twice a day, you were constantly hanging out outside of work, and you knew everything about each other. Including how much you cherished Joshua, not as someone you were in love with, but as a human being you loved, period.
“But I won’t pretend this is selfless,” she sighs. “We’re three seasons into the Academy, going on four, and we have yet to see any of our graduates enter F1.” You fidget uncomfortably. It’s a stress point for the entire organization and something you’re reminded of in what feels like every meeting. “I don’t need to remind you what little time we have to prove this program a success.”
Three more seasons after this next one.
When the program was conceived, F1 agreed to see what the Academy could achieve in seven seasons. They wanted at least two female drivers in F1 by then, but the stretch goal was to have the winning graduate from every season on a team, even as reserve drivers. That didn’t happen, but they could still get two girls in there; it would just mean having to do it very, very soon.
“No…” you shake your head. “You don’t need to remind me.”
You sit on your couch properly and stare at Jihyo, who refuses to continue speaking. She’s letting you stew in your thoughts, well aware your overactive brain will be better at convincing you than she ever will.
Finally, you groan. She doesn’t even have the decency to wait for you to agree that Joshua is the best answer before she’s clapping excitedly. She’s infuriating but she’s right. It would be mutually beneficial; the girls would inherit a wealth of knowledge from a driver like him, and he would see what you get to every day: how easy it is to make a difference when your life isn’t solely on the track. And you don’t know why he’s taken this break, but you have a nagging feeling that’s exactly what he needs.
“Okay, okay, relax,” you huff, rolling your eyes. “How do we even do this? McLaren would’ve had him sign an ironclad agreement that guarantees his return to the team from sabbatical… unless he decides to retire.” You feel your stomach lurch at the idea.
Jihyo waves a hand like the legalities of Joshua’s employment don’t matter to her. “You don’t worry your beautiful, little head about that. While you were all busy screaming at the TV like banshees, I was already on the phone convincing the big guy to let us at him.”
“You asked the CEO of McLaren? And he agreed to you stealing Joshua during his sabbatical…?”
It doesn’t sound anything like the staunch businessman you came to know over the decade you spent at his organization. He was nice enough, but he was also incredibly greedy—in all the ways that rich men always are. But there was nothing he was greedier about than talent. When he liked a driver—and more importantly, when a driver delivered wins, and therefore money—he kept him forever. Even if that meant convoluted contracts with tricky fine prints. You doubt that has changed.
“No,” she says, smirking and looking incredibly pleased with herself, “I did not ask. I bartered. I already had a leg up since that tangerine orange eyesore of a company of yours is our biggest proponent.”
“Papaya.”
“Whatever.” If McLaren’s CEO’s greed was good for one thing, it was that he wanted the best of the best, and that absolutely included women. As such, he’s been the only CEO very enthusiastically circling the Academy looking for his next star. “I told him if he gave me Hong during his sabbatical, he could have first pick from our litter of talented ladies during any one season he’s interested in,” Jihyo informs you.
You stare blankly at her. “Like the NBA draft…?”
“Girl, I only know cars. I don’t know what that means.”
“Right,” you nod, opting to move on instead of explain. “What if that girl doesn’t want to sign with McLaren?”
Jihyo scoffs. “Then she doesn’t sign with McLaren! I’m not the devil, Y/N; I’m not selling souls here. I’m just giving him the first chance to meet and talk to a driver of his choice before any of the other neanderthals. Convincing her he’s good enough to sign with him is all on him.”
You hum in understanding. “Okay, so why can’t he just tell Joshua himself?”
“So that’s my hiccup,” she groans. “He said he’s all ours if he says yes, but he seems convinced that this is the last thing Hong would want to do.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Okay… well then, he doesn’t know him at all. This is the exact kind of thing he’d want to do.” You know because he invited you to enough non-profit events he supported in the off season to volunteer with him, join him on a panel about F1, or just show face. This is exactly up his alley.
Jihyo shrugs. “He says, ‘The boy has lost his spark,’” she imitates him in an exaggeratedly deep and hoarse voice. “Even if that’s true, I have the perfect person to give him that spark right back!” She grins widely, blinking her eyes rapidly at you.
“Your faith in me is astronomical.”
“No, your doubt in yourself is astronomical,” she corrects, rolling her eyes. “I’m willing to bet $100,000 that even two years after quitting each other cold turkey, Joshua Hong is still willing to bend over backwards for you.”
You wince at the wording. You don’t like the idea that you quit him because it wasn’t like that. You quit the chance to stay in love with him.
“He has never bent over backwards for me.” In fact, you’d argue the roles were reversed. It was kind of in your job description as his race engineer: bend over backwards to make sure your driver becomes a renowned champion.
“Oh, Y/N,” she sighs, smiling softly. “My naive child.” You glare. “No bet?” she asks innocently before shrugging. “Okay, smart move for you, honestly. You would’ve been out a pretty penny.” She starts slipping her feet back into her heels, obviously ready to go off to whatever her next endeavor is. Probably plotting what other ways she can complicate your life. “Look,” she sighs, slapping her hands against her lap when she finishes putting her shoes on, “if he doesn’t want to do it, then he doesn’t want to do it and I’ll just have to take no for an answer. It would suck because I’d still have to hold up my end of the bargain with McLaren either way, but we obviously can’t force the guy to do anything. It would just be a nice plus for not only the girls, but for you. I know it.”
You don’t bother trying to deny it, not because you agree; you actually vehemently disagree, and you have the evidence to prove it would not be good for you.
Exhibit A: in the months following your realization you were in love with Joshua Hong, you were a nauseating mix of absolutely miserable and absolutely thrilled any time you were with him (almost all the time). It was exhausting and it sucked the life out of you.
Exhibit B: you were always distracted. Maybe never during a race because your only focus was making sure your driver won and that he won safely. But every other moment of the day, you were thinking about Joshua, talking to Joshua, listening to Joshua, trying not to scream while Joshua followed you around everywhere, watching Joshua, averting your eyes when Joshua looked up, talking to Wonwoo about Joshua, studying Joshua’s stats, debriefing Joshua’s last race, wondering if you’d see Joshua, daydreaming about Joshua, getting hopelessly lovesick over Joshua—Joshua, Joshua, Joshua!!!
None of that can be good for you.
You don’t deny that it would be good for you because you agree with her; you just don’t have the energy to confront the questions that would require denying it. The main question being: would any of that even be a problem if you’re not in love with him anymore? Because wasn’t that the point of leaving McLaren? To stop being in love? And if you’re not in love with him anymore, then why are you so worried about having to be in his proximity?
You take a deep breath as Jihyo stands. “When do I go?” you ask, looking up at her as she walks to the door of your office. She looks back at you and smiles.
“I have the company plane ready for you at Heathrow. Wheels up in an hour.” Your mouth drops in shock. She turns to leave before seeming to remember something. “Oh, and your sub is standing in the hall ready to take over for the girls.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“Wrong. I’m efficient.”
SPANISH GRAND PRIX 2023
“I can’t lose again, Y/N. Not this one.”
“You’re not going to. I won’t let you.”
There was something about racing Spain that made Joshua more on edge than any other race—more than Abu Dhabi, even. He was typically a cool and level-headed driver; he never cursed, never told you to shut up the way other drivers told their engineers to, and he always took your advice seriously, never steamrolling your suggestions, at least not without some semblance of a discussion first.
He was good at tamping down his hunger for the podium; it’s what made him an outstanding driver. But every time he set foot in Circuit de Barcelona-Catalunya, he became voracious. It started your second year with him, and you’re not sure why. He usually had a healthy enough lead in points by the time they got to Barcelona that winning wasn’t as high stakes as he made it feel. On top of that, it wasn’t even the native Angeleno’s home track, at least not technically. His third year in F1, he picked everything up and moved to Barcelona. When he told you he planned to, you just gawked at him.
“You’re moving for a circuit?”
“I’m moving for my favorite circuit,” he said cheekily.
You couldn’t blame him. Racers did more extreme things for less. This is his favorite track, and in the five years you’ve worked together, he’s only lost it once—last year. And since then, his intensity over it has been cranked up, and if he loses again this year, you know you’ll never hear the end of it. You’ll also never sleep again because at this point, Joshua and you feel like one. If he loses this, it’s a massive loss for you too. You want this for him just as badly.
“So then let me do something!” he shouts, voice laced with frustration you aren’t used to but also aren’t fazed by. This is your job, calming your driver down enough to make him see what you do. Right now, you see a clear way to first. “He’s killing my race!” he yells. “Let me send it! I can take him.”
A few of the guys on the pit wall throw incredulous looks at you upon hearing the transmission, and you know it’s because they have no idea why the driver with the most points on the grid right now is asking a woman permission for anything.
“You send it now and clip a wing, the weekend is over, Shua,” you remind him, voice even. “You’re better, you’re faster, and you’re smarter.” You run over the numbers on your monitor. “There’s a way in. We’re going to take P3 in the next few and we’re going to do it in a way that keeps the spot. I need you to trust me.”
He says your name with thinning patience. “I’m not sitting behind this fucker for even one more lap, do you understand the words coming out of my mouth?”
You clench your jaw to bite back the remark on the tip of your tongue just as the head engineer freezes beside you, side-eyeing you to gauge your reaction. You don’t bother holding back your glare when you turn to your boss, muting your mic and letting him have your irritation instead of Joshua. “And what are you looking at, Jeon?”
“Literally just the monitor,” Wonwoo mumbles, making a show of leaning far too forward for someone with glasses on and watching it intently. You’re lucky your boss has also become your friend or you’re sure you would’ve been thrown right off the wall.
You take a deep breath before you unmute. “I get it, Shua, I promise I do,” you soothe him. “I want you to win just as badly. I’m right here with you. A loss for you is a loss for me too. But right now, winning means you’re going to have to trust me and listen to me. It’s been five years and I have never led you astray. I would literally lay down and die before I do something that’s not in your best interest. Do you understand?”
There’s a beat of silence as his car erratically swerves again, Ferrari defending aggressively enough to warrant a time penalty if, god forbid, Joshua did attempt an overtake and ended up running off the track. “Copy,” he finally says. You release a breath.
“Plan 2 minus 1 confirmed,” you announce to the team radio, praying to whatever god is listening that Ferrari’s pit wall is tuned into and eavesdropping on your channel. “Be patient with me, Shua,” you add, already beginning to sell your bluff. “We’ll get him after, okay?”
“I’m trusting you.”
Everyone’s eyes slide to you as you point at the pit crew and nod. They jump into action, bringing out the lollipop, jack, tires, fuel, and everything else they need for a pit stop. Except Joshua’s not taking a pit stop but no one needs to know that.
“Think they’re watching?” you mutter to Wonwoo, who’s the only one who knows about the silly name you and Joshua gave this plan. You were both bored on a rare, uneventful day and thinking up random race scenarios in the head engineer’s garage when it was born.
Wonwoo doesn’t even turn to look at the other team’s pit wall. “Oh yeah,” he says, leaning back and smirking. “Trust me, they’re watching.”
“You can’t fucking pit him right now,” a strategist suddenly stands from his seat and shouts at you from down the row. “It’s too early to pit and he’ll get caught behind the cars in the lane right now! You’re going to screw him over!”
“Sit your fucking ass down,” Wonwoo cuts in, glaring at him. “You’ll talk to Joshua Hong’s race engineer with some fucking respect or you’re off the wall.” You feel your face warm a bit at being called Joshua Hong’s anything. “We’re a team! You should be embarrassed letting anyone else see you yell at a teammate like that.”
The strategist turns a furious shade of red before sitting back down, not bothering to apologize.
“It’s okay,” you mutter under your breath so no one aside from Wonwoo can hear. “Makes it more believable.” He scoffs but doesn’t respond. “Box this lap, Shua,” you say clearly into your mic, completely ignoring the other men on the wall.
“Fucking ridiculous,” you hear the strategist mumble, a few others agreeing with him. Really, the only people who have any trust in you are Joshua and Wonwoo, and they’re the only ones that count for anything anyway.
“Are you sure?” your driver asks, but his voice lacks any of the frustration it had just a moment ago. You want to call him a bad actor but you know to anyone else who doesn’t know him as intimately, it passes well enough as doubt. “It’s too early. My tires can hang on.”
“Positive. Box this lap. We’re undercutting him and taking P3 on the next one.”
Wonwoo swivels in his chair to watch the track, subtly side-eyeing the other walls for a brief moment before averting his eyes. “Ferrari’s taking the bait. Their pit is setting up. How do you even know they’ll defend the undercut?”
You watch unblinkingly as the two drivers get closer to the pit lane. “Joshua’s been on his ass for the last 7 laps without letting up. That’s gotta do something to a driver’s nerves. Even if P3 can go a few more without swapping tires, I’m banking on Ferrari being nervous enough to defend anything they think Joshua is doing just for the sake of it.”
Wonwoo whistles and says something you don’t register because the cars are arriving. And they’re doing exactly what you hoped they would. You watch as the Ferrari driver ahead of McLaren defends an undercut that Joshua won’t be taking. He pulls into the pit lane to take the early stop he didn’t even need and you just baited him into, effectively stuck behind the cars the strategist was so worried about.
Wonwoo grins as you shake a silent fist in the air, trying to refrain from shouting a FUCK YEAH into the team channel.
“You with me, Shua?” your voice borders on shouting as you stand from excitement.
“Oh, I’m with you, baby!” Joshua whoops and laughs as he starts pushing, his speed reaching upwards of 205 mph now.
You look over your shoulder just as the Ferrari pit wall watches Joshua completely blow past the pit lane, some looking absolutely baffled, most glaring over at you and your retreating pit crew, realizing immediately it was a fake out. You refrain from waving and turn back to the monitor instead.
“You sneaky, sneaky girl,” Joshua breathes between laughter.
You smirk, noticing the mouthy strategist’s head is now conveniently buried in his work. “Glad you remembered 2 minus 1.” You note you’ll have to change the name of the plan now. “Push hard. Gap to P2 is 0.6. P1, 1 second.”
“You want me attacking?”
You look at the strategist directly to Wonwoo’s right. He nods. “Both P2 and 1 are on old rubber,” he informs you. “They’ll both have to box soon… and it’ll be the fourth pit stop for both of them.”
“The fourth?!” you ask incredulously.
You’re on lap 40 out of 66. The circuit has some of the roughest turns in F1 and is known to eat at tires faster than any other, so it’s common for drivers to take three, sometimes four stops total at the Spanish Grand Prix. The fact that the drivers are already going on their fourth with more than a quarter of the race to go tells you they’re maxing their laps too hard, and if they keep it up, they’ll be pushing five pit stops.
“That leaves more than enough laps for them to wear their tires out again and box a fifth time before the race is even over.”
“That’s only if they continue driving the way they have been,” another strategist notes. You point at him and nod.
“Yes. And we can bet that they will because when we get Joshua to P1, they’ll be panicking and driving even more recklessly than they already are, and they’ll be forced to box.” No one has an argument for that. “So we run Joshua for several more laps until we can’t anymore, and he’ll only need to box that one time before he takes the win.”
You look to the performance engineer for confirmation and he gives you a thumbs up. “He’s good to wait. That works. He goes once, the other two go two more times; they won’t be able to catch up.”
The strategist tilts his head and winces a little. “But you do have Kim Mingyu in P1, so all bets are off.”
You heave an irritated sigh. The Red Bull driver is known for being reckless and risky in the name of winning. You wouldn’t put it past him to forego a pit stop entirely even if a blown tire—or worse—was likely. But like you said, Joshua is better, faster, and smarter. He trusted you to get him to P3; it’s time for you to return the favor.
“Shua,” you say, sitting back in your seat as you watch the feed. “P2 is staying center but leaving room on the outside going into turns.”
He hears the order you don’t give loud and clear. “Easy enough,” he huffs, breathing hard.
You watch as he takes the information you’ve given him and uses it to easily overtake Kim Mingyu’s teammate, going wide on the turn and pulling ahead. You look over at the Red Bull pit wall, and when you watch multiple strategists throw their hands in the air or grab fistfuls of their own hair, you can’t help but smile. The smile just grows wider when you hear Joshua’s adrenaline-fueled shouting in your ear.
“Woo!” he yells as he guns it toward Mingyu. “That’s what I’m talking about! This is my track!”
You roll your eyes but laugh all the same. “P1 is due for a pit stop any lap now,” you inform him, shaking your head at his antics. “Leave him some space and keep it steady.”
If it were anyone else, you’d let him try and take it, but with Mingyu’s track record of causing accidents with his uncompromising—and usually illegal—defense, you’re not going to risk Joshua’s safety for a few seconds on Red Bull.
“You got it,” he agrees without challenge, easing up on the accelerator.
You review numbers with the strategists in the meantime, Joshua’s entire team keeping track of Red Bull’s channel for whenever they decide to box Mingyu. After a few moments, his voice comes through your headset again.
“Hey, Y/N.”
You hum distractedly as a strategist runs numbers on your own monitor. “What is it?” you ask when he doesn’t respond.
“Sorry, by the way.”
You frown, holding a finger up to the strategist, who immediately returns to his seat. “For what?”
“Losing my cool with you.”
“Pfft,” you laugh. “That was you losing your cool?”
From the way he speaks, you know he’s smiling. “Yeah… what, was it not mean enough for you?”
“Hardly,” you snicker. “Mildly annoying but not mean.”
“Well, I’m sorry anyway,” he says, grunting a little from the force of taking a turn. “You’re right. Five years in and you still haven’t let me down.”
You nod to yourself, a funny feeling settling at the bottom of your stomach. You wanted to please Joshua from the start; it was the opportunity of a lifetime being a race engineer for such a prolific team, and you were determined to do a damn good job at it, regardless of who your driver was—better than any man they could’ve and wanted to put in your place. But then you met your rookie, and he was kind and trusting and so receptive to your ideas and strategies, and most importantly of all, he never ever doubted you just because you were a woman. Your ambition multiplied tenfold after meeting him, and you really didn’t think that was possible. He just made it so easy to want to do anything to ensure his victory. He didn’t cringe at being the only driver in McLaren history with a female engineer; it was a fact he was proud of, and a fact he brought up at every single post-race interview without fail.
“Y/N is the brains behind the wheel. I’m just the guy that follows directions.”
“I don’t know, you should ask Y/N. She knows better than I do, honestly. I’m not sure why she doesn’t join me on these things.”
“I couldn’t have done this without my race engineer. She’s the best of the best and I’m lucky to have a woman like her on my team.”
His advocacy of you actually made you a regularly viral topic on F1 forums and broadcasts and had invites to interviews consistently coming in, so of all the drivers you could’ve been dropped into the lap of, you’re endlessly grateful it was Joshua’s. You don’t care that they only gave you to him because he was a rookie and they had reservations about the both of you. Five years later and neither of you have let the other down.
“Yup, and I’m not starting tonight,” you say, smiling.
“Me neither. Don’t plan on ever starting.”
The strategist you were just working with taps you on the shoulder and nods in the general direction of Red Bull’s pit wall. You nod a silent thank you before warning Joshua, “They’re boxing P1 in the next few laps, Shua, get ready.”
“Copy.”
You turn to the performance engineer. “Can he max out once P1 pulls off?”
He blows out air as he studies his monitor. “Temp’s rising and tires are fading. I’d say he can go for one. Two max. If he goes for two, we’ll have to box him sooner—maybe even the lap right after.”
“And if we max for one?”
“We can put off a stop for… maybe five more laps if we’re being safe.”
“Shua, once he pulls in, push it,” you decide in that split second. “One lap, then hold it steady.”
“One? I can go—”
“One.”
“One. Copy,” he repeats, huffing an amused laugh. Your nerves are wound too tight to ask him what’s so funny.
You watch as Red Bull pulls into the pit lane, their crew in a frenzy as Joshua floors right past, the roar of his engine shaking your bones and the wind of his speed slicing at your face. Lap after lap, you never get tired of that feeling.
Mingyu’s team finishes faster than you’d like, and even with the few seconds it takes his lollipop man to safely clear him for departure, the driver is speeding away what feels like a millisecond after he stopped.
“Alright, Shua, he’s got fresh tires.” You glance at the strategists for a number. “He’ll be on you in 1.7.”
“And he’ll stay behind me,” he says confidently.
“Right… until we box you,” you remind him.
He snorts. “Won’t matter.”
You roll your eyes. “Lap’s almost up,” you tell Joshua when he approaches the pit lane again. “I want you easing up even if it means you give him P1.”
Surprisingly, Joshua doesn’t argue, and it feels more like the driver you work with on any other circuit aside from Barcelona. “Copy.”
When he finishes the lap, he follows directions, relaxing on the gas while managing to hold Red Bull off. “Stay clean!” you practically bark at him when he defends an attempt at an overtake a little too aggressively. “A time penalty at this point will kill us. Keep it cute, Hong.”
He laughs, knowing the last name only comes out when his driving is making you nervous. “Cute. Got it, L/N.”
He and Mingyu do their little dance for two more laps, Joshua never giving an inch, before it’s time to box your driver. “Nice job keeping him at bay,” you tell him. “Time to swap. P2 will pull ahead, but you should be in and out of here before P3 catches up. We’ll get you P1 back.”
“Counting on it,” he says as he pulls into the pit lane.
He swaps his tires and refuels with no issues, back on the track exactly where you told him he’d be: at P2, a healthy distance from P3, chasing Mingyu. You watch them closely as the race gets nearer and nearer to its end, the laps winding down and down until there are only five left. You’re sweating through your clothes and it isn’t because of the glaring sun.
It’s because Kim Mingyu was due for a pit stop seven laps ago and he hasn’t taken it, nor does he show any sign of taking it.
“What is he fucking doing?” the performance engineer mutters.
“Fuck if I know!” you shout in frustration. You point at a strategist. “Tune into Red Bull.”
You don’t like to listen in on other teams because you’re paranoid that what you did to Ferrari earlier will happen to you, but you need Joshua to win first place today. You watch as they find Red Bull’s channel, their brows furrowed as they listen to the transmission.
“They’re telling him it’s wisest to box this lap but they’re leaving the call up to him. He says he can hold Hong off and finish it without stopping.”
“Shua,” you immediately call out to him.
“His tires have to be fucked,” Joshua says through gritted teeth. He hardly ever curses so you know his newfound patience is quickly dissipating again. “Why isn’t he fucking boxing?”
“He’s refusing,” you relay the information to him. “He’s going to finish this on dead tires.”
“Is that what he calls strategy? What the fuck is Red Bull snorting? I’m gon—” You turn Joshua’s volume on your headset down as someone waves for your attention.
“He’s not going to finish at all because the tires are going to blow,” Wonwoo corrects you. “He probably thinks he’s fine because the right side is fine, but the left side has to be completely degraded by now.”
The circuit’s rough turns and abrasive track meant that the left side’s tires were constantly wearing faster than the right’s.
“Then what the fuck?” you ask dumbly, turning Joshua’s volume back up to find him still droning on. You simply tune him out, trying not to think about how his rant will absolutely go viral on social media later.
“His team is just enabling him,” the eavesdropping strategist says.
The performance engineer nods. “With the natural degradation of his tires and the sun, he has to be pushing at least… 105? 110 Celsius?”
You look over at the Red Bull pit, and although a few of the strategists are visibly frantic, their team principal and head engineer look largely unbothered, and it disgusts you. Their desperation for a few points can kill Mingyu. It can kill Joshua.
“They’re reporting his left side at 150,” your eavesdropper says, stunned. “They’re finally telling him to box now. He’s still refusing.”
Your veins run cold. “Oh my god. He’s not only stupid, he’s fucking crazy,” you murmur to yourself. “He’s fucking crazy!” you shout and before anyone can respond, you’re talking to your driver again, interrupting his rant.
“—and another thing! Kim Mingyu is—”
“Joshua, back off.”
“Whoa, ‘Joshua’? Getting real serious in here,” he finds it in himself to joke.
“Shut up and put some fucking distance between you and P1 now!” you snap.
“Ope, yeah, actually getting serious…” he grumbles to himself. He eases up the tiniest bit, probably thinking that will appease you but he’s still too close for comfort. “What’s going on? I’m not giving this asshole any more space than this.” You watch with dread as they approach turn 10, the toughest turn on the circuit because of how hard drivers have to brake. If Mingyu’s tire is going to give out, it’s going to be here. “We only have three laps left and—”
“He’s overcooking!” Something in your voice must signal how distraught you feel to Joshua because you watch as his car slows another fraction of a second. “His team is reporting his left tires at 150! He’s going to let—”
“FUCK!”
It’s the last thing you hear from your driver before Mingyu’s front left tire explodes as he takes the turn with little deceleration. The sound reaches you even at the pit wall, sounding like a gunshot ringing through the circuit, making you flinch so hard, you accidentally step back into Wonwoo. A huge cloud of smoke immediately covers the car you’re responsible for, so opaque, you can no longer see even a sliver of McLaren’s color.
Your heart feels like it’s stopping. Both Red Bull and McLaren’s walls mirror each other now—every person on their feet, every pair of eyes on the black RB19 as it fishtails violently across the track, cutting through the racing line like an unruly blade. You want to scream Joshua’s name—beg him to tell you what’s happening—but you know it will only pull his focus. Instead, you turn his volume all the way up and endure the roar of his engine and the sound of Mingyu’s car screeching across the track. Mingyu’s right side crashes into the barrier, sending him completely off course, where he spins twice before coming to a rest what feels like years later. The car is still intact, smoke rising but no sign of fire.
You want to run out onto the asphalt. You swear your worry for Joshua can bring you there faster than any of these stupid fucking race cars can right now. But as a yellow flag emerges from the flag post closest to them, you remember you were hired to do a job, and as far as you know, you’re still on that job until you see or hear otherwise.
“Teams, be aware, yellow flags,” the steward announces over the radio. “Turn 10, car 9, front left tire failure. Driver is out of the car and uninjured. Marshals on site. Proceed with caution.”
“Only car 9,” Wonwoo breathes. “They would’ve included Joshua if—”
Just then, papaya orange cuts through the smoke, the cloud dispersing around Joshua’s car as he makes it out of the accident, going half the speed he was when it happened. You exhale so hard, it comes out as a groan, and suddenly everyone’s hands are on you, on each other, slapping backs and pulling in for hugs.
“Joshua,” you breathe into your mic, relieved.
“There we go again with the ‘Joshua,’” he says playfully. You shake your head but revel in the ounce of normalcy in what you think might’ve been the scariest moment of your life. “Is he okay?” he asks, voice serious now.
“He’s okay,” you assure him. “He’s out of the car and uninjured. He’s fine.”
Joshua clears his throat. “Okay, good. Let’s finish this then.”
After Joshua wins, after he’s thoroughly checked for smoke inhalation, and after he celebrates in the first place spot on the podium, he doesn’t pose for photos or sign autographs or take questions like he usually does—like the CEO wants him to. Instead, the first thing the driver does is head to the garage, right to you. He has his racing suit unzipped and peeled off his upper body, the sleeves of it tied around his waist and his toned, Barcelona-tanned arms on full display under his tank. You have only a moment to feel flustered by them before those same arms are pulling you in and squeezing you tightly. He’s drenched in sweat and he smells like smoke and grease and like… boy (not in the good way), but you melt into him all the same. He embraces you after every race. It’s always a hug, a thank you, and a reminder that you’re the best. Today, it’s different.
He clings to you for far longer than usual, and every time you think he must finally be pulling away, he doesn’t. He speaks right into your hair. “Thank you,” he whispers. “Thank you. You warned me with just enough time. I only avoided crashing right into him because of you.”
“Because of the team,” you correct.
“No,” he says simply, like it’s an actual fact. “No. No one on the team—no one in my life—is ever going to have my back the way you do. Thank you.”
You tighten your own hold on him against your will, and you just force yourself to nod and accept it. “I’ll always have your back.”
Joshua leans back but keeps his hands on your shoulders. He’s smiling that beautiful smile—wide and unbridled and all-consuming. The one that reaches his eyes and creates those endearing lines at the corners of them. “Let’s eat. Just you and me. My treat.”
You two have had dinner together countless times, whether with other team members or alone. Tonight, it feels worlds different, and it only takes you half a moment—as you watch him stare down at you like you’re his biggest blessing—to realize why. Half a moment to realize something you’re sure your heart has already known for years.
You’re in love with Joshua Hong.
In retrospect, you should’ve absolutely denied that dinner you had the last time Joshua raced Barcelona—at least the last time he raced with you as his engineer. You didn’t.
He took you to a restaurant he frequented on the off season. He claimed it had the best paella, and it was good, but you really didn’t know enough about paella to say it was the best. He waxed poetic about how much he loved Barcelona without ever really telling you anything substantial about it, just droning on and on about the architecture and the food and the music and Circuit de Barcelona-Catalunya, laughing and nodding when you casually mentioned Spain’s bad habit of colonizing countries.
“You’re right,” he sighed. “I guess it isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”
“Well, you live here and you love it. I suppose I’ll also try to love it. At least for tonight.”
You never told him but you did love it. For that one night, you loved Spain and Barcelona and even the stupid circuit, and you think it was the one and only night you allowed yourself to feel your love for him too. When dinner was over, he seemed eager to keep the night going, so you did. Then, somehow you were in his home, just minutes from the circuit, drunk off wine he swore was also the best, and you watched as his eyes progressively got heavier and heavier, until he was asleep on the floor next to you, and you confronted the horrifying feelings stirring in your chest. You didn’t tell Joshua for another few months, but you decided right then that it was your last season with McLaren. With him.
You should’ve just left Spain for the next location like you always did, and maybe you’d still be his race engineer, and he would have two more titles under his belt by now. Or maybe falling in love was inevitable and you were always meant to be exactly where you are.
You land in Barcelona a measly three hours after your conversation with Jihyo, and you don’t know how she does it, but the woman manages to have a driver ready for you, already knowing exactly where to go. His home.
His press conference ended hours ago, and you’d watched the rest of it on your phone on the drive over to try and curb your growing anxiety as you started to recognize the streets leading to his majestic, obnoxiously priced home. It didn’t help much, his words only making you more nervous and infinitely sweatier.
“We’re here, ma’am,” the driver announces even though you don’t need him to. It looks exactly the way it did the first and last time you were here—even better now with the sunset serving as the backdrop.
“Thank you,” you say shakily, undoing your seatbelt and getting out with your purse, the only thing you brought with you. “I’ll, um…”
“Miss Park instructed I wait for you as long as you need,” he supplies, turning back to you and smiling brightly.
“Perfect. Thank you,” you repeat, closing the door and turning toward the house. You shake your head and whisper to yourself, “This is fucking insane.”
The car pulls away and out of the driveway, parking on the street to give you some illusion of privacy as you have a meltdown in your head. The entire plane ride here, all you did was watch and rewatch Joshua’s press conference, trying to find signs of why he was taking his sabbatical or which way he was leaning toward: rest or retirement. Of course, you had no idea because you can’t tell that kind of information by just staring at the way he smiles or nods and listens attentively or the way his jaw clenches when he’s asked a question about last season.
But it was a nice distraction from the fact that you were about to face someone you loved so wholly but were never supposed to fall in love with in the first place. And it stopped you from asking yourself if you still love him even now—even two years later with zero contact during that time. Without that distraction, you feel your brain maxing out.
“This is fucking insane,” you repeat.
Will he hate me for how I left? you wonder. What if he just slams the door in my face? What if I cry?!
The last thought has you panicking because the idea of crying in front of Joshua right now makes you want to beg the driver to take you back to the airport. So before you can psych yourself out, you walk forward. You walk forward until you’re at his door, until your finger is pressed against his doorbell, until you’re sure you’ll pass out from holding your breath in anticipation. Until the door finally opens.
And although he’s a little more tired and a little more worn down by life, Joshua is just as beautiful as you always knew him to be.
He’s the same in a lot of ways. His hair is still dark and long enough to have to be styled away from his face during races. He wears all the same, plain silver hoops and studs in all the piercings in his ears. His arms are fighting against the confines of his T-shirt, as threatening as ever. He’s wearing the pair of glasses he wore whenever he wasn’t racing or doing some media event. But you spot the little changes too. You notice his skin has become a little paler, a little duller. The space under his eyes is just a shade darker than they used to be. His posture isn’t as straight and proper—not as careful as he had always been about it. You wonder if he sees the sameness in you too. You wonder what differences he sees, if he spots any at all.
His eyes widen for a moment before his brows immediately pull down into a confused frown, and if you weren’t so terrified, you would laugh at the way he looks behind him into his own home, then behind you like he’s waiting for someone to pop out and scream, “Got you! It was a prank!” in his face. Several seconds pass and when that doesn’t happen, he starts stammering.
“I… wh—? What… wh—I… you—what?”
You can’t help the small laugh that escapes you. “Hi,” you say softly. “I’m sorry to drop by so unexpectedly.” His frown deepens like he’s even more confused you’re actually real and speaking. “I was in the neighborhood,” you say before scoffing at yourself. “That’s a dumb joke. I wasn’t. You don’t even have a neighborhood—you just… own all this land.” You frown a little at the fact that you’re just now realizing Joshua’s nearest neighbors are at the bottom of the hill. “I was not in the neighborhood. I flew here. From London,” you clarify. “Okay, anyway. I saw your announcement today, and I was—oof!”
You grunt as all however many pounds of Joshua’s pure muscle slam into you, his arms immediately wrapping around you like they never forgot what it was like to have you there in the first place. You try not to audibly sigh, but you know he feels it when the tension in your shoulders dissolves and you sag against him, your own hands coming up to rub his back. The last time he hugged you in Barcelona, he smelled disgusting. Today, he smells fresh, clean, and… woody. He smells like he always did when he used to follow you around the McLaren facility instead of practicing or working out.
“Hi,” you murmur against his shoulder.
“Hi,” he says, voice deep and raspy. You always loved hearing it directly in your ear like this. This is better though; you feel the vibrations of it against your own chest. “I missed you.”
You want to go back to the Academy and throttle Jihyo in the face. You don’t know why on earth she thought you coming over here to convince Joshua to go back with you was a good idea. Two years did absolutely nothing to help you forget and move on. All it took was Joshua telling you he missed you, and you were right there again, in the McLaren garage on Circuit de Barcelona-Catalunya, realizing you were in love with the man in your arms. You were there, at the McLaren Technology Center, meeting your rookie driver for the first time. In Vegas, trying slot machines and tilting your heads in confusion because neither of you understood the point. In Silverstone, where he first received the question of whether or not the rumors that you two were dating were true. In Abu Dhabi. Leaving him for London.
Your fingers clench around the back of his shirt against your will, but he doesn’t pull away or complain, instead pulling you in even tighter. It’s only been a handful of seconds and already, you have the answer to your question.
If you’re not in love with him anymore, then why are you so worried? Well, because two years apparently wasn’t enough. After a few moments, you find the courage to say, “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t” is all he says back. So you don’t. It feels like ages have passed when you pull away, but when you do, you feel a little lighter and a little less terrified. He lets his arms fall to his side but he doesn’t step away. “I assume we have a long conversation ahead of us?” he asks, smiling tiredly.
You nod. “I think so.”
“Come on in then.”
It’s not as awkward as you thought it was going to be and that’s probably because of Joshua himself. Without missing a beat, he falls right into the same rhythm the two of you used to have.
He asks you something simple like how your day is going. You answer mindlessly.
“It’s fine.”
He nudges you with his elbow but says nothing else. You immediately give into him.
“It’s going really well; Wonwoo liked my presentation.” (He celebrates you with a hug and all kinds of praise that make your heart thunder).
“It’s literally just… fine. Nothing remarkable, nothing bad.” (“Okay, then let’s make it remarkable starting now.”)
“It’s shit and I don’t want to talk about it.” (“Alright, we won’t talk about it. Can we… eat about it?”)
But today is a little less like that. Today, your answer is: “Who the fuck cares about me right now? What do you mean you’re taking a sabbatical?”
He snorts before sighing. “Can I offer you a water? Juice? I have wine?”
You glare at him. “Joshua.”
“Two years without a peep from you and the first thing you say to me is my government name,” he whines. “Harsh.”
The reminder that the two years you spent apart is your fault has you pausing and biting your cheek to keep from pushing even harder. He doesn’t notice the turmoil on your face though as he turns to grab two water bottles from his fridge before leading you to his backyard. You didn’t get to see it since it was the middle of the night the one and only time you visited, but in the light of the sunset, it’s truly majestic. Joshua could’ve just shown you a photo of his backyard and you would’ve immediately understood why he loves Barcelona so much. It’s not surprising that he has a sprawling view, seeing as his home sits at the top of a hill, but that’s not what impresses you most. It’s not even the massive pool or its waterfall or the outdoor bar or the half-court basketball court or the McLaren go-kart in the corner that has you slack jawed. It’s the ambiance.
It’s the infinite stringed lighting hung over the space and dappling the entire backyard with a soft, warm glow. It’s the firepit he already has going and the book he has open, face down on his outdoor sectional, spine battered and cracked. It’s the opened bottle of wine and the singular glass next to it, half full. It’s the slow, jazzy music he has playing over his installed outdoor speaker system. It’s the fact that this is the most Joshua space you’ve ever seen. It’s the fact that you can tell he’s trying his best to self-soothe right now.
“Wow.”
He looks over at you and once he sees the awe on your face, he gives you your first favorite smile of this trip. It’s close-lipped this time, but his eyes still crinkle in the corners, sparkling even more under these lights. “You like it?” he asks, sitting down where he was obviously lounging before you came barging in.
He pats the space next to him even though the sectional is more than big enough for you to choose any other seat. You don’t have the willpower to sit anywhere other than right next to him, though. He hands you the water bottle he retrieved for you, setting his own on the side table next to his wine. When he’s done settling in, Joshua turns toward you, one arm propped up on the back of the sectional, and stares at you like he’s waiting for you to speak. You don’t, simply staring back. He laughs a little as he averts his gaze, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose with his knuckle.
You don’t ask again and he doesn’t wait for you to. He takes a deep breath before meeting your gaze once more.
“I’m just tired, Y/N,” he states plainly. And he sounds it. He sounds more tired now than he ever did on a schedule that had him racing in 21 different countries a majority of his year—training the rest of it. You can’t believe Saki, a student who’s never even spoken a word to this man, clocked it before you did.
“Tired of what, Shua?” you ask, not meaning your voice to come out in the whisper it does. He smiles at the nickname and you feel your heart beat a little harder for him.
“Racing,” he answers like it’s obvious, and in some ways, it is, but he’s still the last person you expect to say that. Your immediate frown makes him chuckle.
“How are you laughing?” you ask incredulously. “What do you mean you’re tired of racing?”
“Come on, don’t pretend like you don’t understand,” he shrugs, rolling his eyes playfully. “You’re still in this world. I know the Academy is at seven of the circuits the same weekends we are.”
You feel your cheeks warming at the unspoken accusation: your girls would race my tracks on my weekends and you still didn’t come find me. You still didn’t bother talking to me. Joshua would never say that, and even if he did, he would never deliver it so callously, but that’s almost why you feel like you have to do it on his behalf. You get a sinking feeling he won’t blame you for anything and that somehow feels worse than punishment.
“Even if you didn’t see it with your own eyes, I know you know how bad my first season without you was. Is it so surprising I’ve grown tired?” he makes his point. “And yeah, this past one wasn’t as terrible—”
“You placed third in points,” you interrupt. “That’s fantastic, Shua.”
He pauses, watching you carefully. You aren’t sure what he’s studying on your face—if maybe he thinks you’re only saying that to spare his feelings. Just as you’re about to assure him you’re not, he says, “It’s not about placement.”
You refrain from raising one eyebrow at him skeptically. You nod slowly, trying to understand because as far as you know, it’s only about placement to these men. To you, it’s about building and fixing cars, studying numbers you find fascinating, solving problems for Joshua. For the drivers? Nothing matters aside from winning.
“I… don’t follow,” you finally admit. He looks down and exhales slowly through his nose, not impatiently but heavily—under an obvious weight he’s shouldering on his own. “You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to,” you force the words out of your mouth. They’re not the words you want to say. What you really want is to violently shake the truth out of him.
“I just… realized a lot about myself this season,” he finally says. “I did a lot better than I did last year, so you’d think I’d be happy my career isn’t over and that 2024 was just a fluke, but I… I didn’t really care.” You don’t voice any of the surprise you feel, not wanting to interrupt his train of thought as he picks at nonexistent lint on his pants. “You remember how I feel about the circuit here,” he states it more than he asks. You nod anyway. “The one time I lost it, I was in a bad mood for weeks.”
“That’s generous,” you interject. “You were in a bad mood until you raced and won it the next season.”
He rolls his eyes and suppresses a smile as he shakes his head and finally looks away from his own lap and back at you. “Yeah, well,” he sighs, smile fading. “I lost so many races in 2024, including Catalunya, and I didn’t give a shit.” Your eyebrows rise at the declaration. “I didn’t feel mad or frustrated or panicked or embarrassed. For the first time in my life, I truly just… did not care.”
“Oh,” you manage to squeak. It’s not what you were expecting when you came here.
You’re not sure what you were expecting. Maybe you thought you’d come here and have to convince Joshua he was still the best driver on the grid regardless of two less-than-stellar seasons. Maybe you thought you would just find Joshua resting, already equipped with a game plan for how to tackle his next year with McLaren. Or maybe—and probably most likely—you thought you’d come here and not get a chance to say or hear anything at all. Maybe you expected a door slammed in your face. What you didn’t expect was for Joshua Hong to not care. He cared entirely too much.
He was always a little too involved in the design and build of the cars, disagreeing with engineers on matters he sometimes didn’t even fully understand. He was, to the designers’ dismay, right most of the time (and you like to think it was because he was unconsciously absorbing your unsolicited lectures) but it was considered annoying for a driver to be so involved. He didn’t let anyone outside of you and Wonwoo touch his helmet pre-race (something about how it wiped away the good luck), and the one time someone did, he insisted on an entirely different helmet, one he had hidden away in the paddock in case someone did touch his original one. You were in charge of keeping emergency good luck helmets after that. Every call, every decision, every penalty—anything that happened on the track—was something that could make or break his entire month. He was infinitely better than other drivers at keeping his cool and checking his temper before it even culminated into words, but if something bad happened during a race, no matter how small, his vexation with himself showed easily. It was evident in his intense obsession with running strategies with you and Wonwoo, in his insistence he perform the same simulations over and over again until he was sure he wouldn’t make the same mistakes, in the way he’d restlessly fidget with his hands before the next race as he wondered aloud if it would be better this time.
All of that was normal to you. Easy. Joshua not caring is not easy.
“I imagine whatever you’re feeling that’s making your face do that is how I should feel,” he mutters, smirking.
You clear your throat and school your face into a neutral expression. “What was my face doing?”
“You looked horrified,” he informs you, reaching for his wine glass. He offers it to you first and when you decline, he brings it to his lips, tilting his head back for a sip. Your eyes can’t help but go down to his neck, where you watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. “I thought a sabbatical would horrify me too,” he says, breaking you out of your daze and sucking air through his teeth briefly before smacking his lips a few times. You have no idea why wine drinkers do that but you don’t bother wasting a question on something so trivial.
“So… you’re retiring…?”
“No,” he says, setting his glass back on the table.
“Oh. Good.”
“But I might.”
You frown. “Oh…” Not good.
He shrugs far too nonchalantly for your liking. “I don’t know yet. I guess we’ll see after this. My sabbatical will last throughout the 2026 season, then I’ll be back at the drawing table.”
“You’ll be back on the track,” you say resolutely. He raises his eyebrows in amusement at you. “You will, Shua. There isn’t a world where you’re not racing. That’s… that’s weird!”
“Oh, is that what it is,” he snorts. “Weird? And what’s so weird about it?” he asks, obviously unconvinced. Just the fact that he has to ask what’s weird is weird. The real Joshua Hong would know why the idea of him retiring from racing so early on in his career is weird.
“What is happening?” you ask yourself under your breath instead of dignifying him with an answer. Louder, you tell him, “Look, you had a hard two seasons—I get it, you got stuck with an engineer that wasn’t ready—”
“He was ready,” he says, smiling tightly. “He was great—said and did all the right things, made all the right calls, seemed to have been receptive to whatever you told him about me because he was prepared for everything. He was fine, Y/N.”
You falter. This entire time, you attributed his bad season to the struggle of acclimating to a new partner, and maybe that was just your ego talking, but if that wasn’t the reason for it, then Joshua isn’t mistaken and he isn’t lying to you. He really does not care.
“I do feel bad for him. He lost the spot because of my performance; McLaren thought it wasn’t working, so he got demoted back to wherever he came from. I’m not sure, I didn’t talk to him much.”
Every sentence out of the McLaren star’s mouth is sending you reeling. After your first meeting, you and Joshua could probably easily win a Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? style game based on each other’s lives. And after your first race, you knew you two were going to be attached at the hip. You can’t imagine spending an entire season not talking to your assigned driver, least of all Joshua.
“So when I got my next engineer this year, I did better so I wouldn’t lose sleep over messing up someone else’s career,” he informs you. “But… it was honestly soul-crushing—having to pretend to care… having to try. For the first time in my life, this felt like work, Y/N. Like… actual work. It felt like a fucking 9-5 I was dragging myself to every day.”
You try not to react to his cursing. It’s something you always wanted him to do more of because you have the mouth of a sailor, but hearing it like this—alongside the fact that he doesn’t care—feels wrong. You suddenly see why McLaren’s CEO was convinced Joshua wouldn’t want anything to do with the Academy. He really did lose his spark. The thought is devastating. You two practically started your careers together—everything you both ever worked for culminated in the five years you spent together. When you think of racing, you think of Joshua. When you think of the most fun and exhilarating times of your life, you only see memories stained with him. And now, he doesn’t care, he doesn’t find joy in it, and he’s seriously entertaining the idea of completely leaving it behind. It feels like he’s leaving you behind. As soon as you think it, you hate yourself for letting it even enter your brain. You’re the one that left first. To make it worse, he’s just trying to escape something that’s robbing him of joy; you went out of your way to escape him. You silently shake your head to yourself.
“I… I’m sorry,” you find yourself saying as if he could hear your thoughts and you needed to apologize for it.
“For what?” he laughs.
“I don’t even know,” you tell him honestly, slouching against his couch in defeat. He looks down at you curiously as you slide down even further. He mimics your movement until you’re shoulder to shoulder. “I guess… for leaving for starters.”
“I told you,” he says, looking away immediately and clearing his throat. “You don’t have to do that.”
“But I do,” you argue, turning away and watching the flames dance in his fire pit. “It was kind of sudden—the decision, I mean. I didn’t really give anyone time to process it… not you, not Wonwoo.” You stop there because those are the only people you really care about inconveniencing. “And then that last race, I—”
“I really don’t want to talk about Abu Dhabi, Y/N,” he interrupts without looking at you. You glance at him and find his eyes on the fire too. When he doesn’t expand on why he’d rather not talk about it, you look away once more.
“Okay,” you agree slowly. “I won’t talk about it. Just know I’m sorry.”
“Okay,” he parrots back. You try not to wince, knowing that’s as much of an acceptance you’re going to get… so not an acceptance at all, really. “Are we done talking about all this BS now?” he asks, pushing his shoulder against yours. He nudges but doesn’t pull away after, keeping his bicep pressed to yours. “I mean, you’re here… in Barcelona, with me!”
The excitement in his voice is so palpable, you want to slide all the way down until you’re sprawled across the floor, kicking and giggling. You look up to find him already looking down at you, a soft smile on his wine-stained lips. You wish you could reach up and just kiss him—that you could run your fingers through his long hair and see if it’s as silky as it always looks.
You smile, forcing yourself to look away. “Yeah, I’m here. With you.”
“Not that I’m complaining,” he starts, “because I’m really happy you’re here and you’re always welcome.” Your heart screams. “But why are you here?”
The easy answer is that Park Jihyo, the most power-hungry, stubborn, and arguably sadistic CEO in all of F1, manipulated you into kidnapping Joshua by any means necessary. The honest answer—the one you only realize is the actual answer at this very moment—is that you’re going to make Abu Dhabi up to Joshua. If he can’t find it in himself to forgive you, that’s fine and you respect it. You can live with that, but you can’t live with the idea of him quitting on something he loves as much as racing. You’re not only going to bring those girls at the Academy an absolute legend of a driver; you’re also going to revive his love for the sport while you’re at it. You’re going to be his engineer again, and this time, the checkered flag is going to be at the starting line of the 2027 season. Jihyo is wrong; you will not be taking no for an answer, and you will be forcing this man to go back to London with you if you have to.
Your heart starts beating erratically, adrenaline suddenly pumping through your system the way it used to when you two were still partners preparing for a race. You abruptly push yourself up on the couch, jostling and startling Joshua since he was leaning on your shoulder. He sits up too.
“I am here,” you start with renewed ambition, turning so that you’re fully facing him. He mirrors you, eyes widening a little at your sudden burst of energy. “Because Jihyo and I have a lovely offer for you.”
“Park Jihyo,” he says. “Your CEO.”
You nod, glad he already knows who she is. “Yes! My boss. We saw the news of your sabbatical and she asked if I would come speak with you.”
He seems to deflate a little, brows furrowing together in what you perceive as perplexity. “Oh. Sure. What do you need to speak with me about then?”
“Keep an open mind, okay, Shua?”
One corner of his mouth quirks up in a small smile. “Okay, Y/N.”
“We’d love for you to come work with us at F1 Academy as a mentor for the current class of drivers.”
It takes a startling amount of energy to refrain from shrieking this at him now that you have absolutely zero doubt about how badly Joshua needs to be at the Academy with you.
“Wh—”
“The girls are great, Joshua,” your words are tumbling out of you now, very clearly desperate for a yes from the man. “They’re young and green and hungry and bright! Oh my god, they’re so fucking bright!” The bewildered expression on Joshua’s face settles into a soft, amused smile, and you take it as encouragement that you’re already on your way to convincing him. “They’re such a talented bunch this season—I mean, they have been every single season! It’s like they were born to do this. Every time they get out on the track, I think of you.”
You’re a little mortified at how truthful you’re being, but you know better than anyone how to get Joshua to where he needs to be. Your honesty and vulnerability over the radio always warmed him up to your suggestions, and if that’s what will make him come back to London with you, you’ll allow him to have it.
“Me?” he asks dubiously even though it’s obvious he’s pleased.
“Yes, you.” He smiles and shakes his head at you like you’re being silly but you don’t care. “Granted, they’re much slower—they are in F4 cars, after all,” you continue, “but when I watch them on the asphalt… when I see the way they drive like it’s the last time they’re ever going to be on the track because it might actually be, I think to myself, this must have been what you were like just before we met at McLaren. And it feels so special, y’know? To watch such talented people and know that some of them can possibly become the next Joshua Hong.”
You pause to glance at him, a little surprised to find his face unnervingly close to yours with an expression you don’t think you’ve ever seen on it. He almost looks like he’s frowning—like you’ve confused him so much, he’s no longer comprehending what you’re saying. It’s his eyes that give him away, though. They’ve always been his tell. He watches you carefully, eyes glassy, unmoving, and trained on you. His gaze is full of warmth and tenderness and affection, and it steals your breath to be on the receiving end of it.
“They’re, um,” you stumble over your words, having lost your train of thought.
“Yeah?” he encourages you quietly when you don’t continue, blinking rapidly. He’s close enough that you feel his breath on your lips when he speaks.
“Wh… what?”
He glances down briefly before looking back up at your eyes. Did he just look at my lips? “They’re…?”
Right. The Academy. “Uh, yes, yeah. The girls—they… they’re—”
You clear your throat uncomfortably, forcing yourself to break his eye contact and turn back toward the fire. You’ll never be able to speak otherwise. He inhales deeply as you find the words you were trying to say, following your lead and turning away as well.
“They have so much potential, Shua,” you say, all your previous energy gone now. You feel something more invasive seeping into its place. You feel the self-consciousness, the doubt, the discomfort, the excitement of being near someone you’re in love with again. “They already have the talent and the resources. They just need a little something to push them over the top. They need someone to teach them what being a driver—a good, respectable driver—really means.”
You see his head turn toward you in your peripherals but you don’t meet his eyes this time; you don’t want to risk every thought flying out of your already near-empty head again.
“And the current staff is great, don’t get me wrong, but…” you sigh, shaking your head, “the lead racing instructor has been out of the sport for decades, and as kind and well-meaning as he is, he doesn’t know the first thing about empowering young women.”
“I don’t either, Y/N,” he says like he thinks he’s reminding you of a fact.
You scoff. “Of course you do.” You take the risk and look at him now. You’re relieved to see that he’s no longer looking at you as intensely as before. Instead, he seems genuinely baffled this time. “Shua… you don’t actually believe you don’t know how to empower women, do you?” you ask, clearly amused.
He raises an eyebrow at you. “What on earth makes you think I know how to do that? I’ve literally been surrounded by a sea of men my entire life. You’re literally the only woman I know other than my mom.” You laugh loudly at that, feeling some of the wound up nerves in you loosen a little. “What are you laughing at?” he deadpans, glaring at you even though you know he’s equally amused. Always the eyes. “I’m being 1,000 percent serious.”
“I know,” you say, your laughter dwindling down to a satisfied sigh. You know his mother well and you don’t know how it isn’t abundantly clear to him where he learned how to treat women so well. “But that doesn’t mean anything.”
He doesn’t respond, turning back to the fire and staring at it hard like you’ve just given him a calculus problem to solve. You smile and admire his profile for a moment before speaking, the orange glow of the flames dancing across his smooth, tan skin.
“Shua, did you know my contract with McLaren was only supposed to last a year?” you ask him even though you know the answer.
“What?”
“Your race engineer was supposed to be a man named Min Yoongi,” you inform him. “The year you debuted, Wonwoo told me that there would be an open slot for a new race engineer and that he was putting my name in the ring. I was told the position was as good as mine. But then the CEO brought him Yoongi’s resume. He was an external candidate from some aerospace engineering company.”
“But they chose you,” Joshua says, sounding happy that it turned out that way.
“No,” you correct him, shaking your head. “They chose Yoongi.”
His head snaps toward you like you just said the most offensive thing. “What? No… it was you.”
You suppress a laugh at the fact that he’s trying to rewrite your own history for you. “No, it was Yoongi. He was not only a very qualified engineer, he was also the CEO’s nephew.”
“Not the fucking nepotism,” he groans, throwing his head back onto the sectional. Joshua was one of very few F1 drivers that came into the sport from absolutely nothing, so you know why he’s irritated.
You sigh. “The only people who know about this are the CEO, Wonwoo, and me. Now you,” you tell him. “I know it’s not but I sometimes feel like it’s embarrassing for me to share this because I like to think I earned the spot—and I did. Later on. But initially, that spot only really became mine because I begged for it.”
“What?” he asks a third time, this one with a bit of bite. He lifts his head up off the sectional once more, narrowing his eyes at you. “What the fuck do you mean you begged?”
“Exactly that. I barged into the CEO’s office with Wonwoo and a 32-slide Powerpoint presentation, and I showed him every reason why I deserved the spot while Wonwoo practically held him hostage for me,” you recall, smirking. Joshua doesn’t look the least bit entertained, though.
It felt so humiliating and demeaning back then, but it just makes you laugh now—only because it turned out fine. The thought of any of your girls going through that makes you want to tear your hair out, though.
“In the end, he agreed to a 1-year contract. He told me he would give me a chance with his new rookie, and if I performed well, he would give me a ‘real’ contract.” Joshua’s mouth drops open the tiniest bit. “I knew how he felt about talent,” you say. “I knew that all that mattered was how much we won, but I underestimated how badly he wanted McLaren to be a family business. So even though we had a wildly successful debut, and even though you literally turned F1 on its head—” Joshua snorts in faux modesty. “—Wonwoo warned me about halfway through the season that the CEO was going to give the role to Yoongi and that I would return to my old position.”
“So… what happened…?”
You smile widely. “You happened. Instead of talking about your background and your upbringing and your talent, you spent every single interview that season talking about me. Crediting me. Praising me.”
He frowns. “Okay… I don’t get it…?”
You sigh. “I forget that at the end of the day, you’re just a man.”
He huffs out a single laugh. “Forgive me for being born this way.”
“I forgive you, I guess,” you shrug dramatically. He rolls his eyes but smiles all the same. “See, you empowered me without even realizing it,” you point out. “By the time the season was over, we were being touted as F1’s dream team. I was reached out to so many times for interviews that McLaren’s comms team assigned me my own PR manager. The CEO was forced to turn his nephew away and give me a real contract, unless he wanted to lose out on all the media attention and risk messing with our chemistry, and therefore messing with your success.”
One of Joshua’s eyebrows twitches at that.
“Our on-track chemistry,” you mumble your correction quickly, face burning.
“Right,” he says, clearing his throat and doing a horrible job of concealing a smirk.
“Anyway, my point is… your advocacy of my work literally saved my career. Even with F1 Academy—when Jihyo approached me, she told me I was her first choice because the coverage on my career was inspiring to girls trying to get into the sport.” Pride blooms in your chest when Joshua reaches over to squeeze your hand quickly at that bit before pulling away. It’s nothing new; his victory had always been yours, and yours his. “So if you were able to be such a strong ally to me and my career without even knowing it,” you say, hoping this will push you across the finish line, “what do you think you’ll be able to do with these students when you’re actually trying?”
“Ah,” he says, nodding as he finally sees where your story was going. He narrows his eyes at you all of a sudden. “Whoa, you’re really good at that.”
You smirk. “I know. I did convince the CEO of McLaren to give me that first contract.”
He laughs. “Convincing woman, indeed.” He pauses, biting his lip in thought before scooting closer and leaning his shoulder into you once more. You try not to stiffen at the contact. “I’m sorry you had to beg. I hate hearing that. You deserved it. I would’ve never won those titles without you.”
“Yes yo—”
“No, I wouldn’t have,” he says with a calm certainty, so much so that something stops you from arguing with him. He looks down at you and smiles your favorite smile, this time with all his teeth showing. “We really were the dream team, huh?”
You grin back, leaning right back into his shoulder subconsciously. “We were.”
“Think we’ll become the dream team of the Academy too?”
Your smile drops right off your face as you search his face for any signs that he’s joking with you. The crinkles around his eyes just deepen.
“When’s our flight to London?”
LAS VEGAS GRAND PRIX 2018
“You doing anything after this?”
“I don’t know. Sleeping?”
“Weird question, but would you want to meet my mom?”
It’s an uphill battle to keep from stammering in surprise as the eyes of every strategist on the pit wall who’s tuned into Joshua’s channel slide to you. The driver grunts on a tighter turn before speaking again.
“Hello?”
Wonwoo clears his throat then turns to the others, demanding bits of random information about the drivers just ahead and behind Joshua in a thinly veiled attempt to distract them.
“Your mom?” you repeat. “Clear to take him.”
“Yup,” he responds through gritted teeth as he overtakes P5. “She flew in from LA last night to watch. She’s in the paddock right now. I’m taking her to dinner at the buffet at the Wynn if you want to join us. I ma—nice try, buddy,” he says, defending an attack from the driver he just stole P5 from.
Your mouth waters at the mere mention of a buffet. It’s the one thing you make time to do every year when F1 comes to the city, whether it’s with Wonwoo, another coworker you can stomach, or even by yourself (you’re not above eating at a buffet on your own, especially not a Vegas buffet).
“Oh, that’s a good one,” you comment. Your favorite, actually. “Have you been?”
“Nope. You can show me and my mom your favorites.”
You can’t deny you’re incredibly curious about the woman who raised this year’s star rookie all by herself without the riches it usually requires drivers to participate in the sport. You shouldn’t be so surprised; you and Joshua had become fast friends, spending almost all your time together since both of your lives were run by McLaren. Meeting his mom would be fun! So why does it make you want to throw up then run right off the pit wall and head into the first salon that will take you for a last minute hair, nail, brow, everything appointment?
“She wants to meet you,” Joshua adds, not-at-all helping the nerves.
Your eyebrows rise. “And why is that? Gap to P4 is 0.8.”
“Copy.” He drives the city easily and calmly—far calmer than a lot of other drivers are about being on their home track. “Something about you being the only woman I’ll ever have the time to talk to so she might as well befriend you.”
Even with how focused you’re trying to be on the race, you laugh suddenly at that. “That’s kind of sad.”
“I don’t think so!” he says lightheartedly. “You’re my best friend at this point.”
Your laugh settles into a soft smile as you nod. “You’re within DRS. Take him on the next straight, bestie.” He chuckles at that before obeying, his car pulling ahead and taking P4 from Mercedes. “I’ll come,” you decide. “But only if you snag us podium.”
He scoffs. “Don’t insult me. I’ll get you first.”
His confidence is well-placed because he delivers, standing right in the middle of the podium when the race is over, and sure enough, a few hours later, you’re seated across from him and right next to his mother at the buffet, her hand wrapped around yours as you both cackle at stories she’s sharing about her son and your driver. And Joshua, endearingly, doesn’t complain or blush in embarrassment; he just watches the two of you contentedly, absentmindedly picking at the scraps of his food he’s too full to finish. There’s a soft smile on his lips that reach up into his eyes, and you can tell he’s happy in a way he isn’t usually. So when the laughter dies down to giggles and his mom sighs, you vocalize an observation.
“You two are really close, huh?” Joshua’s eyes were already on you, and once he hears your question, his eyebrows rise a little. His mom hums and tilts her head, a lot like the way he does when he thinks.
“Yes, I always wanted to be a mother who could also be best friends with my child,” she says, nodding with her eyes still trained on the ceiling as she seemingly thinks aloud. “I suppose the fact that it was always only the two of us helped push us even closer together.” Her gaze comes back down to her son. “Hm, Josh?”
It’s virtually the only fact about Joshua you knew before meeting him. If there’s anything F1 had a hard-on for, it was a Cinderella story, and Joshua certainly had one of those. They’re rare to come by in the sport, with families easily spending hundreds of thousands of dollars to give their child a chance—not even a guarantee they’ll make it. And even though the details of his Cinderella story are still a closely held secret, everyone knew McLaren’s newest driver was the child of a single immigrant mother who worked several jobs and went into severe debt to get him into F1.
He averts his eyes from yours, suddenly finding the tiny bits of his steak that were too well done for him to enjoy more interesting. He nods as he pushes them around with his fork. “Mhm, right, eomma.”
“I sometimes felt guilty when he was growing up—”
“Eomma,” Joshua sighs the word like a warning. Like he doesn’t want to hear whatever she’s about to say for the millionth time. His exasperation barely passes as so, though. He still says it so politely, it doesn’t deter the woman next to you at all.
“Why is that?” you ask, too curious for your own good. Joshua throws you a withering look and you have the shame to offer a small, embarrassed smile.
“Well, I had to work multiple jobs for practically all of Joshua’s childhood. Money was never steady or guaranteed. He was alone for a lot of it,” she says, turning to you when Joshua refuses to look up at her.
You can tell so clearly where the driver gets his charming, expressive eyes from. You can see everything she’s telling you right there, in her eyes. The days she worked as a cleaner, the nights she labored as an overnight caretaker, and the weekends she “took it easy” as a part-time cashier at a gas station. You see how little money it still brought in and how she cried on the hardest days because she just sorely missed her son—her son, who had to get ready for school by himself, feed himself, put himself to bed. You see the panic in her eyes from when Joshua started getting into trouble in his late teens. Street racing.
“Street racing?” you ask incredulously. “But you were in the McLaren development program! They would’ve never taken on a street racer!”
“That’s why we don’t share that information freely, eomma,” Joshua deadpans, trying to glare at his mom. He fails when his lips immediately begin to quirk up into a smile.
She scoffs and waves a hand at him. “She’s your engineer! She’s the one who wants what’s best for you most in this world! After me, of course.” She winks at you.
You grin. It’s nice to feel like you’re a part of this small club—this small club of people responsible for Joshua Hong’s safety, success, and happiness. The small club of people he allows to get close.
“I won’t tell anyone, Shua,” you assure him. He spares you a brief smile that churns the obscene amount of food in your stomach before his eyes slide back to his mom. “I’m honestly just… surprised.”
“That a good boy like him was speeding around the city avoiding the LAPD every night?” his mom asks, glaring right back at her son. Hers is a lot more convincing and he looks back at you to avoid it.
That’s exactly it. Those big, shiny eyes. His obnoxiously pink lips, constantly curled into a delicate smile. His exceedingly gentle nature (off the track at least). This man was illegally racing on the streets of Los Angeles as a teenager?
“Yeah, I was surprised too,” his mom sighs, shaking her head and clicking her tongue at him.
You laugh. “Nope, cannot imagine that.”
“Well, he was,” she huffs, obviously remembering the grey hairs it got her. “And the only reason I found out was because it was one of the times I got let off work early, and I caught him coming back in. This boy can’t lie for shit. He practically told me everything before I could even finish asking where he’d been.”
You laugh gleefully at that as Joshua groans, cheeks turning a touch redder. You find it hilarious he’s more embarrassed about this than he was about his mom recalling how he cried so hard saying bye to her on his first day of kindergarten, he peed his pants and had to go home.
“I wanted to do better than my parents did,” she says contemplatively when you both stop laughing at him. “They were so… set in their ways and so hard on me. And if it had been them, Joshua would’ve been black and blue by morning.” He looks up at his mom with such fierce love, protectiveness, and respect, it makes you feel like you shouldn’t be here. It makes you feel like you’re witnessing something special that was never meant for you. “But I always told myself I’d do better, even if it was just a little bit. Because then, he’d be better, and maybe if he had kids later on, they’d be even better too. Little by little… each of us doing better than the ones before.”
“You were better, eomma,” Joshua says resolutely. “Are better.”
She smiles softly at him before looking back at you. “I took a few days to think about everything before figuring out what to do with him and his reckless behavior—” She shoots him another scathing look that he chuckles at. “—and the man who hired me to take care of his elderly father during the night… when he heard about why I was so distraught, he told me about a program I could look into for Joshua. For karting, then if he was good enough, eventually—”
“Formula One,” you both say. She nods, grinning.
“He was in the development driver program two years later,” she informs you, filled to the brim with pride.
“And competing in Formula four years after that,” you mutter as you try to recall the stats you read on Joshua what felt like eons ago now. “And now debuting in F1.”
If you sound like you’re in awe of him, it’s because you are. The odds were stacked against him in every way possible, and you already knew that, but hearing that he was practically plucked off the streets and dropped into McLaren is astounding to you. Most drivers spent their entire lives karting before breaking into a team, and it couldn’t have been easy for him to not only compete against that caliber, but on top of that, have to navigate the transition from racing a street car to a kart. Suddenly, his even temperament and intense dedication to kindness is even more impressive to you.
“Wow, Shua, I had no idea,” you breathe. He shrugs one shoulder as he finally sets his fork down and sits back, throwing an arm over the empty chair next to him and crossing his legs.
“It’s not something I dwell on too much,” he states, and you can tell he’s not just saying it to be modest.
If the commentators of F1 weren’t dedicated to mentioning Joshua was raised by a single mother with little money every single race, you’d have no idea. He has the same air of self-assuredness and poise his wealthy and nepo baby counterparts do. And after getting to know his mom, you know that confidence has everything to do with how he was raised.
“You did a really good job with him,” you say quietly.
His mom, who never once let go of your hand since you both finished eating, squeezes you and sighs happily, resting her head against yours. You smile and lean right back into her, trying not to think about how you never had this—how you might have traded your privileged upbringing for the struggles Joshua experienced if it meant that you at least had this kind of love.
“Thank you,” she says just as quietly, patting your hand with her free one. “The guilt has subsided for the most part. It seems silly to think about it too long when it was obviously worth it. Right, Josh?”
She asks it like she needs the reassurance that sacrificing her time with her child to provide a better life for him was worth it—like she needs the forgiveness. Joshua stands and slides himself into the space on the other side of his mom, his arms snaking around her. He even includes you, his arm reaching across her back and his hand hooking around the juncture where your neck meets your shoulder.
“Of course, eomma,” he says. “Look at my life. Everything is thanks to you. I won’t ever be able to thank you enough for all the sacrifices you made.”
Later, after you’ve said your goodbyes and have made promises to keep in touch via the numbers you exchanged, Joshua will walk you back to your hotel and you’ll think about how maybe his hunger to win isn’t driven by the thrill of the race the way the other drivers’ are. Maybe it’s driven by his duty to his mother. You’ll understand him a little bit more, and your own need to get him to the podium as many times as possible will increase exponentially.
“Oh my god!”
The screams are shrill and grating and have been going for a minute straight nonstop, but you can’t help the face-splitting grin as you watch your girls swarm an immediately flustered Joshua Hong.
“I can’t believe this!”
“I have your poster in my bedroom back home!”
“Oh my god!”
“My dad took me to see you at Silverstone in 2021! It was insane! You made podium that day!”
“Aw, that’s—” Whatever he was about to say is cut off by another piercing screech. He tries not to flinch and you try not to cackle.
“You’re my idol!”
“Oh my god!”
“You’re even more handsome in person!” Joshua throws you the most helpless look as some of the girls start to ooo and ahh at his face.
“Soooo handsome!”
“What’s your skincare routine?”
“Oh my god!”
“You look unreal! ML!” Eunchae, a younger student, looks back at you from where she’s sandwiched between two other girls pushing to get near the driver. “ML, isn’t he so pretty?!” She wags her eyebrows at you and your smile immediately drops as you glare at her. She simply giggles.
“Okay, girls!” you call, clapping your hands loudly. “Let’s maybe give the super duper pretty F1 legend some room, yes?” There’s another round of shrieks and laughing as Joshua rolls his eyes. “Take a seat, please.”
You never need to raise your voice with them; the students at the Academy are always respectful every season, and being one of the younger staff members, a lot of them treat you like some kind of revered older sister. The girls scramble to their seats and Joshua is finally able to fully enter the classroom, joining you where you’re leaning up against your desk at the front. He gives you a bewildered look.
“You hold so much power,” he mutters, smiling a little. You snort before gesturing to him.
“I don’t know if you guys know him, but this is Joshua Hong,” you say sarcastically, inspiring a new round of giggles. “He’s going to be spending time with us this season.”
There’s a chorus of excited gasps and whisper-shrieking at the news, the girls straightening up in their seats like they’re trying their best not to fully stand up in their elation. You know this was the last thing they expected after watching the news of Joshua’s sabbatical two days ago.
“Is this where you’ve been, ML?!” Sophia screeches, referring to your sudden departure to get Joshua, plus the full day you missed yesterday trying to get him situated at the Academy since a certain CEO insisted he begin immediately. A full day that included unceremoniously sending the current driving instructor off on a mandated vacation—not that the near 70-year-old minded at all.
“Oh my god,” Megan gasps again, face turning pale. “Are you going back to being his engineer after his sabbatical, Mick?” The others look horrified at the mere thought. She turns to the driver now, having zero issues with glaring at the two-time world champion. “Are you stealing Mickie back?! Because you can’t have her!”
“Yeah!” Eunchae throws her support behind her. “ML is my favorite instructor!”
“Okay, well you’re not special, she’s mine too!” someone shouts.
“Who do you think you are!” Joshua balks at that one.
“She’s probably contracted,” Saki points out quietly. The girls within her vicinity nod in agreement but she mostly goes unheard by the other more raucous students.
“I am not stealing… Mickie…?” Joshua asks, turning to you with one eyebrow raised in question. You shake your head and mutter you’ll explain later. “Not that I could. She’s made it very clear how much she loves it here.” The entire room seems to sag with relief, straightened postures all gone now.
You smile. “Though I will say, I am flattered by how fiercely you all feel about me,” you say. “But no, I’m not going anywhere. Now if you would all be quiet and let the man introduce himself, maybe we’ll be able to tell you what he’s doing here.” There isn’t a single noise from the girls as they all stare up at the two of you with wide, expectant eyes.
“Hi,” Joshua greets them with a chuckle, raising his hand in a small wave. “I’m Joshua. You can call me Josh or just Hong.”
Some students start whispering, probably about how crazy it is to be told they can call the best driver on the grid by a nickname, regardless of how basic it is. You’d react the same if you were told the same by any of the drivers you admired at their age.
“I am currently on sabbatical from F1, as you…” he gestures to Megan who looks like a deer caught in headlights.
“Megan,” she informs him.
He nods. “Ah, yes. I’m on a break right now, as Megan so generously reminded everyone,” he says, smiling. Both of you laugh a little when she sinks in her seat, blushing as she mouths a silent apology. “And I’m actually here to help with instructing you this season.”
If you thought the screaming was loud before, you were obviously sorely mistaken. The students jump out of their seats, all shouting over the other as they immediately begin dreaming up fantasies about being Joshua Hong’s singular prodigy F1 Academy class. You laugh as you let them revel in the joy and excitement of the moment, knowing the next few months are going to be incredibly rough on them physically and mentally in comparison. Plus, it will be a fond memory for them no matter where in Formula they end up.
Joshua grins at you as you both wait for their energy to simmer back down; you know from experience it could be a while. “They’re so funny.”
You return his smile, shaking your head as you do. “Definitely a bunch of characters this season,” you agree. “Don’t tell any other graduating class, but I’ve had the most fun with this group so far and all we’ve done is prep.”
Both of you watch as Megan bounces over to Saki, who has remained in her seat the entire time, excitedly grabbing her shoulders and shaking violently as she shouts nonsense. Saki lets her, simply smiling up at her though she makes no move to get up or make even a fraction of the same noise.
He snickers. “Reminds me of high school.”
“It basically is high school except if you gave all the teen girls a 1,200-pound car and let them drive up to 165 miles per hour,” you say nonchalantly.
“Fun,” he says just as the girls finally begin to take their seats once more. You wave your hands to quiet down the last few shouting students.
“Like CEO Park said, the season is only three months away,” you remind them. “We’re incredibly lucky to have Joshua—” ever the complainer, the driver coughs loudly at your use of his full name. “—here with us,” you say, frowning at him briefly for the interruption, “but even with how early we have him, we’re already behind if we’re going to get you a proper curriculum.”
“How behind?” someone in the back asks.
“How long have you been here again?” you ask, feigning ignorance. “However long that is. That’s how behind we are.”
“What?! We’ve been here for two months!”
You nod. “Yeah, and that’s two, whole months of learning from someone who isn’t Joshua Hong… a.k.a. your teacher.”
“Right…” Sophia breathes. “We’ve just been learning from a random grandpa…”
“Sophia!” the girl next to her shoves her.
“What?!”
You try to ignore their antics and continue. “Your original driving instructor is on vacation—”
“Did you guys fire him?!”
“I mean, if it was for Joshua Hong, then I’m fine with it.”
“Well, let’s not start rumors,” Joshua laughs nervously.
“How will he feed his family?!”
“His family is grown,” Megan scoffs. “Also, he’s a millionaire, hello?”
“Right,” Sophia says again.
“Girls, please. He’s not fired. He’s on vacation,” you sigh, squeezing the bridge of your nose. There are a few apologies as you try to get your train of thought back on track. “Joshua—”
He coughs again, louder and more openly in your face this time. You try not to curl your lip at him in disgust in front of the girls, so you instead glare at him for a moment.
“Aw, you guys really are best friends!” Your head whips toward the students to find Eunchae smiling widely. The observation takes you by surprise because of course he is, but after two years, you’re not sure that’s something he’d want to call you anymore.
“How can you tell? They’re just… standing there,” another student deadpans.
“How can you not? They’re doing the whole glaring and giggling and silent communicating thing!” You and Joshua frown at each other. “See!”
“We’re never going to hear what Mickie has to say,” Saki sighs, this time loud and clear. She isn’t annoyed or exasperated; she says it the way she says most things. As fact.
“Okay, okay!” Megan nods. “Everybody shut up now. For real.”
“Please stop telling each other to shut up,” you remind them. You’ve been reminding them since they first came together in your classroom two months ago. You glance at the clock. “You menaces have wasted so much time today. Gym is already in 15 minutes and all we did was discuss the morning simulation and scream over a man.”
“Once again, sorry I was born this way,” he mutters to you.
“Inside jokes! Bestie behavior!” Eunchae accuses.
“Be quiet!” Megan whispers.
“Look, we’re obviously not going to get through anything else today,” you say, glaring at the clock. “But before I release you to swarm Joshua—”
“Sorry, what?”
“—I want us all to be on the same page. Joshua is going to shadow me for the rest of this week, just so he can gain his footing and learn all of you menaces’ names. Then first thing next week, you’ll be hitting the simulators to show him what he’s working with.” There’s a hum of nervous murmuring. “You’ll each be running five laps on Silverstone so he can assess what he needs to do with each of you,” you inform them.
“Five?!” Sophia exclaims. “That’s it?!”
These girls might lack decorum but they don’t lack confidence. If they’re nervous, you know it’s because they fear they’ll choke in front of Joshua and lose the chance to make up for it in time.
“Yup,” Joshua says casually, making you smile at the fact that he’s comfortable enough to answer questions himself. “A lot can happen in five laps. I’ll honestly be able to tell a lot about your driving style, reaction times, and emotion regulation within the first two.”
“And the other three…?” Megan asks, raising an eyebrow.
“To see how well you do under the pressure of a world-renowned driver watching,” you answer. It shuts everyone up even though Joshua laughs and shakes his head.
“She’s kidding,” he assures the wide-eyed girls as you mouth that you aren’t. “It’s just to confirm whatever I take note of.”
You shrug a shoulder. “Okay, well then it’s for me to see how well you do under the pressure of a world-renowned driver watching, and trust me, I will be using what I learn about you in class.” The girls look just as horrified at that, and you don’t bother trying to assuage the nerves; it’ll be a million times worse when the season starts. “Once the simulations are done and we have all the proper data, from there… well…” You look over at Joshua, whose eyes are on you, following your lead. You sigh. “We get you ready to kick ass by the time the season starts.”
“I have a question!”
“If it has nothing to do with the curriculum, no.” Eunchae’s hand immediately goes down, making you smirk. “Okay, go ahead and spend your last ten minutes annoying your new teacher all your non-curriculum related questions.”
Joshua barely has a word of protest out before he’s surrounded by aspiring female drivers and dozens of questions. He throws you a few helpless looks, but you just stand off to the side, smiling at the image of a flustered Joshua Hong bombarded by the class that the Academy’s very first F1 driver will graduate from.
This season is going to be the season, and you’re sure of it.
“Your CEO seriously scares me.”
You look up from the several new car designs scattered across your desk to find Joshua leaning against the frame of your open office door. You smile, leaning back in your chair and letting your neck and shoulder muscles relax for the first time in two hours.
“She definitely knows what she wants and she will not hesitate to steam roll everyone in her way,” you agree. “But I’ve grown to admire it… or else the fear will eat me alive.”
He laughs and fakes a shudder. “I’ll have nightmares.” You shake your head at him but laugh along anyway. “Hey,” he says when his laughs peter off, looking like he just remembered something. “Why do the students call you Mickie and ML?”
“Take a wild guess.” He tilts his head, and when he doesn’t come up with an answer, you nod at the McLaren poster on your wall. “Ah,” he nods. “McLaren.”
“Mhm,” you hum affirmatively. “They won’t let me forget.”
“Do you want to forget?”
He keeps his face carefully blank, but it’s clear what he’s asking. It’s easy for you to immediately shake your head. “Never. Don’t tell them because I pretend to make a fuss over it sometimes, but I love the nickname.”
He smiles softly, leaning his head against the frame in exhaustion. He’s spent this entire first day being pulled in every direction by students, by staff, by you, signing all kinds of forms, completing random trainings, and introducing himself to everyone (though absolutely no one actually needed a legitimate introduction to Joshua Hong). You know he’s, at best, in dire need of a nap and at worst, rethinking all his choices. Although if it were the latter, he would never tell you.
He doesn’t say anything initially, simply staring at you from where he uses the doorframe as a vertical makeshift bed. You got used to this a long time ago; Joshua was constantly going quiet and the staring apparently came hand in hand with that. You asked him once what he was thinking about whenever that happened, and he said he was taking time to just enjoy the moment. It was a sentiment you could appreciate, especially with how fast-paced his life was. You were used to it, but you couldn’t help the way it still made your heart beat violently in your chest. It seems you’re constantly stuck in a battle between wanting Joshua’s attention on you and wanting to be invisible to him.
“I like it here,” he says eventually.
“Do you?” you ask, unable to keep the excitement from seeping into your question.
He smiles a little wider and nods against the frame. “Yeah. I do.”
You look down at your designs. Your final choice is due to Jihyo in the morning, but right now, you care more about making Joshua feel welcome, especially since you were the one who forced him to be here. You look back up at him. “Want to come over and eat some dinner? Tell me more about how much you love it here—”
“Like,” he corrects. You ignore it.
“How much you love it here, and maybe help me with all this crap?” You gesture weakly to the papers covering every last inch of your desk.
He lifts his head as his eyes lazily drop to the surface. His eyebrows rise. “Designs?” You nod. He grins. “Hell yeah.”
You smile. “Thought so.”
It’s nice to know that even though everything feels like it’s changed, it seems this is one of the things about Joshua that hasn’t: his near-neurotic need to be thoroughly involved in every single decision made around his car. Though this isn’t his car, he will be teaching the girls the best way to race them, and you know he’s going to want his frustratingly big, talented (veiny) hands all over anything having to do with it.
It doesn’t take you long to pack up, say bye to Jihyo, and lead Joshua through the public transportation system of London, to your favorite burger spot, and to your apartment. And as you’re putting the key in your door, you’re horrified to realize this will be the first time Joshua is in your home, and it will only be the second time (save for your recruitment two days ago) hanging out knowing that you’re head over heels in love with him.
You get brief visions of Joshua cringing in disgust at whatever horrors lie behind this door, and you shudder. Obviously, you didn’t quite think this through.
“Mmm, is everything okay?” Joshua asks, looking at you with curious eyes when you don’t turn your key in the lock. “Your precious smashburgers are going to get cold.”
You throw an irritated glare at him before shaking your head. “I just… um, I’m suddenly remembering that I’m not sure when the last time I cleaned my apartment was…?” You roll your lips in between your teeth in embarrassment.
He gives you one of his big, crinkly smiles. “Oh my god, who cares?” You stare at him blankly and blink once. He rolls his eyes and sighs. “You do. Of course you do. Okay, fine.” He presses his back against the wall opposite your door and cocks an eyebrow at you. “How long do you want?”
You smile bashfully. “Give me five minutes?”
“Three,” he deadpans, lifting the brown paper bag he’s carrying so that it’s in line with his head. “Cold burgers were not part of the deal, L/N.”
“You make a good point, Hong,” you mutter, quickly turning your lock and opening your door just enough to squeeze through without letting the man see anything inside. “Three it is!”
You slam the door and let your backpack and laptop case fall to the floor as you assess the damage. You wince.
Three bras hanging on the backs of your breakfast stools, air dried from when you did laundry last week. Spreadsheets, driver profiles, and contracts you printed out because you were getting a migraine staring at your laptop until three in the morning over the weekend—all strewn across your entire dining table, some even on the floor. The incomplete LEGO McLaren F1 MCL60 on your coffee table that you foolishly started the night before the girls arrived at the Academy and still haven’t continued (you’re sure there are several blocks missing by now). Your yoga mat rolled out in front of the TV from when you told yourself you’d find a video online to walk you through a workout but ended up falling asleep on the floor instead. A mug, a glass, and a small pan from when you drank your coffee and ate your pancakes straight out of the pan this morning, rushing to get to the Academy before Joshua did. You succeeded but at what cost? Now you have to figure out what to prioritize cleaning in the three measly minutes you have.
You figure the LEGO set will take too long to set aside and you don’t want to risk losing any more blocks than you possibly already have. The bras are a no-brainer and are already in your hands, being thrown into your bedroom haphazardly with the door quickly shut behind them as you decide the dishes need to go too. You wash and scrub like a madman, and you thank god for the wildly expensive nonstick set Jihyo got you as a housewarming gift when she saw your sad 12-year-old pan because everything cleans easily and quickly. You manage to get your yoga mat rolled up and thrown into your spare bedroom and are in the middle of organizing your dining table when Joshua knocks once. He doesn’t bother waiting, simply opening the door and yelling, “Burger time! I’m coming in!”
You smile. “It’s fine, come in. I just don’t want to hear about how messy it is in here, okay? I am barely home and when I am, I only really sleep and—”
“I love it,” he says as the door clicks shut behind him. You roll your eyes and are about to make an exaggerated quip about his beautiful Barcelona mansion when you look up at him.
As always, it’s in the eyes that you clearly see he’s being absolutely genuine as he looks around, smiling at every little thing in here—the art of circuits and cars you have on the walls, awards you received throughout your career, books on the shelves that you read ages ago and haven’t touched since. He looks through everything like they’re all the most important things he’ll ever lay eyes on.
You try not to stammer as you pile your spreadsheets together. “Oh. Thanks.”
“It’s so you. I love it. Feels like a home. It’s not messy at all,” he assures you, putting the burgers on your kitchen counter before walking over to your coffee table. You could’ve guessed that would be the first thing he’d notice, and maybe you subconsciously chose to keep the LEGO set out because of that. He points at it and gasps. “This is sick! I have a friend who loves putting these kinds of things together. Didn’t realize F1 had LEGO builds.”
You nod as you decide the dining table is tidy enough to eat at without getting the crumbs and grease of your dinner on your work. “Yeah, it’s the MCL60. The—”
“The last car we raced together,” he finishes, glancing at you and smiling. It somehow hurts more to see how happy that makes him than it would if he was just angry at you for everything that happened the last day you both raced the MCL60. “This is awesome.”
You set the table as you let him absentmindedly work on your car. When you finish and he doesn’t seem like he plans on doing anything else, you ditch the table and bring the plates, napkins, and burgers to him on the couch.
“Thank you,” he says distractedly as you set his burger next to the car. He places three more blocks before reaching for his plate and leaning back into the couch. He laughs when he notices you’re already several bites into your burger. “Good?”
You nod, cheeks too full to say anything. He takes his first bite and his eyes get so wide, you have to try your best to keep from choking as you start laughing. “See,” you say when you’re sure you’re not going to die. “Good!”
“Amazing,” he insists, shaking his head. “This just made me realize I haven’t had a good burger since, like, May.”
You frown, thinking back to what race he had in May. “Miami? Why not Austin or Vegas?”
He snorts. “BBQ for Austin, buffet for Vegas, Miami for everything else I miss from the States.”
You smile. “And now you’re having an amazing burger in London.”
He shakes his head regretfully as he takes another massive bite and shamelessly talks with his mouth full—another thing you got used to a long time ago. “Feels like cheating.”
“Kinda does, huh?” you giggle.
He watches you in amusement, chewing through his insane bites. You both eat in comfortable silence, smiling or laughing a little for no reason whenever you make eye contact. When you’re both done, you go to collect his plate but he refuses, collecting yours instead and washing both plates for you. You’re glad you decided on cleaning the dishes over the LEGO set.
“You can keep building the car if you want,” you say as you go to lay out the designs you brought home from work on the dining table, effectively replacing one work mess with another. “I think I can settle on the final tweaks pretty fast.”
“How about I help you with designs because I might actually lose my mind not getting a say in them,” he starts, making you snort, “and then I finish your car for you since knowing you, you will never get back to it.”
You stop to look up and you find him drying his hands on your towel, smiling to himself. It’s been two years and the smallest things still take your breath away. Like the fact that he knows your life is almost entirely run by your career—that having a LEGO set to finish is just a part of a fantasy where you do cutesy things like that to unwind. Or the fact that he’ll finish it for you at all. Even now, you feel like you’ve been punched in the gut just watching him dry his hands. His profile, the way his lips constantly look like they’re keeping a secret, the strands of hair that have fallen away from the rest and brush against his forehead. Your gaze follows his arms down. His large hands, adorned with silver rings—all of them always changing except the pinkie ring on his right hand. From head to toe, there isn’t a part of him that doesn’t make you feel like you’re incapable of speaking—like you’ve never even known a single word in the English language to begin with.
He finishes drying his hands and looks up. You quickly avert your eyes back to the papers before you, and you sit down abruptly, barely noticing the way your chair screeches against the floor because of how loud your thoughts are.
“So what are we working with?” he asks, taking the seat next to you instead of across. You try not to stiffen when he reaches into your space to pick up one of the designs.
You clear your throat and force yourself to explain where you’re at: almost completely done, just running through some last tweaks that your team of engineers have suggested, each of them coming up with several solutions you need to sift through and pick. And as you continue talking, your nerves settle and you both get into a familiar flow you didn’t realize you sorely missed until now. There’s no one else you can talk like this with and be assured they’re having just as good a time as you are. You walk him through each decision made for the current iteration of the car and why it was made. You even answer questions about the cars from past seasons and the issues you faced before, and you’re pleased to find that although he still doesn’t know a lot of the technical things—as all people with no background in engineering wouldn’t—his opinions and input are just as valuable as they always were when you were still at McLaren. He gives you the most valuable perspective to have: the driver’s itself.
Hours pass and even when you both have final decisions made to present to Jihyo in the morning, he insists on helping you get through the rest of the work he noticed despite your frantic three-minute tidying. And when that’s done, he also insists on finishing the LEGO set, though you do more watching and bossing around than actual helping (“So typical of a race engineer,” according to Joshua).
You’re not sure when either of you fall asleep. The last thing you remember is laying on your stomach on the couch, watching him look for the correct blocks through heavy lids, and the next thing you know, you’re in your bed, waking up in the same clothes from the night before, your nightstand clock reading 5:01 a.m. And when you walk out to your living room in a confused daze, wrapped in your blanket, you find Joshua draped across your couch. He’s far too big to be sleeping on it. You can’t help but pout a little at his sleeping form under the jacket he was wearing last night—in place of a blanket he didn’t bother waking you up for. He’s on his side facing the TV, one arm tucked under the throw pillow under his head and the other hanging off the couch, along with one leg. He’s practically half off the sofa. You gently remove his jacket and slip your blanket off your shoulders, placing it on him instead. He stirs under it but stays asleep, readjusting and immediately bunching the blanket under his chin with his fists. You try hard not to, but you can’t help when your hand reaches out and brushes the strands of hair on his forehead back. His lips twitch a little and he exhales through his nose.
You retreat back into your room, quietly showering and getting ready for work before coming back out to cook breakfast (and wash the dishes immediately after). Joshua doesn’t wake up during the entirety of it, so you set his plate on the coffee table in front of him next to the now finished MCL60, and yours across from him. You take your seat on the floor facing him, enjoying being able to openly stare at him without being scared you’ll get caught. Then, when you know you’re both about 30 minutes from officially running late for work, you wake him up.
“Shua,” you start softly as you begin cutting into your pancake. “Shuaaaaa.” He groans in his sleep and you smile around your fork. “Shua, I made pancaaaakes,” you sing-song gently in between bites. “They’re yummyyyyy. I even made eggs and bacooooon.”
He doesn’t stir. You roll your eyes.
“Joshua Hong,” you say a little louder.
“‘S not my name,” he mutters sleepily.
“Okay, I’ll call you Shua… but only if you wake up.” Nothing again. A moment later he snores once and you sigh. “Joshua, we’re going to be late.”
A whiny groan escapes him. “Five minutes, baby,” he breathes. “‘M tired.”
You freeze, eyes wide. “Shua,” you call a little more sharply.
“Mmm,” he hums, turning on his side so that his back is to you like that will help drown your voice out.
“Joshua!” your voice escalates to a shout as the panic of him calling you a pet name in his sleep starts to take you in its grasp. “Wake the fuck up!” you practically screech as you take your house slipper and throw it at his head. “I made you breakfast, you idiot!”
“Ungh!” he grunts, turning over, sitting up on his elbows, and looking around with barely open eyes, a deep frown etched on his face. You momentarily forget what he just called you as you suppress a giggle at how disheveled and disoriented he looks. “What…?”
You point at his plate with your fork. His gaze follows before going back up to your face. You smile tightly and squeak, “Breakfast!”
“Mmph.” He runs a hand over his face and groans as he turns over on his stomach, wraps the blanket around him more tightly, and squishes his cheek against the couch. You think he’s fallen back asleep until he mumbles, “Feed me.”
You scoff. “I already cooked for you and you want me to spoonfeed you too?”
“I carried you to bed and tucked you in last night, you monster,” he grumbles, mouth barely forming around the words as he drifts back to a half-asleep state. “Feed me.”
Your cheeks get hot at the information, and when you think about the three bras you threw into your room and had to step over numerous times this morning, you start to feel like your face is on fire.
“Food,” he demands when you say and do nothing. You glare at him as you wonder if it’s too late to tell Jihyo you regret all of this and you both need to fire him and send him back to Spain immediately.
“The nerve,” you complain under your breath as you set your own fork down and scoot to his side of the coffee table. “Helpless, little driver needs his race engineer to do everything for him.”
You glare harder when you notice traces of amusement on his mouth. You begin cutting his pancake, and when you bring it up to his lips and he smells the sweetness of the syrup right under his nose, he lifts his head just enough to be able to open his mouth. You feed him, wincing when his lips close around the fork with his eyes still shut. They’re a little chapped from sleeping in the coldness of your living room, but you still desperately want to press your lips to them.
“S’good,” he mumbles, nodding as he lets his head fall back against the fabric. You sigh when a light snore immediately follows.
You call Jihyo and let her know both of you will be a little late for the morning meeting, and you ignore the way she cackles at the fact that Joshua very clearly spent the night at your place. He doesn’t wake up until the plates are empty, cleaned, and in the drying rack, and you finally (and violently) yank the blanket off him and return it to your room. By the time you’ve both stopped by his hotel room and gotten him a change of clothes, you’re nearly an hour late. And when you can’t escape the smirks Jihyo throws at you during your design presentation (and throughout the entire day), you have zero qualms about blaming Joshua.
AUSTRALIAN GRAND PRIX 2018 FP3
“Radio check.”
“Sunday morning, rain is falling.”
“Okay, okay, enough.”
You roll your eyes as you shake your head at the driver’s surprisingly amazing singing. Your boss suppresses his own smile as he watches over your shoulder, supervising your last practice run of the weekend with the McLaren rookie. You’ve already spent an insane amount of time with Joshua since meeting him. From the jump, both of you were on the same page about needing to get along well to create the best possible conditions for racing—conditions founded on trust. Day in and day out, you two were working together, taking breaks together, eating together, napping in Wonwoo’s office together, and following each other around the McLaren facility every moment in between, just getting to know each other.
You’re confident the two of you will work just fine; you’re confident the chemistry and compatibility will translate onto the track. Still, ever since you secured this position, this weekend has been keeping you up at night, worried that something will go wrong and your already frail one-year contract will be torn to shreds right in front of you.
“Enough with the singing or the song?” Joshua asks, breaking you out of your thoughts as he takes what would be his formation lap if he makes it to the race tomorrow—when he makes it to the race tomorrow.
“Yes,” you answer.
“Wow,” he sighs. “My mom tells me I could’ve been an idol in another life and you don’t even want to hear?”
“Your mom has to be nice to you.”
There are a few beats of silence before he reluctantly says, “Fair.”
You snort. “I’m kidding. You actually have a really nice voice,” you assure him as you watch his stats on your monitor. “I’m just… a little nervous. Especially because a man named Wonwoo is breathing down my neck.”
He immediately steps away and drops into the seat next to you, glaring at you before turning to his own monitor. You grin. “Sounds like a micromanager.”
“Watch it,” Wonwoo cuts into the line. He sounds intimidating, but you’ve worked with him long enough to know he’s a good sport, and Joshua has already hung out with the man a few times outside of work.
“Ope,” your driver squeaks. “Sorry.” Wonwoo smiles but doesn’t respond, and the line falls silent again. A moment later, Joshua asks, “Why are you nervous? We’re just practicing.”
You know that he knows it’s not just practicing. This weekend is his debut into F1, and this is Free Practice 3, his last practice before he goes into qualifying later today. The first two practice sessions were largely about fine-tuning the car to his needs and making sure he felt comfortable. This last session is going to be the biggest indicator of where Joshua will fall for qualifying because it’s the one that will focus on his timing. “Just practicing,” you repeat with a scoff. “Why am I more nervous than you?”
He laughs easily and you do your best to stifle the sudden urge to strangle him and his easygoing attitude. “I’m saving my nerves for tomorrow.”
“We need to get through qualifying first.”
“We will,” he says it with so much conviction, that if he left it there, it would be enough.
Even with the stress of having such a temporary contract (that Joshua doesn’t even know about), you would accept it and believe him. Because in the short time you’ve been working with him, you know he wouldn’t lead you astray. He doesn’t stop there, though.
“I trust you. You trust me,” he states, not even needing to ask you to confirm that you do. You’re glad he doesn’t. “And that’s going to be enough. Okay?”
You exhale slowly and nod more to yourself than anybody else. “Okay.”
“Okay!” he shouts suddenly, making you flinch. The man hardly ever raises his voice; in fact, he’s so softspoken, you had your volume turned up fairly high. Wonwoo snorts and turns it down on the monitor for you. “Where do you want me, boss?”
You look over at the performance strategist, who quickly rattles off numbers at you. When he’s done, you ask Joshua, “Everything’s feeling good?”
“Yup,” he answers, popping the p. “Drives like a dream.”
“Then you’re ready to go,” you tell him. “We’ll begin taking your time when you cross the starting line—about four seconds out.”
“Copy.” His voice comes out lower and with a bit of an edge to it, and you realize this is what it sounds like when Joshua Hong is locking in. It gives you a bit of a thrill. “What are we aiming for?”
He would need at least a 1:16 lap to safely pass qualifying later, and 1:14—his average time for this track on the simulator—would be entirely too fast. It would actually be a record-breaking pace for this track, and it would show your cards to the other teams too early in the season. You have to sandbag it at least a little, no matter how badly you want to see him full send.
“Let’s give it 95%,” you decide. That would put him at around a 1:17 lap—enough to be in the middle of the pack while keeping how fast the car really is a secret.
“You got it.”
Joshua crosses the starting line and becomes a different person. He becomes one with his car, flying with it, turning with it, groaning with it, and ultimately forgetting anyone else around him exists. His breathing is more labored and his communication on the line is more clipped, brief, and straightforward. He doesn’t make conversation the way some of the other drivers do, so you don’t either, following his lead and giving him what he needs to concentrate. He finishes the first lap at 1:18:32.
“You can afford to shave half a second,” you tell him. He confirms his understanding before going for his next lap.
“Big guy said to send him at 90% his regular speed,” Wonwoo reminds you offline.
“And I say 95,” you shoot back, smiling sweetly at him. He sighs deeply through his nose.
“You should be doing whatever you can to extend your contract. That includes listening to the CEO. Y’know, the dude in charge of said contract?”
You scoff and put yourself on mute. “Wonwoo, sending Joshua at 90% his full power would put him at almost two minutes a lap. The longest this track takes is a minute and a half! Do you really think I’m going to let him come in last a full 30 seconds after everyone else?” Wonwoo winces. “Exactly! It was a ridiculous thing to demand in the first place!”
“It’s your job on the line,” he reminds you.
“Yeah, well, it’s his too,” you say. “Those drivers are already writing him off as an underdog rookie that’s not good enough to be here, and even worse to them, not rich enough to be here,” you point out. You’ve overheard enough of them talk about Joshua to know he has no friends on that track right now—not even in his own teammate. “Those assholes are always going to think he’s beneath them. I’ll sandbag it and make him seem average but I’m not going to make him the laughing stock of this weekend just because ‘the big guy’ said so.”
Wonwoo has nothing to respond to that with. He just nods, a ghost of a smile on his lips as he turns back to his monitor, allowing you to work. You unmute yourself and continue to do your job. The trash talk isn’t even something that bothers Joshua; he’s so focused on himself and his own growth that he doesn’t find it interesting enough to tune in to what the other drivers are saying about him on his downtime. But it bothers you. Because that’s your driver for the next year, and he’s your friend now too. Plus, you refuse to let people think you’re the race engineer for a loser. This race is going to be the last time anyone has anything stupid to say about Joshua Hong. His next lap comes in at 1:17:52, and though it fluctuates each time by anywhere from a quarter of a second to a half second, he averages just under 1:17:30 across all 13 laps he takes, and you’re more than pleased with his performance.
It turns out, though, that McLaren’s CEO is not. As soon as Joshua is back in the garage cooling down as the engineers check his vehicle and debrief, the tall, daunting man is at your side, giving you a tight smile—the one that tells you he’s trying not to make a scene right now—asking to speak with you privately.
“I thought we agreed we’d start Joshua at 90% power during FP3,” he states once you’re alone.
“I made a call to put him at 95,” you say, fighting to keep your voice from wavering. As stubborn as you are, you’re still human and you’re still afraid he’ll rip this opportunity away from you. “He finished with an average time that put him at P16. I think that’s still sufficient as far as sandbagging goes, and we don’t have to humiliate him in the process. The other driver got P5. I don’t see why it would matter where Joshua lands after that.”
He stares at you hard before he smirks and shrugs. “Well, if the first year race engineer says it’s sufficient, then it must be,” he says, snorting. “You’ve got spunk and I can appreciate it—I’ll give you that.” His expression turns serious again. “But come qualifying, I don't want any surprises. Hong can finish any place you want him, except for first. He doesn’t get pole position.”
You fight to refrain from glaring. You don’t have to ask why; you know it’s because he wants the other McLaren driver there. CEOs are here for one thing, and that’s to secure the constructor’s championship, and right now they’re putting all their hopes into Joshua’s teammate. You should technically align your goals with theirs, and up until a few months ago, you were. But Joshua is the kind of person who’s hard not to prioritize, and you decided long ago without even knowing it that you will be prioritizing him. Winning him a driver’s championship is a lot more important to you than where McLaren lands at the end of the season.
“Are we clear?” your CEO asks.
“Crystal.”
“Perfect. Good job today.” He dismisses you.
You leave with a genuine smile on your face because in a handful of minutes, the man annihilated any trace of nervousness you had about this weekend. You couldn’t give less of a shit about qualifying or pole position. You’re getting Joshua on the podium, and you’ll laugh in the CEO’s face when you point out that you were told to stay away from pole position, but he didn’t say anything about winning the race. Joshua trusts you, and you’re going to deliver.
You watch the girls stretch with each other as they all wait to start their five laps on the simulator. Joshua stands next to you, tilting his head back and forth too, like he’s warming his own neck up for a race. You smile but don’t point out the habit.
“You remember my debut race?” he asks, a McLaren cap pulled down so low over his face, you can barely see his eyes. You give up trying to and turn back to the students.
“Of course,” you answer. “It almost lost me my job before I even really started.”
Joshua shakes his head. “Now that I know your contract was so… temporary, I don’t understand why you took the risk getting me to the podium.”
You think about the day of that race. You had Joshua stay back for qualifying, snagging an easy P11—a nice, safe middle-of-the-pack position that would gain the attention of absolutely no one. Come race time, no one was prepared for the random driver who placed so low to dominate most of the race. Then, he brought it home, and he became the first-ever rookie to win his debut race. His teammate placed P4, booted off the podium because of Joshua. And you reveled in it. A first place trophy for your driver, and you got to piss everyone off while you were at it. Even when the CEO was screaming in your face and Wonwoo was freaking out over your position, you were high off the feeling of everyone looking at Joshua the way they did that day—like he was a god amongst men. And no one could stay mad at you either; within a week, Joshua had several interviews and appearances lined up, and F1 was immediately obsessed with his rags to riches story. After a few races, even the CEO was putting all his resources behind Joshua too. And sure, he tried to give the star rookie to his nepo baby nephew at one point, but he didn’t. Because at the end of the day, Joshua became a star with you backing him.
Looking back at it now, you’re not sure how you didn’t realize how much you loved him sooner. Back then, you told yourself it was your pride. Or that it was your intense need to win. To prove to the world you and Joshua weren’t a pair to skip over. But now, you see it for what it is: even as early as it was, you loved him too much to let anyone make a mockery of him—to let anyone be a priority over him.
“I needed you on the podium,” you say simply. It’s as honest as you can be without having to sacrifice a more important, more sacred truth. “You deserved it and the world needed to see it. And they did.”
He smiles bashfully as he nudges your elbow with his. You know it’s his shy smile because it shows none of his teeth and the corners turn down a little in a weak attempt to suppress his happiness. “Are you only being nice to me so I don’t go too hard on your students?” he jokes.
“Yes,” you answer immediately, making him laugh. You grin at the sound, and you’re thankful for the segue. “You ready to become a teacher?”
He exhales through his mouth then claps and rubs his hands together. “Absolutely. I’m going to make legends out of the girlies.”
Joshua hasn’t even been here a full week and he’s already picking up random phrases and lingo from the students and using it every moment he can. You roll your eyes but smile anyway.
“Alright!” you call across the room at the girls. “Any volunteers to go first? If not, we’ll just go in random order.”
“Actually,” Joshua cuts in, surprising you. He quietly asks if he can change things up and you motion for him to take it away before you step aside, all-too-willing—as always—to give him the driver’s seat. “I came up with an order I want to see. So we’re going to have Sophia go first.”
The student perks up from where she’s seated on the ground, immediately untangling herself from the stretch she’s in as she stands and grins at her new driving teacher. “Good choice!” she says, glossy lips turning into her signature smirk as she looks over her shoulder at her classmates. “Watch and learn, girlies.”
You sigh but don’t say anything, allowing Joshua to handle his class however he wants to. And he just smiles good-naturedly like he always does. The other girls scoff and roll their eyes, though most of them are smiling too because they’ve lived with Sophia for two months now; they know she’s too confident for her own good and incredibly full of herself, but they also know she’d lay down on the track in the middle of a grand prix before she let anyone or anything hurt any of them.
“Ready?” Joshua asks, motioning to the simulator. Sophia climbs up the rig like she and the other students have several times before.
“Born ready,” she says as she settles into the chair and starts strapping herself in.
The simulator is probably the most expensive thing the Academy has. It’s a top tier, state-of-the-art system that boasts a 360 ultra high definition screen, perfectly mimics the F4 car the girls will be driving, and recreates the conditions of every track in the world to the last crack and pebble. It’s in a dark, concrete room, and it reminds you of playing video games until the sun rises—thrilling but also kind of depressing.
“Okay, the rest of you, go watch in the waiting room,”Joshua orders. There are TVs that will show both Sophia in the rig and what she’s seeing on the screen waiting for the girls in there.
The students file out and when it’s just the three of you left, Joshua nods. “Alright, we’ll go into the control room and I’ll evaluate you from in there while Y/N—ML works with you.” You smirk at how bad he is at referring to you by your Academy nicknames.
“Got it, Josh!” Sophia chirps, making you shake your head in amusement.
“Good luck, kid,” you call as the two of you exit into the neighboring control room—a space with one wall entirely made up of screens showing Sophia at different angles, the simulation itself, and her stats. It’s usually full of engineers tapping away on their monitors on an official evaluation day, but today, it’s just you and Joshua.
You take a seat at one of the many computers and put your headphones on as the driver plops down next to you.
“So why Sophia?” you ask as you pull up what you need on your monitor.
“I think you’ll get it when we’re done,” Joshua says without looking away from the screens.
You turn away from your computer to make fun of him for being so mysterious, but when you look at him, you’re thrust into one of those moments that leaves you shellshocked and breathless. He’s not doing anything special. Actually, he’s slouched in his seat, half manspreading, and his arms are crossed as he frowns at the screen in concentration, so really, it’s the opposite of special because you imagine this is what he looked like as a moody, street-racing teenager. But his hat is pulled down low, and for once, you can’t tell what he’s thinking because you can’t see his eyes, and you’re forced to take in everything else about him. His lips and the way they part slightly when he seems to mentally take note of something. A jawline that could cut glass. His Adam’s apple bobbing when he swallows nothing. How thick his neck is from years of training it to handle the G-force of F1. The way his long hair pokes out the back of his hat, slightly curling up against the nape of his neck like they can’t bear to be apart from him for a second. You almost scoff at his hair. Is this rock bottom? Being jealous of his hair?
“Ready, Sophia?” he asks into a microphone that feeds into both her headset and the waiting room.
“Yup!” she shouts, making you wince. You turn down her volume and Joshua laughs.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry for all the times I shouted into my mic,” he says, tilting his head up a tiny bit so he can see you better from under the lid of his hat. The apology makes you realize it’s the first time he’s ever seen you actually do your job.
“You should be,” you joke. “You should be especially sorry for how loudly and how often you sang Maroon 5.”
Joshua grins mischievously at that. “Never.”
You roll your eyes as you unmute yourself and speak to Sophia. “Okay, we’ll take a formation lap, then your evaluation begins,” you tell her.
“Got it.”
“I believe the word you’re looking for is ‘copy,’” you correct her. Joshua laughs, probably thinking of all the lingo he had to learn too.
“Right, right. Copy.”
Sophia’s evaluation starts not long after that, and her first lap goes smoothly, aside from all the gloating she does to no one but herself. At any other stage of your life, it might have annoyed you, but you just smile at it now, a little fond of all the random bursts that include: “I’m the gnarliest bitch on this track,” “I’m the shit!” and your personal favorite, “I am Sophia La-motherfuckin’-forteza!” Though as a teacher, you do have to tell her to stop cursing. On her third lap, just when you can tell she’s starting to get a little too comfortable, Joshua leans forward and changes a few settings on his own monitor. You raise an eyebrow when the system processes his commands, and Sophia’s computer-run teammate flanks her.
“Tell her to let them through.”
Both your eyebrows rise now. “You want Sophia to give up her position. To her teammate.”
He looks at you and smirks. “Yes, that’s exactly what I want Sophia to do.”
You think back to the times Joshua has been told to give up his spot. Once, during his debut race. He was more than willing, but he was committed to listening to you. And you told him to hold his position so he could secure the podium.The second time was the grand prix immediately following that one, when the CEO wanted you to bend to his will as a lesson. You did, but only because you had already proven your point. Joshua still ended up in the points, and laughably enough, ahead of his teammate, who got a DNF because he took a turn too fast and crashed into the barrier. Both times, your driver never questioned the order. He trusted you to know what the best choices for him were.
You shrug. “Your funeral.” You speak to Sophia now. “Team order: let them pass.”
“What?!” she shrieks. Thankfully, you’re well into her evaluation now that you know the perfect volume to have her at. “What do you mean team order? There’s no team!”
You snort. “I’m not sure if you were ever informed of this, but Formula One is comprised fully of teams, Sophia,” you say sarcastically. “And yours is ordering you to let them pass.”
“But why?!” she whines just as Joshua leans forward and makes the car tailing her a touch more aggressive. She swerves dangerously to block it.
“Strategy. Let them through, and keep it clean,” you say, reciting exactly what you would tell Joshua if it were him, “I promise you there will be opportunities to prove yourself later. I’ll make sure of it. Move aside. We gotta let them have this one.”
“No,” she says through gritted teeth. You exhale through your nose slowly, and you can tell from the way he tries hard to refrain from staring, that it fascinates Joshua to see you on this side of the track. “I only have a lap and a half left!”
“Sophia—”
“I’m faster!” she shouts. “It doesn’t make sense!” She grunts as she blocks another attempt for her teammate to pass her up.
“Keep it clean, Laforteza!” you bark at her. Joshua shudders. You frown at him and he shrugs.
“PTSD,” he mutters and you roll your eyes at him.
“Tell them to back off!” she pleads. “I’ve got this! I—god, get off my ass!”
You groan as her defense sends the car off track. “That’s a penalty,” you grumble.
“I don’t care! I’m not moving!”
Joshua smirks and shakes his head, leaning forward and pressing a single button. The simulator shuts down. He stands as he speaks into the mic. “Yeah, because you just failed.”
Reviews happen with all the other girls, and when Sophia emerges from the simulator room, she’s red and sweaty and angry, but she remains silent, simply choosing to stand in front of you and Joshua to receive her marks. The other students watch with huge eyes.
“Any idea why I chose you first?” Joshua asks. Sophia shakes her head. “A girl like you—confident on the verge of being arrogant… I don’t want to see the first time you get shaken to be on the track during a race, when it matters the most,” he explains. “I needed to lay the pressure on thick.” Sophia closes her eyes briefly like she knows she lost the race before she even started. “And I’ll give it to you,” Joshua continues, nodding, “you weren’t nervous under the regular pressures of the race. But no race is ‘regular.’ I wanted to see how good you are when you’re emotional. I wanted to see how you treat your engineer when you don’t agree. I wanted to see how well you listen.”
You suppress the urge to tell him how impressed you are; his read on her is scarily accurate.
“You failed this evaluation, but you’re not a failure, Sophia,” he reminds her. “This isn’t just an exercise in knocking your confidence because frankly, you’re going to need every ounce of it when you’re a female driver surrounded by men. I’m not interested in doing that; the rest of F1 will be eager to do it themselves.” The girls all wince but it’s a truth they need to hear.
You glance at him, and though they’re in the shadow of his hat, from this angle, you see his eyes. It makes you fall in love even harder seeing how genuine he is.
“This season, I want you working on how to reign in that confidence so that it works for you. I want you to be confident that your engineer has your best interest at heart, and confident that you’re always going to perform your best despite the times this sport feels anything but fair. Okay?”
“Okay,” she says, nodding. “Got it, Mr. Hong.”
You laugh. “Mr. Hong?”
“Turn on teacher mode for ten minutes and they don’t want to call me by my name anymore,” Joshua huffs in a faux complaint. He turns to you. “Any feedback?”
You nod. “It’s okay to disagree with calls,” you tell her. “I mean, that’s probably debatable person to person actually—” Joshua grins. “—but a good engineer and a good driver will find a way to compromise. There’s a reason why this evaluation is a joint effort, and it’s not just because Joshua’s been shadowing me.”
“Or because you’re best friends?” Eunchae asks. You glare at her and she immediately pretends to be preoccupied with the wall.
“It’s because,” you say emphatically at Eunchae before turning back to Sophia, “you can’t win without the other. You’re a team—probably more than your actual F1 team will ever be a team to you.” Your ex-driver nods pensively.
“A driver is only as good as their engineer,” Joshua states. Sophia nods. “Any questions?” he asks. She shakes her head, obviously completely depleted of anger. She just looks exhausted now. “Okay, good job otherwise, Laforteza. Fantastic reflexes and even better trash talk.”
You grin as Sophia finally smiles. “Thanks.”
“But stop cussing,” Joshua adds, making the room laugh. Before he can announce the next student’s turn, Eunchae raises her hand.
“If this has nothing to do with evaluations—”
She interrupts you. “No, it does! Well, kinda. But it definitely has to do with what Josh just said! Promise!” You narrow your eyes at her and she stares at you with her huge, puppy eyes. You finally nod at her to continue. “How do you build trust with an engineer? What if they suck? Wasn’t your engineer after ML really bad? How did you build trust after ML left?”
You inhale sharply and Joshua coughs in surprise at the bluntness of her question. Eunchae doesn’t seem to understand how personal of a question she just asked—why would she?
“Uh…” he stammers, stumped for the first time since he’s gotten to the Academy. “That’s a good question…” he says, trying to buy himself some time. “Y/N—ML—no sorry, you know what? I can’t keep calling her that. Or Mickie. It’s weird.”
The girls mostly laugh but you don’t miss the wicked, little twinkle in Eunchae’s eyes and the small, matching smile that accompanies it. You know she’s just bookmarking everything that happens as evidence for her little “best friend” agenda.
“I built trust with Y/N before we ever even raced together. I don’t think you necessarily need to be best friends with your engineer—”
“But you two are, right,” Eunchae states more than asks. “Best friends?”
“Of course,” Joshua says easily, and you can’t help the way your eyes widen a little at that. He doesn’t notice the way your gaze snaps to him, searching for signs that he’s lying or that it was a mistake and he misheard her. But he just continues with his train of thought, ignorant to how the two words just tilted your world on its axis. “She’s my best friend, but again, not everyone needs to be. In fact, it’s probably going to be rarer that you do become best friends with your engineer,” he says.
You never stopped thinking of him as your best friend, but after everything, he still considers you his too. Present tense. You strain to hear him over the blood rushing in your ears.
“But either way, get to know them. Learn how to communicate with each other. The more you know about each other, the easier it is to trust the other and see how compatible you are as partners.”
“And you’re compatible? As partners? You and ML? More than the next engineers you had after her?” Eunchae asks.
You only realize at this very moment that your student is a master actress. She really had the whole big, innocent eyes thing going for her—really fooled you into thinking she had a “Joshua and Y/N” are the cutest besties agenda—but it’s now, as she barely contains her excitement with every new question, that you remember at the end of the day, she’s still just a teenage girl. And teenage girls gain their life force from two things: terrorizing adults and shipping anyone with a pulse together. You narrow your eyes at her and sensing that you’re onto whatever she’s doing, Eunchae immediately sits back in her seat and her face drops all signs of mischief.
“I…” Joshua seems to be at a loss for words, searching for the right way to phrase his thoughts. He briefly meets your eyes, and he isn’t shy about holding your gaze for a few moments like he’ll find the answer somewhere on your faces. He gives you a small, sheepish smile before he turns back to Eunchae. When he continues, he tells her, “I wouldn’t say that I wasn’t compatible with the engineers that came after. I just wasn’t as willing to try to be, and you can clearly see where that got me.” The girls nod regretfully. “So take that as a lesson that your relationship with your engineer can make or break you.”
The words leave you feeling a little hollow.
“Okay, next one: Megan. Let’s go.”
Evaluations last the rest of the academic day, mostly without a hitch. Joshua noticed Megan’s almost neurotic need to study theory excessively, and correctly predicted her approach would be entirely too clinical. He tested Eunchae on her eagerness (a trait that often led to sheer recklessness), and she ended up crashing before the five laps were up. The only person he couldn’t peg was Saki, and you couldn’t blame him. She was an enigma, and she hardly spoke, but you knew what she was like as a driver so you weren’t surprised when she took every one of the F1 driver’s tests and elegantly crushed them. Suffice it to say, Joshua proved to be a fantastic, natural-born teacher.
You tell him as much at the end of the day, when everyone has left the Academy, the girls are back at their dorms, and the two of you are in your office, debriefing each performance.
“And you were worried you wouldn’t know how to do this,” you scoff as you both finish up your discussion. You gather your respective notes and leave them in two neat piles on your desk but make no move to get up. “You were born for this.”
His smile is lopsided as he shakes his head. “I think you just have too high an opinion of me.”
“Two things can be true at the same time.”
He laughs as you both slump in your seats, thoroughly exhausted from the day. You enjoy a brief and comfortable silence before he nudges your foot under the desk with his. You, as always (at least ever since your annoying epiphany at the 2023 Spanish Grand Prix), fight not to flinch. “Y’know, I think you were born for this,” he says like he’s thought about it. “As amazing as you were at McLaren, I think you’re exactly what these girls need.”
“And what is that?”
“Someone to look up to and show them it’s possible. Someone that will keep it real with them but believe in them fiercely.” The words have your heart thundering in your chest. “Huh,” he mutters like he’s just now realizing something, “I guess you are to them what you’ve always been to me.”
You snort at that and look at him incredulously. “What?”
He smiles softly, almost like he’s too tired to give you a smile any wider. “Don’t play dumb; we both know you’re the only reason my career has been as successful as it has. Even Eunchae knows it. She’s a nosy, little thing, huh?” You both snicker at that.
“Stop attributing all your success to me,” you groan. “It wasn’t me. You did absolutely fine this past season—even better than some of our seasons together.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“So what do you mean?”
He straightens up and leans forward, forearms resting on your desk as he stares at you intently. You sit up a little, feeling self-conscious all of a sudden. “I mean, you made it all feel… fun and worth it, and… I don’t know.” He shrugs. “You made anything we did together feel like… everything. It’s the only reason I worked so hard. It’s also the reason these girls work so hard. You make this all feel like it’s the best thing anyone can be doing.”
You’re not sure if Joshua understands what his words are coming across to you as. Your naive heart—the one that still belongs to him—wants to believe this is him realizing how special the bond you shared was. This is him catching up to what you knew two years ago. This is him telling you he’s always loved you just as much, and he’s always felt all the things you’ve felt too. But you know that’s not what he’s saying. You know that Joshua has always worn his heart on his sleeve, and that he’s never shied away from telling you everything that was on his mind. This is him appreciating your friendship.
“I could say the same about you,” you sigh, trying not to put so much weight in either of your words. “You’ve only been here a week, and it’s already been such a big reminder of how fun it is to work with you.”
“Work? Just work?” he scoffs. “You’re my best friend and we hang out every day, but the best you can come up with is I’m fun at work?”
You roll your eyes. “Sure, yeah, I guess the other stuff’s fun too.”
He glares at you before his smile wins out. “I meant it, by the way. You are my best friend. Even though so much has changed… you never stopped being my best friend.”
The confirmation that what he told Eunchae wasn’t just for optics or just a reflexive answer to her probing question is balm to your anxieties. After everything—after what you did in Abu Dhabi, he still considers you part of that special group. The one that consists of you and his mom. The one he trusts to love him and keep him safe. But still, neither of you have talked about that night, and as determined as he is to bury the fact that it ever even happened, you know it’s something you want to properly apologize for.
“You’re mine too,” you say before mustering up the courage to ask, “Should we talk about it?”
Joshua winces. “Sorry, I know how that sounded. I swear I didn’t mean to make it about… that.” He can’t even say it. He can’t even say that you left.
“It’s okay, I think we should talk about it at some point. Clear the air,” you say. “Best friends should be able to talk about hard things, right?”
He takes a beat to respond but he eventually nods. “Right. Okay then…” he starts hesitantly. “Should we get comfy?” He motions to your sofa and you nod.
You sit side-by-side, with no space between you, every bit of you from your shoulders down to your feet pressed up against Joshua like he thinks if the two of you are close enough, talking about this won’t hurt as much. There’s a pregnant pause of silence as you both try to figure out where you should even start. You would’ve guessed that he’d dance around the topic from the way he’s asked you to refrain from talking about this. You would’ve guessed wrong.
“Why’d you do it?” he asks quietly. It somehow still feels like he’s shouting the question at the top of his lungs. “Why’d you leave without saying goodbye?”
“I already had,” you say. “Or, I thought I already had.”
“That’s a copout,” he accuses you in the most polite way. He keeps his tone respectful and even though his words cut, his eyes stay kind. “Our last conversation wasn’t a goodbye. Even if it was, it wasn’t the goodbye our relationship deserved.” You know what he means by relationship—you know that being friends and coworkers to the degree you were constituted as a type of relationship. That doesn’t keep your heart from racing at the word.
“I know,” you agree. “And I’m sorry. I really did think it was our goodbye; it felt final enough to be one. But I see now that I was just… sad.” Joshua’s gaze is heavy and unrelenting, and you try not to squirm. “I was sad to leave, and I was scared I wasn’t making the right choice, and most of all… I knew if I had to say goodbye while looking you in the eye… I’d chicken out and stay.”
“I wouldn’t have let you,” he claims quickly and resolutely. “This was the chance of a lifetime for you. I never would’ve let you stay.”
You don’t tell him that the idea of that would’ve hurt just as much—that his refusal to keep you would’ve hurt you. There wasn’t a scenario that would’ve left you unscathed, so you tell him part of the truth.
“I just didn’t want to have to face you,” you admit. “I felt like I was betraying you by leaving you. I felt like I was ruining everything for you. I told myself it was a good enough goodbye, but I know it was just a way to make it easier on myself. I should’ve known leaving like that was a betrayal on its own.”
Joshua nods but doesn’t immediately say anything, simply processing the words. When he does speak, he doesn’t mince his words or try to hide his feelings, and you think this must be why he didn’t want to talk about it back in Barcelona; maybe he wanted to spare your feelings. Maybe he knew his honesty would be a lot for you.
“It should’ve been the happiest night of my life, and instead…” he shakes his head to himself. “I got off the podium, I finished my interviews, and I went to look for you just like I always do, and all I found was Wonwoo. He didn’t even have to say anything. He just had this… this look of pity on his face, and I knew you were gone. And now every time someone mentions that I’m a two-time world champion, or they even say ‘Abu Dhabi’… I think, ‘God, that was the worst night of my life.’”
The sharp inhale you take is involuntary, and you’re horrified to find your eyes immediately welling with tears already.
“Can you believe that? I was the youngest driver to win two championships, and I can’t stand to talk about the night it happened.”
“Shua, I’m so sorry.”
“I know,” he says, shoulder pressing firmly against yours in an attempt to comfort you. Because that’s the epitome of who Joshua Hong is—a man who comforts you when you’re the one who hurt him. “I’m not saying this to make you feel guilty. Like you said, it’s best we clear the air, and… I guess I just need you to know how badly it hurt.”
You nod, blinking rapidly and willing your tears to stay where they are. The last thing you want to do right now is make Joshua have to comfort you even more when it should be the other way around.
“After five years—five years closer to you than anyone else I’ve ever been in my life… the way it ended, with me alone on the track… it hurt,” he says, clearing his throat before continuing. “I didn’t think you betrayed me. I was sad to see you go, but all of your wins are my wins. We always said that, right? It was always going to be hard because any day without you is hard. But I was always going to be happy for you no matter what.”
You find the courage to look up at him then, and he turns to meet your gaze too. He smiles, reaching up to wipe at your eyes with a thumb before letting his hand fall on top of yours. He squeezes and doesn’t let go.
“I just wish I got the chance to tell you I was happy for you, I was proud of you, and I would always be there for you,” he says, sighing. “But I guess telling you now is better than nothing.”
“Shua,” you sniffle, shaking your head and laughing a little at how pathetically easy it is to make you cry when it comes to him. “If I could redo it…”
There are a lot of things you want to say. If I could redo it, I’d find a way to stay and love you without it ruining our careers. If I could redo it, I would’ve at least told you before I left. I would’ve told you I loved you, I’ll always love you, and that’s why I’m leaving.
“If I could redo it,” you repeat, voice a little shaky, “I would be brave and I would wait. And I would be there in the garage, waiting like I always did. You deserved a proper bye. I’m sorry I took that away from you.”
Joshua threads his fingers through yours properly now, eyes on your hands like he’s studying the way they fit. He squeezes again before nodding. “Thank you. I accept your apology.” You sigh slowly, smiling a little when you realize how badly you needed that. He doesn’t stop there, though. “And I’m sorry I didn’t text or call for the last two years. I thought I was bigger than that, but… seems like at the end of the day I’m still just a man—” you laugh at his imitation of your voice. “—and I let my pride keep me from checking in.”
“I could’ve checked in too,” you say. “But let’s not dwell on that. You’re here, we’re okay, and we know better now.”
He nods. “No Irish goodbyes please.”
“Never again.”
“Good,” he says, grinning. You sigh, leaning your head against his shoulder and willing your heart to shut up and let you have a quiet moment with your best friend.
“I’m really glad you came back with me, Shua,” you say after a few seconds. “It feels like you belong here.”
He hums. “Maybe I just belong wherever you are.”
The first thing your brain does upon hearing those words is curse Joshua Hong’s mother for raising the sweetest, most earnest man on planet Earth. The second thing it does is try to convince you to throw caution to the wind and just kiss his face senseless. Kiss his face senseless and confess everything you ran away from when you left him two years ago.
“Ew, cheesy,” you force yourself to say instead, as you lift your head up and take your hand back from his. He laughs when you get up from the couch to put space between yourselves. “Get up, cornball. Let’s get food.”
“I want tacos.”
“I don’t care,” you say defiantly as he laughs harder, like he knows why you’re suddenly being a brat. “You’ll eat whatever I decide we’re getting.”
“Fine. You’re the boss.”
“And don’t forget it.”
a/n: i'll be posting weekly! we're looking at three parts and an epilogue right now :) if you want to be on the tag list, plsplspls comment here because the initial tag list is from cam&em, and they will not be tagging you in each part! i'll be tagging you if you were on that list, but if you don't want to be, just send me a quick ask or message—no hard feelings at all! thanks for reading and hope you'll check out everyone else's work :)
i watched atwow again and i need to hyperfixate or i'll die :)
my inbox is open for any sort of ideas & chatting !! <3
TAKEN IN BY THE SULLYS / DEATH IN THE FAMILY MASTERLIST (these are in order)
bolded & blue chapters are the actual story, the others are filler/HCs! though the filler chapters do have lore to them, they're not absolutely necessary to get the story
if you were the sully's human kid (1)
taken in by the sullys (2)
taken in by the sullys (3)
death in the family (1) / aka taken in by the sullys (4)
taken in by the sullys (5)
death in the family (2) / aka taken in by the sullys (6)
taken in by the sullys (7)
death in the family (3) / aka taken in by the sullys (8)
death in the family (4) / aka taken in by the sullys (9)
taken in by the sullys (10)
death in the family (5) / aka taken in by the sullys (11)
death in the family (6) / aka taken in by the sullys (12)
death in the family (7) / aka taken in by the sullys (13)
death in the family (8) / aka taken in by the sullys (14)
death in the family (9) / aka taken in by the sullys (15)
death in the family (10) / aka taken in by the sullys (16)
It's crazy how humanity invented bicycles and decided to try it with one big wheel and one small wheel BEFORE they tried having two wheels the same size
This is not quite true, though it would be very funny if it was.
The classic "old bicycle" we're all thinking of, which looked like this:
Is actually a technological compromise developed in the early 1870s. The very first bicycle was invented in 1817 and it looked like this:
It had no pedals and the rider would push it along with their feet, the same way toddlers learn to ride bikes today.
In about 1864, a mechanic in france came up with the idea of adding pedals to the front wheel, making the first self-propelled bicycle.
This was a great improvement because it's a lot easier to move and a lot more fun than the Fisher Price version above. It was a big thing for about five years, but there were some drawbacks.
First, because the pedals were directly attached to the front wheel, you couldn't go very fast without moving your legs incredibly quickly, which takes a lot of effort. It also is kind of awkward to steer because your legs are in the way of the wheel.
The other issue was bumps. Roads were not very smooth in the 1870s, most of them were unpaved and full of ruts, potholes, and rocks. And at first there were no rubber tires, just wooden wheels with metal rims. Altogether this made for a very bumpy ride.
The big front wheel, which was made possible by the invention of wire spokes and solid rubber tires, solved all of these problems. A big wheel runs over bumps more easily: think of how rough it is to ride roller skates over bumps in a sidewalk that you would hardly notice on a bike. And the bigger the wheel, the faster you can move with one push of the pedals. Having the seat on top of the wheel, instead of behind, also makes steering less cumbersome.
There are of course drawbacks to this design, in particular being so high up makes it very easy to go over the handlebars if you crash, and more likely to hit your head or break your arm.
Two more inventions helped drive this comical beast into extinction and bring back a more balanced, and safer, bicycle.
The first was the pneumatic tire, which contains a cushion of air, and makes for a much softer ride compared to a solid tire or a metal one. The cushion effect eliminates the need for a big wheel to smooth out the bumps in the road.
The second invention was the sprocket and chain drive. This lets you put the pedals anywhere you want on the bike, and with a big gear at the pedals and a small one at the wheel, you can get more speed out of a small wheel.
The first modern bicycle to combine a sprocket and pneumatic tires was built in 1879. It was an instant hit, not just because it was much less dangerous, but because the low drag profile and the smooth pneumatic tires made for a faster ride, and the trendsetters in cycling, then as now, were the racing community. There have been plenty of innovations and modifications in the years since, from ten-speed gears to carbon fiber frames, but these are all variations on a theme. The basic form of the bicycle has not changed.
Okay full disclosure I was high as a kite when I made this post, otherwise I might have fact-checked my joke before posting, but this is awesome. Thank you for the bicycle lore.
If you're a fan of Victorian bicycles and trans guys, I would recommend A Shore Thing by Joanna Lowell. It's a lovely story and bicycle lore drives the entire plot!
Summary: Gamophobia (noun) | /ˌɡæməˈfəʊbiə/
An extreme or irrational fear of long-term commitment or marriage, often resulting in avoidance of deep emotional intimacy despite genuine affection.
A/N: My readers are familiar with my general loathing of a fic before i post it lol. also i wish i had written a bonus scene for this one but i really couldn't think of anything so any of my more imaginative readers pls pls feel free to reblog with a bonus scene
credits to @saradika-graphics for the divider
You were a daughter to happily married parents.
Your childhood had been a kaleidoscope of candy-coated memories, each one shimmering like gold whenever you thought of them, forever encapsulated in the delicate snowglobe of your mind.
Birthdays smelled of warm cake and sweet frosting; Mother’s Days were spent with your father and you in the kitchen, flipping pancakes and carefully crafting bouquets out of crepe paper, rolling each strip into a rose before presenting them with proud, beaming smiles.
Summers were a blur of sun and sand, of you holding tightly to your mother’s hand as the waves pulled you deeper and deeper, her laughter mingling with yours.
Christmases were a sacred ritual: stringing lights together, hanging ornaments, and finally, the pièce de résistance—placing the star on the tree. Your father would lift you up, both of you giggling as you struggled to steady it, the soft glow of the lights reflecting in all your eyes.
You were a daughter to happily married parents.
And then, everything changed.
It was during the summer break after your third year at Hogwarts that your world fractured. Returning home, you immediately sensed the shift in the air. Your once welcoming house now felt hollow, as if someone had pulled the warmth right out of it. Your father—who had always been there to greet you at the platform—was nowhere to be found. Your mother’s response to your frantic questions was clipped, distant.
“He’s… not here.” She said, avoiding your gaze.
The house looked as if a storm had passed through—boxes scattered across the floor, furniture moved, the faint scent of dust and stale air clinging to everything. Confused and anxious, you asked if you were moving, if the life you’d known was ending. Your mother’s reply was bitter, strange, and chilling: “We’re not going anywhere.”
Later that evening, at your favorite restaurant, the truth finally landed like a punch to the gut. Between bites of food you no longer had the appetite for, they spoke of divorce. Of separation. Of things you weren’t supposed to understand, yet had to, whether you liked it or not. Words blurred as your mind raced—custody agreements, legal proceedings, the stark reality that the perfect family you had always believed in was nothing more than a fragile illusion.
You remember the look on their faces—the disgust in their eyes when they looked at each other, the sharpness in their voices that had never been there before. You remember the suffocating swirl of confusion, anger, and grief as you demanded to know why, how, what had gone wrong.
You were never able to return to that restaurant again.
The summer that followed was relentless. You were dragged through endless legal meetings, forced to witness your parents change before your eyes—their smiles gone, replaced by cold calculation and quiet resentment. Even the smallest interactions, once warm and ordinary, now carried tension and unspoken accusations. You had to navigate the shifting landscape of their lives while still clinging desperately to the remnants of your childhood—a child trying to hold together a world that no longer made sense.
They yelled so much their voices carried through the heavy wooden doors of the lawyer’s office.
Your father wanted shared custody; your mother refused to grant it. She didn’t want you staying at his place at all—just occasional visitation. He was indignant.
“She’s away at boarding school for most of the year. I want to see my daughter!”
“Are you crazy? If you force her to leave, she’ll hate you forever.”
“Oh, and that’s what you want, isn’t it? For her to hate me?”
“I’m only trying to do what’s best for her!”
“And I’m not?!”
“If you cared an ounce about her, you wouldn’t have put her in this position at all!”
You remember being comforted by the divorce lawyer’s receptionist as you cried outside the door, your sobs echoing in the sterile hallway.
And then, one afternoon, you stumbled upon the reason for it all. You weren’t supposed to hear it, weren’t supposed to know—but your father had been sloppy.
It was the first time all summer you were allowed to spend an afternoon with him, outside the chaos. You sat in the car, nervous but excited, grateful for a glimpse of normalcy—until you reached into the glove compartment for tissues and froze.
Makeup wipes. A small container of hair ties. A nail kit.
The car smelled faintly of perfume.
Had someone else been inside before you?
You turned to your father. There was a red blotch on his cheek—something that might’ve looked like sunburn on any other day, except it was smudged, as though it had been hastily wiped away. A tissue stained with faint red sat in the holder on his door.
You felt your stomach drop.
You went quiet for the rest of the day, detached, pretending to be fine. Later, you faked a stomach ache—one that neither of you believed—and asked him to take you home.
That night, you asked your mother if it was true. If he had been with another woman.
Her face thundered. “He told you?!” She spat.
It felt like the floor had fallen out from under you, like someone had hollowed your chest and left a gaping void. All those golden memories—pancake mornings, seaside summers, Christmas laughter—twisted into shards of betrayal. Every photograph became a reminder that the love you thought was untouchable had been broken from the inside.
You felt hollow. You felt angry. You felt abandoned. And most of all, you felt a seed of doubt take root in your heart—a doubt that perhaps love wasn’t forever, perhaps people changed, and perhaps you could never trust anyone the way you had once trusted your parents.
You thought they loved each other.
How could your father have done this?
Even if he didn’t love your mother anymore, how could he betray her like that—as if fifteen years of marriage meant nothing? As if he hadn’t torn the ground from beneath both your feet? How could he do this?
You couldn't believe that you'd never have another summer with your parents again.
When Harry had asked you to the Yule Ball, you had been ecstatic. You’d been asked by the Chosen One—Hogwarts’ very own champion—to be his date, and you’d happily accepted. The night had been a blur of laughter and music, the two of you spinning across the dance floor under glittering chandeliers, your cheeks sore from smiling. And when, later that night, he’d asked if it was alright to consider this a first date, you had said yes without hesitation.
From that moment on, it was official. Harry Potter was your boyfriend.
That was, until Rita Skeeter—that nosy, vile cow—decided to publish a photo of Harry and Hermione hugging on the front page of The Daily Prophet, in a column boldly titled The Daily Gossip. The image was harmless enough: Hermione’s arms thrown around him, Harry smiling, relief written all over his face. But to you, it felt like a knife twisting in your stomach.
You tried to be rational, to tell yourself they were just friends. Harry had known Hermione for years—it was only natural for her to be worried when he was about to face a dragon. If he’d liked her, surely he would’ve asked her to the ball. But he hadn’t. He’d asked you. That had to mean something… right?
Still, the thought festered. Because you’d seen this story before—different names, same heartbreak. Your father had loved your mother once, too. He’d married her. Built a life with her. And still, he’d chosen someone else.
You ended your two-month-long relationship with Harry, that very night.
After that, there was a brief but scandalous stint with Blaise Zabini. He’d casually asked if you wanted to join him on a Hogsmeade trip, and you’d agreed—because why not? He was charming, clever, and made you feel wanted again. It lasted all of three weeks before you ended it the moment you noticed how often his eyes flickered toward Pansy Parkinson. He insisted they were just friends, but you’d heard that one before.
Then came Justin Finch-Fletchley. That one barely lasted two dates. You’d realized by the end of the second that he had an uncanny habit of calling every girl love. It didn’t make you feel special—it made you feel replaceable.
After Justin came Parvati Patil, and that had been different. Softer. She was kind, patient, the kind of person who held your hand just to make sure you knew she was there. It lasted longer than any of the others—by your standards, at least. But even that fell apart once she called you out on your jealous tendencies, gently but firmly telling you that you couldn’t keep punishing people for things they hadn’t done.
You’d broken it off that same evening.
Just like that, you continued to cycle through relationships—brief, intense, and destined to burn out. Before long, you’d earned yourself a reputation as Hogwarts’ resident heartbreaker. You worried it might make people think you were easy, but considering you’d never actually slept with any of them, the whispers were only about your tendency to be a cold-hearted bitch when it came to breakups. You’d perfected the art of ending things without so much as blinking, your expression unreadable as you walked away. That, of course, earned you another title—the Ice Queen.
You kept telling yourself it wasn’t your fault. You were just trying to find love. A love so strong and so pure it would leave no room for doubt. You told yourself you deserved that—that you deserved someone who would never betray you, never make you question their feelings, someone who would understand the chaos in your head and stay anyway. Someone who would reassure every single paranoia until they vanished into nothing. Someone who would never even dream of looking at anyone else.
You kept telling yourself that.
But somewhere along the way—after enough endings, enough half-hearted apologies, enough people you never really let in—you stopped looking for love at all. Or at least, for anything that lasted. You convinced yourself that real love didn’t exist. It was just a fleeting rush, a temporary high meant to make you feel alive for a little while before it left you empty again.
So you started keeping your relationships short. The longest one barely stretched past three months. You’d take every sweet word, every fleeting spark of affection, every rush of endorphins and bottle them up like a potion—just enough to keep you satisfied until the glass cracked and the illusion shattered.
Neville had once been told by his grandmother that he wasn’t a very good liar.
He’d taken her words to heart at the time — after all, he’d known it himself. His heart always beat too fast, his palms got clammy, his cheeks burned, and his voice cracked at the worst possible moments. Eye contact became impossible. His brain turned to mush.
So Neville had made a quiet promise to himself: never lie to anyone. He wasn’t built for it.
What he didn’t realize was that he was just as bad at hiding things.
“Oh, come on, Longbottom,” Seamus’s teasing voice rang out across the Gryffindor table, far louder than necessary, “You’ve been mooning over her for weeks. Just ask her out already!”
Neville froze. His spoon slipped from his hand, clattering against his bowl. Heat rushed to his face in an instant, crawling up his neck and setting his ears aflame. He hadn’t even realized he’d been looking at you that long — maybe just a second too long every morning, maybe smiling a little wider when you laughed across the table. But apparently, Seamus had noticed.
Without meaning to, his eyes darted toward you.
And, to his horror, you were already looking back — eyes wide, frozen mid-bite, clearly having heard every word.
Neville’s breath hitched. His mouth opened and closed uselessly, “I—I haven’t— I mean, that’s not—”
Dean grinned, elbowing Seamus, “Go on then, mate. What’ve you got to lose?”
Neville wanted to sink straight through the floor. Every instinct screamed at him to deny it, to laugh it off, to say it was just Seamus being Seamus. He wanted to get up and leave, pretend this never happened—but if he did, everyone would talk. They’d tease him, sure, but they might tease you too. And he didn’t want that.
Then he saw you—the way you blinked, caught somewhere between curiosity and discomfort, like you didn’t quite know what to do either. And before he could think twice, before he could chicken out—
“Would you—uh—would you go to Hogsmeade with me?”
The table went silent. The students between you turned their heads, watching like it was the most riveting Quidditch match they’d ever seen. Neville’s heart stuttered. The silence pressed in tight around him, broken only by the heavy thud of his pulse in his ears. His face was burning.
You looked at him for a long moment, sympathy settling low in your chest. You’d never really seen Neville like this before—in fact, it ashamed you to admit you hadn’t noticed him much at all. He was the kind of person who blended quietly into the background, steady and unassuming. But he’d always been there, hadn’t he? The boy who had won Gryffindor the House Cup in your first year because of his bravery. The one who’d gotten Harry the gillyweed two years ago for the Triwizard Tournament.
He really was sweet. Honest. The kind of boy who wore his heart on his sleeve for everyone to see. And you could tell, just by looking at him, that he liked you far more than you liked him.
If you said no, you’d break his heart. Embarrass him in front of everyone. Maybe even chip away at that small, fragile confidence he’d spent years building. He didn’t deserve that. He was too kind. Too good.
You took a slow breath, feeling that familiar twist of guilt tighten in your stomach.
And then you smiled—small and hesitant.
“Sure, Neville.”
For a second, Neville didn’t move. His expression froze, disbelieving, like he hadn’t heard you right. Then the realization hit, lighting up his entire face. A grin broke through, bright and boyish, and his friends immediately erupted into cheers.
The laughter and chatter of the Great Hall still echoed behind you as Neville practically stumbled out the doors, face red to the roots of his hair. You hesitated only a second before getting up, muttering a quick excuse to your friends, and jogging after him.
“Neville—hold on!”
He stopped mid-stride in the corridor, shoulders jerking like he’d been caught doing something wrong. When he turned around, his expression already looked apologetic.
“You—you changed your mind, right?” He said quickly, words tumbling out in a rush, “It’s alright, really. No hard feelings, I promise.”
You blinked, thrown off by how fast he’d jumped to that conclusion. His eyes darted to the floor, his hands wringing together nervously. There was something so painfully earnest about it—he was already letting you off the hook before you’d even said anything.
For a second, you just stared at him.
And this—this was the moment you should stop. The moment to spare him before things went too far. Before you led him on. Before you broke another heart.
But then you really looked at him. The awkward shuffle of his feet, the faint pink still dusting his cheeks, the way he couldn’t quite meet your eyes because he was so sure you were about to reject him. He looked like he was bracing for impact—and you suddenly hated the idea of being the one to make him flinch again.
Maybe… maybe you didn’t want to.
So instead of saying what you were supposed to, you took a small step forward, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.
“Actually,” You said, keeping your tone light, almost teasing, “I just wanted to ask when we were having our date. We never agreed on a time.”
Neville’s head snapped up so fast you almost laughed. His mouth opened, closed, then opened again, completely flustered.
“Oh—oh! Right! I—well, um—how about next weekend? If that’s okay? We could go to Honeydukes or—or wherever you want, really—”
His voice cracked on the last word, and you couldn’t help smiling for real this time. It felt strange on your face, unpracticed but warm.
“Next weekend sounds perfect.”
And just like that, Neville Longbottom smiled again—this time wider than before, the kind of grin that could light up an entire common room.
As he walked off, practically floating, you stood there for a moment in the quiet corridor, your heart oddly light and heavy at once.
You told yourself it was just a date.
Nothing more. Nothing less.
You’d been on enough of them to know how this went — polite smiles, surface-level chatter, a bit of handholding if things went well, a polite goodbye if they didn’t. Neville Longbottom wasn’t supposed to be any different.
So when he met you outside the Great Hall, fidgeting with his sleeves and mumbling a nervous greeting, you kept your smile light, detached. The kind of smile that said don’t get your hopes up.
He didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he did, and was too kind to let it show.
“I, um… I thought maybe we could stay on the grounds,” He said, holding up a picnic basket like it was something fragile, “I figured it might be quieter than Hogsmeade.”
You almost told him you didn’t mind Hogsmeade — that you actually preferred the noise, if only to prove the two of you didn’t have much in common — but there was something so earnest in his expression that you stopped.
“Alright,” You said instead, voice even, “The Black Lake?”
He nodded quickly, relief flooding his face, “Yeah. I thought that’d be nice.”
So you went.
The walk down was quiet. He tried to start small conversations — about Herbology, about the weather, even about some magical plant he was growing for extra credit — and you answered politely, without offering much in return. You didn’t mean to be cold; you just didn’t want him to think this was something it wasn’t.
When you reached the lake, he spread a blanket beneath one of the old willow trees. The water shimmered, reflecting sunlight like scattered glass. Neville unpacked the basket carefully, lining everything up with a kind of quiet precision — sandwiches, pumpkin pasties, two flasks of tea.
“I, uh, didn’t know what kind you liked,” He admitted, rubbing the back of his neck, “So I brought both.”
You blinked, feeling an unfamiliar flutter in your chest. He was so… thoughtful.
“Thanks.” You said, a little softer than you meant to.
You ate, talked a bit. He told you about his favourite plants, about how the Mandrakes were growing slower this year, about how Professor Sprout was letting him help breed some rare hybrids. He rambled, words tumbling over each other — but there was something genuine in the way his eyes lit up when he spoke.
It wasn’t exciting. It wasn’t flirtatious. It wasn’t a whirlwind of endorphins and magic and dizziness.
But it was peaceful.
You could almost feel your defenses lowering, just a little, with every quiet laugh.
Then, about halfway through the picnic, Neville reached into the basket again and pulled something out — a small, worn box. He hesitated, glancing at you like he was second-guessing himself.
“Um,” he began, rubbing the back of his neck, “So, I—I brought this, but it’s probably stupid, so we don’t have to—”
He opened the box to reveal a puzzle box— a picture of a meadow full of wildflowers.
“My gran gifted it to me,” He said quickly, “I just thought… maybe we could work on it together? Only if you want to, though.”
You stared at it for a moment, caught completely off guard. You’d been on plenty of dates — too many — and not one person had ever brought a puzzle.
Oh, he was just so—
“A puzzle.” You murmured, and he instantly started to backpedal.
“I know, I know, it’s ridiculous. I just thought—never mind, it was daft—”
“No,” You interrupted quickly, reaching out before he could put it away, “I like it.”
He froze, “You… do?”
You nodded, a real smile tugging at your lips for the first time that day, “Yeah. It looks like fun.”
Neville blinked, clearly taken aback, then relaxed as a shy grin spread across his face.
The two of you sat side by side, the sounds of the lake lapping gently against the shore as you pieced the puzzle together. It shouldn’t have been fun — but it was. You found yourself laughing quietly whenever he misplaced a piece, teasing him, brushing his hand accidentally (and sometimes not so accidentally).
And you realized, to your quiet horror, that you didn’t want it to end.
By the time the sun began to dip behind the castle, the puzzle was finished — a small meadow of wildflowers blooming between you on the blanket. You sat there in a comfortable silence for a while, the soft rustle of leaves and distant laughter from the castle carrying through the air.
Eventually, Neville packed everything back into the basket, careful as always, and the two of you walked back toward the castle.
It was quiet again, and while earlier the bad thoughts of worry and paranoia had sprouted in your mind despite your efforts to push them away, now you found yourself forcibly bringing them to the forefront. You were not supposed to lead Neville on. The others knew it wasn’t anything serious, but Neville seemed to have hoped something would come out of this.
When you reached the entrance to the common room, you turned to him with a small smile, “Thanks, Neville. For today. It was… nice.”
He looked at you for a moment — eyes wide, hopeful, like he couldn’t quite believe you meant it. Then, before you could say another word, he leaned forward and kissed you.
It wasn’t bad, exactly — at least you hadn’t been assaulted with tongue — but his lips were chapped, pursed awkwardly, like he had only learned kissing from cartoons. It was stagnant and uncertain. His lips brushed yours and then froze there, as if he weren’t sure what came next. You were too surprised to react, caught completely off guard by the suddenness of it all.
When he pulled back, his cheeks were bright red. “S-sorry,” He stammered, “I—I shouldn’t have—”
You blinked, still processing, and forced a smile, “Goodnight, Neville.”
Then you slipped inside before he could say anything else.
You didn’t make it three steps into the common room before the guilt hit you like a bludger.
Oh, god.
He’d probably spend the whole night replaying it in his head, kicking himself, wondering why he ever thought you’d want him to kiss you. You could already imagine it — Neville sitting on his bed, face buried in his hands, convincing himself he’d ruined everything.
And for some reason, that thought made your chest ache.
You stood frozen for a few seconds, then groaned under your breath, “Oh, for Merlin’s sake.”
Before you could talk yourself out of it, you turned on your heel and bolted out of the common room. The corridors were dim, nearly empty, and your shoes echoed against the stone as you ran.
You found him halfway down the hall, still walking slowly toward the staircase, his shoulders slumped, staring at his feet. The happiness he had carried after the date had all fizzled out as he trudged forward. Perhaps on another day, when your head hadn’t been reeling, when you hadn’t been whiplashed with so many emotions, your eyes wouldn’t have pricked painfully at the sight of him like this.
“Neville!”
He turned, startled, “Y-you forgot something?”
You didn’t answer. You just ran the last few steps and grabbed his sleeve, tugging him toward you — and before he could say a word, you kissed him.
Properly, this time.
You placed your hand on the nape of his neck, angling him toward you, slotting your lips together, swallowing the gasp of surprise. Your other hand guided his to your waist, pulling him closer as you stood on your toes, deepening the kiss and tilting your head the other way. Neville, to his credit, was good at learning on the job, arms curling around your waist and stepping forward, following your lead to a T. There was no hesitation, no uncertainty. Just soft, sure pressure, the faint taste of tea and pumpkin pasties still lingering between you.
When you pulled back, his eyes were wide again, but for a very different reason.
You both were short of breath.
You felt your heart beating a little too fast, your voice quieter than you intended. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” You said softly, “It was just… bad timing.”
Neville blinked, still dazed, a slow, incredulous smile tugging at his lips, “Oh.”
“Goodnight, Neville.” You murmured again — but this time, it sounded a lot less final.
And as you turned away, you caught yourself smiling too.
The second date started differently from the first.
This time, it was a proper Hogsmeade outing. Snow dusted the cobblestones, and the streets smelled faintly of roasted chestnuts and peppermint from the sweet shops. You walked side by side with Neville, your scarf brushing against his, sharing quiet conversation about schoolwork and the upcoming exams. He was, as always, earnest, slightly awkward, and impossibly sweet — listening to you complain about how stressed you were and even offering to lend you his Herbology notes. The darling.
Eventually, after enough roaming to numb your toes, you decided to stop for something warm. The Three Broomsticks glowed golden in the afternoon light, laughter spilling through its frosted windows. Neville opened the door for you with a bashful little smile, and you couldn’t help but smile back as you stepped inside.
You found a booth near the corner, the table still a little sticky from the last patrons. Neville slid into the seat across from you instead of beside you, and you chuckled softly into your scarf. Of course he did.
He got your drinks, returning with two steaming mugs of butterbeer. You sighed in contentment at the first sip — the warmth slipping down your throat, the sweetness coating your tongue, your frozen fingertips thawing against the glass. When you looked up over the rim of your mug, though, Neville wasn’t looking back at you.
Your smile faltered.
His gaze was fixed somewhere past you — toward the bar, where the cute bartender stood laughing with another customer. She was all glossy hair and easy charm, and the sight of Neville’s focused eyes made your stomach twist.
Of course. There it is. The moment it starts to fall apart.
Did he think she was pretty? Did he think she was prettier than you? Did she introduce herself when she handed him your drinks? Had he smiled at her the way he smiled at you — that soft, genuine way that made your chest ache? Your heart began to pound, the familiar flood of questions and doubts screaming through your head.
You could already hear yourself later that night — lying in bed, telling yourself that it was fine, that you’d end things before he could hurt you. It was always easier to leave first.
He still wasn’t looking at you.
“Ehem.” You cleared your throat pointedly, “Something wrong?”
Neville blinked, startled, finally turning back to you. “What? Oh… sorry.” He hesitated, then gestured vaguely toward the bar, “It’s just that flutterby bush over there — it looks a tad overwatered. The leaves aren’t even fluttering anymore.”
You blinked, thrown entirely off your mental script, “The… plant?”
Confused, you slowly followed his gaze to the admittedly miserable-looking potted plant next to the bartender. Relief washed over you, making your chest feel like it could finally breathe again.
He nodded earnestly, eyes soft with concern, “Do you think I should say something? I’d feel bad if it died and I didn’t do anything to help.”
There was a pause — and then, helplessly, you laughed. A short, breathy sound that came out half disbelieving, half relieved.
Of course. Of course Neville Longbottom wasn’t staring at a pretty girl. He was worried about a bloody plant.
“You were worried… about the plant?” You repeated, just to be sure.
Neville shrugged, his expression so guileless it almost hurt to look at, “I mean… yeah. It’s alive. Shouldn’t I care?”
“Would you like me to tell her?” You asked carefully, lifting your brows slightly. You weren’t smiling this time. Your tone was measured, almost probing, testing him. Would he be okay with me talking to her? Would he want to say something himself? Make a move? Charm her in that clumsy, sweet way he did? Or would he brush it off, like it didn’t matter at all?
Neville blinked at you for a moment, then smiled, shy and pleased, like you’d just handed him a medal, “Could you? I… I wouldn’t really know how to bring it up. I’m not very good with people, you know.”
You bit back a grin. “You’re wonderful with me.” You said softly, surprising even yourself with the sincerity of it.
Before he could answer, you stood and made your way to the bar. One short conversation later and you were making your way back to the booth, sliding into the seat beside him this time. You ignored the wide-eyed look he gave you, pressing the side of your thigh to his and resting your head lightly on his tense shoulder, feeling a rare moment of peace wash over you.
Perhaps a third date might not be a bad idea.
Today’s Herbology class had gone longer than usual, and Professor Sprout had asked a handful of students to stay back and water the seedlings in Greenhouse Three. Neville, of course, had volunteered. You’d stayed behind too, waiting just outside the glass doors.
You could see him inside through the streaky glass — sleeves rolled up, soil on his forearms, humming softly to himself as he misted a row of asphodel bushes. It was honestly… unfair how attractive he looked.
Unfortunately, it seemed like you weren't the only one who noticed.
Clara Whitby. Ravenclaw. Pretty, clever, and stepping so close to Neville you felt heat burn down your neck. You watched as she leaned just a little too close to Neville, laughing at something he said (which, knowing Neville, was probably just “hello”).
You couldn’t hear what she said, but you saw her tilt her head, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear in that deliberate way girls do when they want to be noticed. Neville blinked, utterly oblivious, smiling kindly and offering her the watering can.
You felt it — that sharp, irrational sting low in your stomach. The kind that whispered mine before you could think.
When you pushed the greenhouse door open, the hinges creaked louder than usual. Both of them turned.
“Hey,” You said, tone calm but your smile a little too tight to be natural. The air smelled of damp soil and honeysuckle, but all you could focus on was Clara’s hand resting casually on Neville’s arm.
You crossed the space between them in a few brisk steps, brushing your fingers over the shoulder she’d just touched, flicking away imaginary dirt like it personally offended you, “Do you need any help?” You asked sweetly, your eyes locked on Neville.
“Oh, no need,” Clara interrupted, smiling with just the right amount of sugar to make your teeth ache, “It’s no trouble at all.”
You turned to her, returning the smile with one of your own — yours sharper, deliberate, “That’s kind of you. But I’d feel bad watching my boyfriend do all the work and not offering.”
The word landed with satisfying precision. You didn’t miss the way Clara’s expression faltered — the way her lashes fluttered once, twice, like she’d been caught off guard.
“Oh— I— I didn’t know—”
“Mm,” You hummed, tilting your head, “Well, since it’s no trouble at all, you wouldn’t mind finishing up here, right?”
You didn’t wait for her to answer. Your hand had already found Neville’s sleeve, looping around his arm and tugging him gently but firmly toward the door. He stumbled after you, mouth opening in confused protest.
“Wait—what—?”
The second you stepped outside, you released him, crossing your arms and fixing him with a glare that could have scorched a mandrake back into its pot. The crisp air outside felt cooler than it should’ve; maybe because your pulse was running a little too hot.
Neville blinked at you, brow furrowed, “Did I… do something wrong?”
You exhaled, trying to sound casual, but your voice came out tighter than you wanted, “No. You just— Merlin, Neville, she was flirting with you.”
He blinked again, looking genuinely baffled, “She was? No, she was just asking if I needed help repotting—”
You shot him a look, the kind that said don’t test me right now.
He stopped mid-sentence. His mouth opened, then shut, “Oh.”
“Yeah,” You said dryly, rubbing your temples, “Oh.”
Neville’s ears turned pink, his voice small, “I didn’t even notice.”
You groaned, “Obviously. You never do.”
He hesitated, “You… were jealous?”
The question caught you off guard. You froze, heat crawling up your neck, “No— I wasn’t— you just can’t flirt with girls when you have a girlfriend. It’s the principle.”
Neville’s lips twitched, and you could see the bashful smile he was trying very hard to suppress, “I didn’t know you were my girlfriend.”
Your mouth dropped open, affronted, “We’ve been dating for a month!”
“Well,” He said, rubbing the back of his neck, “last time I kissed you, you told me I had poor timing. I didn’t want to push and make you uncomfortable.”
You blinked, thrown off guard by how genuine he sounded. “I didn’t mean—” You huffed, folding your arms tighter, “You really have no sense when it comes to these things.”
Neville laughed quietly, that soft, shy little sound that always made it hard to stay annoyed with him, “Maybe not. But I’m learning.”
You rolled your eyes, though your voice softened despite yourself, “You’d better learn fast, Longbottom. Or next time I might actually hex someone.”
His smile widened, warm and utterly unbothered, “So… does that mean I can call you my girlfriend now?”
The word caught you off guard again — girlfriend — heavier than it had any right to be. It had been a long while since you had been anybody's girlfriend, choosing not to put labels on things, wanting to remain untied.
You opened your mouth, ready with some sarcastic deflection, but all that came out was a quiet, “Yeah.”
Neville’s grin turned brighter, boyish and disbelieving, “Yeah?”
“Don’t make me change my mind.” You warned, fighting the way your lips curved upward at his reaction. He really seemed to like you.
With an essay in Herbology due next week, you’d invited Neville over to help you outline your thoughts — and maybe, if you were lucky, to make sense of the incomprehensible notes you’d taken in class.
Luckily, you’d had the sense to cast a quick Scourgify over your dorm beforehand. The challenge, of course, was finding the right balance: clean enough not to look like you lived in chaos, but not too clean — you didn’t want him to think you’d scrubbed the place spotless just for him. The line was hard to walk on.
By the time you’d finished fluffing the pillows and straightening your desk, there was a knock at the door.
He was standing there with his bag slung over one shoulder, hair still damp from a shower, a stack of Herbology notes clutched in his hands like an offering. His eyes flicked past you into the room — once, twice — uncertain.
“Come in.” You said, stepping aside.
He hovered at the threshold like the doorway was protected by ancient wards.
“Are you sure you don’t want to study in the common room instead?” He asked, voice hesitant.
“It’s far too noisy there, don’t you think?”
“I suppose,” He mumbled, “But we could go to the library.”
You raised a brow, a teasing lilt creeping into your voice, “You’re acting like you’re about to walk into the Forbidden Forest, Neville.”
He flushed immediately, “I’ve just… never been in a girl’s bedroom before.”
That made you bite your lip to hide a grin, “Oh, Merlin. You make it sound scandalous.”
Neville’s blush deepened, “It is scandalous. If Gran ever found out—”
“She’d what?” You interrupted, fighting laughter.
“She’d have a cow.” He muttered, so sincerely that it nearly made you snort.
“Come on,” You said, taking pity on him and tugging him gently inside, “I promise not to tell your Gran.”
He stepped in cautiously, like the floor might give way beneath him, and stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, clutching his notes as though they might save him. His eyes darted toward the bed, then quickly away.
“You can sit, you know.” You said, nodding to it.
“The bed?” He looked genuinely horrified, “I can just take the chair—”
“The chair’s broken,” You lied easily, crossing your arms, “And if you keep hovering like that, I’m going to start thinking you’re scared of me.”
He blushed even harder at that, mumbling, “I’m not scared of you.”
“Then sit.” You patted the spot beside you, “Unless you want to study standing up?”
Reluctantly, Neville sat down at the very edge of the mattress, back straight, knees together, looking as stiff as if he were being interrogated by Snape. You sat beside him — comfortably close, but not too close — and opened your notebook, pretending not to notice how he froze.
“Relax, Neville,” You murmured, flipping to your essay draft, “I don’t bite.”
He smiled nervously, eyes fixed on his parchment, “You’re teasing me.”
“Only because you make it so easy.”
He laughed under his breath, and for a moment, the tension melted.
As the two of you leaned over your notes, heads nearly touching, your shoulder brushed his. You didn’t do more — didn’t hold his hand, didn’t rest your head on his shoulder, didn’t even dare to think about kissing him, because Merlin knew that either Neville or his grandmother, somewhere in England, would burst into flames.
So you stayed like that. Close, but not touching. Almost, but not quite.
You tried to focus on the essay — on sentence structure, on magical root systems, on the words in front of you — but your mind kept drifting. To how warm he felt beside you. To how gentle his breathing sounded in the quiet room. To how easy it was to just… be near him.
And as ridiculous as it was, sitting there with your quill poised over parchment and your heart thudding like you were thirteen again, you realized something that made your stomach flip.
For all your dates, for all the people you’d kissed, for all the walls you’d built — sitting beside Neville Longbottom on your bed somehow felt like the first time all over again.
You were halfway through dessert in the Great Hall, absently tracing patterns in your pudding with your spoon, when Hannah plopped down across from you with a grin that looked far too knowing.
“So,” She began, drawing out the word like she was about to deliver very important news, “How’s Neville?”
You blinked up at her, “He’s… good?”
Hannah’s grin widened. “Just good?” She tapped her spoon against the edge of her plate, “You’ve been seeing him for… three months now, hasn’t it?”
“Three months? That can’t be right.” You thought back to your first date, trying to count the weeks in your head. As you stood to be corrected, it became painfully clear—Hannah was right. Crazy how she was keeping more tabs on your relationship than you were.
“Three months and a bit, actually,” She said smugly, clearly enjoying herself, “Don’t give me that look. I remember because you said that thing after your second date about how nothing past three months ever works out for you.”
You squinted at her, “I said that about other people, not me.”
She raised a brow, unconvinced. “No, you said—and I quote—‘Three months is when the rot sets in.’” She grinned, tucking a lock of blonde hair behind her ear, “And yet… here we are. You’ve passed the expiration date.”
You frowned down at your pudding, suddenly unsure what to do with your spoon, “It doesn’t feel that long.”
“Well,” Hannah shrugged, “time flies when you actually like someone.”
You looked across the Hall then — instinctively, without meaning to — and found Neville at the Gryffindor table, laughing at something Seamus said. His head tilted back when he laughed, cheeks going pink, the corners of his eyes crinkling in that soft, familiar way. The sight of him — so happy, so relaxed, so himself — made your stomach twist in a combination of relief and panic.
A sudden flutter of pins and needles ran up your legs, tightening around your throat. The walls of the Hall felt like they were closing in. You pushed your plate away, stomach lurching, suddenly feeling sick. A bucket of cold water seemed to have been dumped over you when you realized, with a shockingly simple clarity that despite your trepidation, that all you wanted in that moment was a hug from Neville.
Hannah, apparently sensing your sudden silence, smirked knowingly, “Guess your little rule’s been broken.”
You forced a laugh, brittle and unconvincing, letting it tremble out into the air. “Yeah… miracles happen.” You murmured, your voice quieter than you intended, as your eyes lingered on Neville, feeling them begin to water.
The dorm room was quiet, the soft breathing of your friends usually enough to lull you to sleep, but tonight, sleep was impossible. You lay on your bed, staring at the ceiling, every muscle taut, your stomach knotted with a restless energy you couldn’t shake.
Scenes rushed through your mind, a relentless reel of memories from the very first awkward conversation with Neville to last week, when you had finally coaxed him into relaxing in your dorm long enough for a kiss—albeit a brief, breathless one. He had pulled back almost immediately, cheeks flushed, eyes wide, needing a moment to catch his breath. A small, tender smile tugged at your lips at the memory. Even after three months, he was still so shy, so wonderfully nervous.
You shook your head, trying to focus.
You cataloged everything meticulously—pros and cons, tiny details, moments you had laughed, moments you had panicked. Every glance, every word, every small, earnest gesture.
You thought back to the way he had fumbled over his words when he first asked you out. A con? You glanced at the memory critically, comparing him to all the social media horror stories of supermodel influencers whose boyfriends had cheated once they got “confident enough” to try someone else. Would Neville be like that? Would he, once he no longer shied away from kissing, find someone else to put those skills to use?
But then you remembered the things he had told you about intimacy—how it was sacred, how he only shared it with people he truly cared about. He hadn’t even been comfortable stepping into your dorm at first. He wasn’t the type to just move on. He was loyal.
You shook your head again, scolding yourself. The pros list wasn’t supposed to outweigh the cons.
But then… Clara. That day in the greenhouse when someone had been flirting with him, and he had remained blissfully oblivious. That was a definite con. If he couldn’t notice someone trying to make a move, how could he protect himself from them? Someone as innocent and naive as him was likely to be seduced.
You tried to make sense of it, but your thoughts always drifted back to him: that smile, the way he laughed, the subtle nervous tugs at his hair, the way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention.
Would he ever look at anyone else? In these three months, you had never seen him treat a female friend differently than a male one. He didn’t even have many female friends to begin with.
You remembered Hermione in Herbology, discussing plants with him, both of them so engaged in conversation that you had almost panicked. Perhaps they’d have a connection… But then you remembered the way he had held your hand under the table, thumb brushing over your knuckles.
Your chest tightened, heart thumping wildly as the memories surged. You bit your lip, telling yourself to calm down, to stop letting him occupy so much of your head. But the harder you tried to push him away, the more present he became in your mind.
Every “pro” you listed had him at its center; every “con” circled back to him. You could almost hear his gentle, hesitant voice asking questions, sharing stories, fumbling over words with that quiet, earnest charm.
You groaned, burying your face in your pillow. Why does he have to be so… him?
The ceiling blurred as tears threatened to spill. You felt ridiculous, terrified, yet completely powerless.
And through it all, the pull toward him was undeniable. The quiet, unignorable certainty that, no matter how much you cataloged, panicked, or overthought, part of you just wanted him there—wanted to lean into him, hear his voice, feel his warmth beside you.
But you couldn’t move. Not yet. Not until you figured it all out.
You were sitting in Charms, quietly taking notes as Professor Flitwick droned on about the subtleties of non-verbal wand movements and spell trajectories, but your attention kept drifting. Neville, sitting beside you, was scribbling something on a piece of parchment. At first, you didn’t think much of it—Neville was always diligent—but then curiosity got the better of you.
You leaned just enough to catch a glimpse. His hand jerked, and he quickly turned the parchment toward his chest, eyes wide and guilty.
Your heart immediately began hammering.
Is he cheating on me? He’s writing about someone else. He doesn’t want me to see it. Oh no, oh no, oh no.
Your mind spiraled. Maybe he was scribbling something sweet for someone else, doodling hearts or sketches, the kind of thing that would make your chest ache and stomach drop. He’s falling for someone else.
Or maybe—no, stop—maybe he’s jotting down all the ways you frustrate him, all the little flaws you work so hard to hide. Maybe he’s complaining to someone else about how disappointing you are. Telling her that you'd never hold a candle in comparison to her.
Your fingers drummed nervously against your desk as the lesson blurred past, the words floating over you like fog.
Finally, the bell rang. Neville began packing, oblivious to the storm raging in your head. The second his back was turned, you leaned over, snatched the piece of parchment tucked between his textbooks, and shoved it into your pocket.
You forced a polite smile when he asked if you were ready to leave and muttered something about needing the washroom, ducking into an empty stall the second you slipped away from him.
Your stomach dropped, then flooded with warmth so intense it made your knees weak. Relief crashed over you, and you let out a shaky laugh, pressing your hand over your mouth as heat crept up your neck. You wiped away the beginnings of tears, not wanting to lose a single second staring at his neat, whimsical calligraphy.
He had taken your last name. How silly.
For a long moment, you just stood there, staring at the page. Little sketches and hearts decorated the names, surrounded by playful flourishes and swirls. Every shred of doubt, every paranoid thought, every fear of him leaving or being distracted by someone else melted away.
He was so perfect.
Neville’s dorm smelled faintly of cedarwood and parchment, the soft hum of rain against the window making everything feel too gentle, too intimate. You were sitting cross-legged on his bed, watching as he rifled through his desk for a quill.
It was a lazy afternoon — the kind that felt suspended in time — and you hadn’t planned on staying long. But then he’d offered to help you study, and then you’d started talking, and now here you were, wrapped in a blanket that smelled suspiciously like him, pretending your heart wasn’t hammering in your chest.
“Are you cold?” He asked, glancing up, concern flickering across his face.
You hesitated, “A little.”
He smiled — that soft, crooked smile that always made something flutter deep in your chest — and pointed to the trunk at the base of his bed with his chin, “You can borrow one of my cardigans, if you want.”
You opened your mouth to politely decline, but he was already holding it out to you — that heavy knit thing you’d seen him wear almost every day last week. So you took it, immediately feeling wrapped up in his warmth, so much so that you couldn’t help the soft sigh that escaped your lips.
“I’ll give it back to you.” You murmured automatically.
He chuckled, “It’s alright, love. You can have it.”
You froze.
Have it?
Have it?!
Your mind went white for a second — and then the panic set in.
If you kept his clothes, that meant you were entering the comfortably-in-a-relationship phase. The stage where your things blend with his, where people start saying “our stuff,” where you wake up one day and you’re wearing his jumper and suddenly you’re emotionally married. And when it ended — because it always ended — you’d have to dig through drawers and closets, separating his things from yours, each piece a reminder of something you’d lost.
You forced a smile that felt dangerously close to manic, “Oh, um, no— I’ll just borrow it, it’s fine, I’ll give it back later.”
Neville blinked, surprised by your sudden rush of words, “I didn’t mean— I mean, I’ve got others, you don’t have to—”
“No really,” You said quickly, tugging the cardigan tighter around yourself and sitting very straight, like posture alone could prove how casual you were being about this, “You look great in this cardigan. I couldn’t possibly be the reason you don’t get to wear it anymore.”
He chuckled softly, shaking his head as he sat back down beside you, “You’re very strange sometimes, you know that?”
“Mhmm.” You mumbled, burying your face in the collar. It smelled like him — like soap and something green and earthy — and you hated how much you loved it.
He looked at you for a long moment, eyes crinkling with quiet affection before turning back to his notes.
You hadn’t meant to join Neville and his friends that afternoon — you’d only stopped by the Gryffindor table to say hello before heading back to study — but somehow you’d been pulled into a conversation with Dean and Seamus that had spiraled far beyond your control.
“So,” Seamus said with a grin that was all teeth, “how long’s it been now? You two’ve been joined at the hip since Christmas, yeah?”
Neville blinked, mid-bite of shepherd’s pie, “Er—nine months?”
You froze.
Nine. Months.
That was almost a year. More than double your longest relationship.
Dean let out a low whistle, “Blimey, Longbottom, didn’t think you had it in you.”
Seamus snorted, “Yeah, we all had money on the third-date crash and burn. Guess I owe Weasley five Galleons.”
They laughed, and you forced a smile, even though your heart was racing. Nine months? That meant you’d been a we for nine months — people probably said “you and Neville” like it was one word now.
Neville just looked bashful, ducking his head, cheeks pink. “She’s easy to love.” He mumbled under his breath, and Seamus groaned dramatically while Dean nearly choked on his pumpkin juice.
Your brain short-circuited.
Easy to love.
Me?
Since when?
And suddenly, everything around you — the laughter, the chatter, the clinking of cutlery — faded into a dull hum. All you could hear was your heartbeat, thudding too fast. All you could feel was that warm, terrifying weight in your chest.
Because he said it so simply. Like it wasn’t a risk. Like it was just true.
He was okay with loving you.
You didn’t know how to respond to that. How were you supposed to respond to Neville’s quiet, unguarded affection when you were doubting it every single step of the way?
He was such a sweet soul. The more time you spent with him, the more you realized he might be the most selfless, considerate, good boy you’d ever met in your life.
He was perfect.
He truly was.
You swallowed the lump in your throat, forcing a crooked grin, “And in those nine months, a girl hasn’t so much as looked at you two blokes.”
You laughed — too high-pitched, too quick — but when you glanced at Neville, who met your gaze with that open, steady smile, your chest ached in that familiar, dizzying way.
Nine months.
You hadn’t even noticed them pass.
And that scared you more than anything.
Because for once, you weren’t counting the days until it ended.
Nine months.
He’d said it so easily. Like time didn’t scare him the way it scared you.
You could still hear his voice, low and certain — she’s easy to love.
The words kept looping in your head, echoing against every defense you’d ever built.
By the time you reached the stairs, you could feel your pulse in your throat. You stopped, pretending to adjust the strap of your bag just to buy yourself a second to breathe.
Neville turned, smiling softly, “You okay, love?”
You nodded too fast, “Yeah. Just—heavy bag.”
He didn’t question it, didn’t push. He just reached out, took the strap from your shoulder, and slung it over his own, “There. Easier now.”
And that—god, that was the thing about him. He never made a big deal of it. Never demanded gratitude. He just noticed.
As you walked beside him, shoulder brushing shoulder, something in your chest began to loosen — like a knot slowly, reluctantly coming undone.
Neville never made you feel like loving you was work.
He just did it — quietly, like breathing.
You glanced at him, at the way his fringe fell into his eyes, the little crease between his brows when he concentrated on balancing your books in one arm.
Something warm and painful bloomed in your chest.
You realized, with a sudden and terrifying clarity, that you couldn’t remember what life had felt like before him.
And worse — you didn’t want to.
The thought made your stomach twist. Love had always been a thing you tiptoed around, a house made of glass you refused to step inside. But now you were standing in the doorway, hand on the knob, realizing you’d already been living here without noticing.
He looked at you again, smiling that same gentle smile that never failed to undo you, “You sure you’re alright?”
You hesitated. Then nodded. “Yeah,” You said quietly, “Just thinking.”
“About what?”
You almost told him. You almost said about you.
But instead, you just smiled faintly and said, “About how time goes faster when I’m with you.”
He chuckled, his fingers brushing yours as you walked, “Guess that’s a good thing, yeah?”
You looked down at your intertwined shadows on the stone floor, your throat tightening.
“Yeah,” You whispered, “It is.”
But inside, your heart was trembling — because for the first time, the thought of falling didn’t feel like a warning.
It felt like safety.
Rain tapped softly against the window by your bed, the room washed in the pale blue light of the moon.
You couldn’t sleep.
Your mind kept circling the same set of thoughts it had been for months now. Neville Longbottom. The source of your peace — and the source of the greatest anxiety you’d ever known.
His sweet disposition. His kind eyes. His smile — soft, genuine, a little crooked. His full cheeks that hadn’t lost all their boyish roundness. The way he always put you first.
You sat up slowly, pulling your knees to your chest.
Your father had seemed perfect at first, too. Hadn’t he? After all, your mother wouldn’t have married him, wouldn’t have had you, if he hadn’t put up the perfect front.
But would Neville ever commit the same atrocities? You couldn’t bring yourself to believe it. Or had he just tricked you that well? Would you look back ten years from now — when you had children of your own — and realize you’d made the same mistake your mother had?
Maybe it had been her fault, you reasoned. Maybe she hadn’t screened your father well enough. But you had been careful. You had been auditing Neville with the critical eye of someone who refused to be fooled again.
And still — he’d passed every test.
Neville hadn’t so much as looked at another girl since the day you’d started dating. Whenever doubt or paranoia clawed up your throat, he’d been there to soothe it — patient, steady, real. He remembered every date, every preference, every offhand comment you made in passing. He brought you flowers just because. He’d buy you little trinkets in Hogsmeade because he thought you might like them.
He gave you his last sip of tea, his last piece of chocolate, without complaint.
Even though he was shy, he stood up for you in front of his friends — voice trembling, ears red — but never letting them tease you too far.
Clearly, Neville was perfect.
He was perfect for you.
He’d never hurt you.
This relationship would be good for you.
You shut your eyes, trying to let the conclusion settle into your chest, willing it to quiet the ache in your ribs. You wanted to believe it. You wanted to rest in it. To trust someone for the first time in your entire life.
But then your brow twitched.
Wait.
Neville wasn’t the problem. He never had been.
He was patient, kind — the sort of person who noticed when you were about to spiral and quietly handed you an anchor before you drowned. He listened when you spoke — really listened — without trying to fix you or make it easier. He loved you without asking you to change.
And if he wasn’t the problem…
Then the problem was you.
You pressed the heel of your hand against your chest, like you could hold yourself together by force.
No relationship was without flaws. No love story ended perfectly. But Neville had broken your pattern — he’d stayed.
And now, with nowhere left to direct the blame, you were left with the only truth that fit:
You would ruin him.
Because how could something this fragile, this good, possibly survive you?
You imagined it — the end.
If it happened a year from now, Neville would be crushed. He’d have loved you too deeply by then — the kind of love that doesn’t unravel easily. You’d be finishing school, talking about the future, and then you’d ruin it with a few sentences you could never take back. He’d smile through it, tell you it was okay, but the second you turned away, his heart would break.
Five years from now, it would be worse. You saw it so clearly — his face when he realized you’d stopped loving him, the disbelief in his eyes. He’d cry until his voice gave out, then find the small ring box tucked in the back of his dresser, the one he’d meant to give you someday. He’d hold it in his hands until the metal grew warm, until it hurt too much to look at.
And if it was ten years from now — if you made it that far — it would destroy him completely. You’d see it in the way his shoulders would shake when you slipped the wedding ring from your finger. He’d beg, voice cracking, for you to stay — for the children, for the life you’d built — and you, cold and hollow, would walk away anyway. Leave him standing there in the doorway, the kids asleep upstairs, and he’d raise them alone, never saying a bad word about you. Because that’s who he was.
You could see it all with sickening clarity — the look on his face, the pain in his voice, the ruin of something pure.
You’d tried so hard to protect yourself from being hurt that you’d never stopped to think about who you might hurt in the process.
Your throat ached. Tears slipped down your cheeks before you could stop them. He didn’t deserve that.
He was good. Too good.
He’d be the one bleeding when this ended.
And the worst part was — you knew he’d forgive you anyway.
You stared at the thought until your vision blurred, your heart heavy with the unbearable weight of being loved so gently by someone you were convinced deserved better.
Outside, the rain softened to a hush.
You lay back, pulling the cardigan— his cardigan— tighter around your body. His scent clung to the fabric. It should have comforted you. It didn’t.
Your breaths came shallow and uneven as the truth settled like lead in your chest.
You needed to end this before you did something stupid.
You’d rehearsed it all day — in the mirror, in your head, even under your breath between classes. Every version ended the same way: with you breaking something that had only ever been gentle.
Neville opened the door to his dorm with that familiar soft smile, “Hey, love. You alright? You look—”
“Can we talk?”
Oh no. It was already going awry. In your head, you’d planned to let him finish his sentence, at least — but with the way he was looking at you, with the compliment you were sure he was about to give, you thought it might be too painful if this started on the right foot.
He froze at your tone. You were standing too straight, voice too steady. That always scared him more than tears.
“Of course.” He said quietly, stepping aside.
The room smelled faintly of soil and tea, the window cracked open to let in the cool night air. You stayed standing while he sat on the edge of his bed, looking up at you with those impossibly kind eyes that made your throat tighten.
You handed him a small paper bag — the folded cardigan inside, washed carefully to make sure none of your perfume lingered. Nothing that would remind him of you.
“I have your cardigan.” You said.
His brows furrowed, as though confused why you were handing it back at all, especially after he’d insisted you keep it, “I told you before, you could keep—”
“I think we should break up.”
Neville blinked, like he hadn’t heard you right, “What?”
You forced yourself not to flinch, “I’m— I’m breaking up with you, Neville.”
For a moment, he just stared at you, eyes wide and wounded, until finally he managed to whisper, “Why?”
“We’re not good for each other, Neville. Actually—” Your voice cracked, “I’m not good for you. And I’m sorry.”
You turned to leave, but he reached out and caught your wrist, “Hold on now! You can’t just— not without telling me why— (Y/N), please, I lov—”
“Don’t say it.”
His eyes misted, and your heart broke in your chest, “Merlin, this is what I was trying to prevent, Neville. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Then don’t hurt me.” He said, voice tight.
“I don’t want to, Neville. But some things are just… inevitable.” You swallowed hard, “You’re an amazing person, and if we keep going like this, then— I’m going to marry you.”
His brow furrowed, an incredulous laugh slipping out, “Is that supposed to be a threat?”
You shut your eyes, sighing, “You don’t get it, Neville. It’s easier for us to break it off now than ten years from now.”
“Why do we have to break up ten years from now?”
Helga, why did he have so many questions? Did he not understand what was going on here?
“Because I’m a terrible person! Because I’m going to hurt you! Don’t you understand, Neville? I’m trying to protect you!”
He stood then, closing the distance between you, “You’re not a terrible person.”
“Yes, I am!” The words came out louder than you meant. You took a step back, hands shaking, “I’m mistrusting and cold-hearted and pessimistic and jealous and vile. I’m always looking for flaws, and I’ve been in this relationship with one foot out the door since day one! And if we keep doing this, then one day I’m going to break your heart, Neville — and that will tear me apart.”
For a moment, the only sound was the rain outside, soft and steady against the window.
Neville just stood there, staring at you like he was trying to piece you back together with his eyes alone. His lips parted — once, twice — but no sound came out. Then, finally, quietly:
“Do you even hear yourself right now?”
You blinked, “What?”
He took a step closer, voice trembling but steadying with every word, “You’re standing there, telling me how awful you are like it’s a fact. Like it’s written somewhere. But none of that’s true. Not a single bloody thing.”
You shook your head, swallowing hard, “You don’t know me like I do, Neville.”
“Yes, I do,” He said simply, “I know you better than you think. I know you’re scared. I know you overthink until it hurts. I know you find it easier to leave first than to be left behind.”
Your breath hitched, chest tightening painfully, “Stop—”
When he spoke again, his voice was quiet but certain, “You think that if you end it now, it’ll hurt less. But you’re wrong. Because I already love you.”
You blinked hard, trying to hold back the tears threatening to spill, “Don’t say that.”
“It’s true.” He smiled faintly, heartbreakingly gentle, “You can walk away if you need to. But don’t pretend it’s for my sake.”
That did it. The tears came hot and fast, your shoulders shaking as you pressed your hands to your face. Neville stepped forward again, hesitating only a moment before wrapping you in his arms.
“You deserve someone better, Neville,” You sobbed, your words muffled against his chest, “I’m sorry for making you fall in love with me.”
And yet, you didn’t push him away. Not yet.
You stood there, crying quietly against him—wishing love was something you could return as easily as a cardigan in a paper bag.
"I'm not sorry for loving you, (Y/N). Even if you break my heart, even if you ruin it. I still love you. I can't erase that. Only you can determine our future, (Y/N)."
Neville held you tighter, his warmth seeping into every trembling muscle. His thumb brushed gently along your back, grounding you in a way you hadn’t realized you needed. You wanted to pull away, to stick to the narrative you’d been rehearsing all day, but his presence felt like a lifeline.
“You’ve had one foot out the door this whole time?” He murmured, voice low, full of disbelief yet tender, “Then… take a step inside. Shut the door, (Y/N).”
The words hit harder than anything else could. Take a step inside. Shut the door. Let go of your fear, your panic, your carefully maintained defenses. Let him in.
Your chest heaved, your hands still pressed against his chest as if the world might snatch him away if you loosened your grip. Slowly, almost hesitantly, you realized you were ready. Ready to stop running, to stop overthinking, to stop protecting yourself at the cost of hurting him.
“I…” Your voice wavered, trembling like leaves in a storm. You swallowed hard, letting your tears fall freely, “…I love you, Neville.”
The effect was immediate. His arms tightened around you, resting your head against his shoulder. “I know,” He whispered, almost like it was a promise, “I love you, too. Always have. Always will.”
Somewhere deep in your chest, the coil of anxiety that had lived there for months began to unravel. For the first time in your life, you let yourself trust completely. The fear, the paranoia, the endless “what ifs”—they didn’t vanish overnight, but they became background noise beneath the steady, unshakable truth of his love.
You pulled back just enough to look at him, wiping your cheeks. His eyes—wide, earnest, filled with that infinite patience and kindness, your infallible mountain against your tumultuous river—met yours, and you felt your heart unclench in a way you hadn’t known was possible.
“Let me love you.” He whispered, voice gentle.
With a shaky laugh that felt like relief incarnate, you nodded. You stepped fully into his embrace, shutting the door to all the fears and doubts you had carried for so long.
For the first time, you didn’t worry about what might happen. For the first time, you believed in the now—and it was enough.
“I love you, Neville.” You whispered again, making sure the words held the weight they deserved.
He kissed your forehead, soft and grounding. The rain tapped against the window outside, a comforting rhythm, as if the world itself had let out a sigh of relief. You stayed there, wrapped in each other, knowing that whatever came next, you’d face it together.
To be added to a taglist, please send me an ask! (I might respond to you in comments but I can’t guarantee that I won’t accidentally miss it)
Words: 11.2k
Genre: Fluff & Humour, Cinderella!Au
Summary: Yes. You went to the ball. Yes. You ran into the prince. Yes. The shoe fits. BUT-! You aren’t that Cinderella bitch. THEY’VE GOT THE WRONG PERSON!
Warnings: Swearing…that’s really it. lol
Midnight strikes the clock.
A child is curled up at the fireplace to stay warm. The cinders crackle, dusting along her cheeks but the girl pays no mind, staring straight into the flickering flames. A few of the orphans behind her snicker beneath their hands. “Look at the new kid! She’s so dirty! We should call her Cin-”
A chunk of coal smacks the boy right in the forehead and he falls back on his butt, outright stunned. The mischievous smiles of all the other orphans fall as she holds a steaming fire iron like a sword.
“You want to fight?! Fight me like a real person instead of laughing behind my back! Huzzah!”
The children scream in terror, arms in the air as they scatter and run. A bunch of them end up toppling over each other in a heap and you laugh, swinging the device that’s used to poke the fire. The mother of the orphanage comes over in hysterics, dragging you away. “Let go of me!”
The other night husband and I were watching a documentary about the yeti where they were doing DNA analysis of samples of supposed yeti fur, and every one of them came back as bears.
Anyway, the next night we watched a thing about some pig man who is supposed to live in Vermont. People said it had claws and a pig nose but walked upright like a man. Now, I happen to know that sideshows used to shave bears and present them as pig men. So every piece of evidence they gave of this monster sounds to me like a bear with mange.
So now the running joke in our house is that everything is bears. Aliens? Bears. Loch Ness monster? Bear. Every cryptozoological mystery is just a very crafty bear.
Bears. They’re everywhere. Be wary. Anyone or anything could be a bear.
As the OP of this post, I’m going to threaten that if this gets to one million notes by the 10 year anniversary on 1 June 2026, one year from today, I will get a lower back tattoo of the loch ness bear monster.
Summary: You’ve been friends with Prince Jungkook ever since you met him while watching fireflies as a kid. Years pass and feelings bloom, but just when you think you’re a step closer to your happily ever after, Jungkook is sent to war. Promises are made, letters exchanged, but will real love endure until the end?
Pairing: Jungkook x Reader
Genre: Prince!Jungkook, Princess!Reader, RoyaltyAU, set in a fictional country, late 40s to early 60s vibe (but not meant to be historically accurate), somewhat epistolary in format, Fluff, Angst, Drama
Words: 20,631
Warning(s): mentions of blood, violence, torture and death
a/n: It’s funny how the same song can inspire you in an entirely different way because I’m pretty sure I wrote a scenario on Run Away With Me already, but I used it as an inspiration in this one again (the Jeremy Jordan version this time). Paper hearts was also part of this scenario’s soundtrack. Took very minimal cues from Dear John, it’s more of a nod than anything. Generally prompted by The Crown. LONGEST ONESHOT EVER. Read at your own risk. BELATED HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MY FAVORITE MAKNAE, JEON JUNGKOOK-OPPA.
…
You hated these parties and you hated them more when they were thrown for you. You barely knew any of these people in your home and yet your mother insists that you should enjoy the ‘pleasantries’.
They were hardly pleasant for you.
During your 7th birthday, you were introduced to the world as the young and only princess of your kingdom. Your parents loved you and Crown Prince Seunghyun, your older brother, doted on you like you were his daughter, but you just hated the people who only came to these parties for their own ulterior motives.
People parted when you walked by, they showered you with compliments with hopes of gaining the royal family’s favor… They smiled and yet you could see that it hardly reached their eyes.
You hated it, so you escaped and went to your secret place—the forest behind the castle.
It was a warm summer night, dewy enough for fireflies to appear. You picked up your skirts and trudged down the muddy path leading to the swamp nearby. You were well aware that your new clothes were being ruined and that your mother would probably scold you about palace etiquette again.
You sat quietly, the hem of your gown dipping slightly in the water, and waited.
You suddenly heard rustling behind you and a million thoughts entered your head. Was it an intruder? Someone who wanted to abduct you and extort from your family? Was it a carnivorous beast that wanted to skin you to your bones?
You prepared to run, but you slipped on the mossy pebbles and was falling face first into the water when you felt someone tug your skirt backwards.
A boy, around your age, who you recognized as Prince Jungkook from the next kingdom stood before you. In your head, you wanted to berate him for touching you and tugging on your clothes as if you were friends, but he already sat by your feet without even asking for permission.
You were about to say something, but he said, “Ssshh… They’ll get scared.”
He pointed forward and you followed the line from his finger. Slowly, like they whispered amongst themselves and decided to appear one by one, fireflies floated over the untrimmed grass. You could only gaze in admiration as their reflection danced on the surface of the water.
“So pretty…” You cooed, trying your best not to ward them off with your voice. You tucked your legs against your chest and rested your chin on your knees. “I wish I could keep them in my pocket and see them all the time.”
“If you do that, they’re going to die.” He said too nonchalantly that you were almost offended. “…but if your mom… I mean, the Queen doesn’t allow you to go see them alone, I can go with you. I’m a prince too, you know. I can protect you.”
You briefly glanced at his face, his wide eyes were still on the fireflies, and maybe you imagined it or maybe it was the fact that it was a warm summer night, but you could’ve sworn that his cheeks were tinged the right shade of pink.
…
And that was the catalyst of countless more summer nights, some too cold, some too warm and some just right.
Just as he had sat beside you all those years ago in the murky swamp, he has done so in countless other balls and formalities. He made you laugh with silly faces, completely unbefitting for a prince. Sometimes, when you two were alone, he’d hum a tune or sing a lullaby. He was the one who taught you how to ride a horse, how to shoot a bull’s eye and in turn, you pestered him by teaching him etiquette and recipes. During days that you didn’t feel like being your titles, Jungkook and Y/N had picnics in the attic. You hadn’t meant to and hardly anyone expected it, but more than 10 years have passed and you were still friends.
You’ve never had anyone you can call your best friend before, but somehow, you were sure that he was yours.
And recently, maybe even more.
Being the youngest of 7 sons, there was little to no expectations on him, but he always delivered. At 21, he excelled at being a prince and some might argue that he was much better than Crown Prince Jin. He was a great marksman and a talented military strategist even in theory. He was well-educated and true, he may not be as adept with the constitution as Crown Prince Seokjin or Prince Namjoon, but what he couldn’t achieve through intellect, he got with charm. In his free time, he can even beat a handful of artists who paint for a living. He was undoubtedly the most eligible bachelor in his land, the Kingdom of Kiōs.
His flawlessness sometimes made you wonder why he remains as your friend; nothing more and nothing less.
More than being his friend, however, you were first a princess, so you were almost obligated to attend the grand celebration for his 21st birthday. Your mother picked out your dress herself and your handmaids took an extra hour to prepare you. Your whole castle was bustling and everyone seemed determined, for very different reasons, to present themselves well to Jungkook’s household. Your reason, however, was a very selfish one—you wanted to tell him how you felt before either of you were betrothed to someone else and some part of you believed that powdering your nose more than usual would help you achieve that. To say that it was customary for a prince in Kiōs to marry by 25 would mean killing all your thoughts of ever pursuing your feelings for him, but still… you had hope.
You had hope in all the years you’ve spent meeting his gaze and answering his smiles, in his playful nature and gentle voice. You had hope that out of all the times you were looking at him with adoration, he was also looking at you without you knowing. However, the fact that all his brothers were either married or engaged by the time they reached 25 years old did not help your confidence.
‘The celebration will be opulent, no doubt about it.’ You thought as you stepped into a car.
You can just imagine the lengths that the King and Jungkook’s 6 brothers would take to properly celebrate the youngest’s birthday. Compared to your domain, the Kingdom of Acies, Kiōs was larger. They ruled over more land and had more subjects. The citizens of Kiōs respected the King and even when the Queen had passed away when Jungkook turned 15, they never questioned the King’s compassion nor his iron fists. Neighboring kingdoms, such as yours, preferred to be in good terms with them, even swearing to be their ally. Truth to be told, your friendship with their kingdom protected your smaller land.
Summary: Taehyung finally finds you again after years of searching, and all he needs to do is kiss you to return the memories of your past life together. The only problem is you're already in a relationship, and with the very person who executed you in the first place.
Pairing: Jungkook x Reader, Taehyung x Reader
Genre: Reincarnation/Past Lives AU, Royalty AU, Friends to Lovers, Ex-Friends to Lovers, Affair, Angst, Smut, Fluff
Word Count: 28.5k+
Warnings: major character death(s) (in the past, they get reincarnated), execution/death, suicide, blood, swords, wound from a blade, crying, screaming, arguing, cheating, lying, heartbreak, mentions of war, death of loved ones, the fifteenth century, horses, fear of heights, pregnancy, mentions of childbirth, being restrained, migraines, hallucinations/seeing visions, flashbacks, corsets, gowns, basketball, cheerleading, loud crowds, gymnasiums, passing out, needles, being sedated, vomiting, drinking, cursing, depression, mention of graves, crypts, children, chapel, wedding, priest, sacraments, kings, queens, knights, armor and shields, pet names (baby, love, darling), beer pong, darts, loss of friendship, nonconsensual kissing, mention of sorcery/sorceress, spells, reincarnation. SMUT: big dick tae and jk 🤪, loss of virginity, missionary, oral sex (f receiving), unprotected sex, pull-out method, mention of masturbation (f), jacking off/hand job, dick riding, fingering, multiple orgasms, forced exhibitionism (idk how to explain it properly but someone listens outside the door as they have sex), cum eating, coming on skin, cream pie, making out in public, alright I think that's everything but lmk if I missed something.
Author’s Note: jungkook villain era?? haha jk... unless 👀, ok anyway, happy festa everyone! for this fic we got BOAF ‘EM, baby! So excited to have my biases front and center in this monster of a fic lmao. I didn’t even know this many words were capable of coming from my brain but here they are. I really hope you guys love it even though some of our characters be making some major blunders. please don't judge OC too harshly, ok? she's doing her best. also I'll formally apologize to tae for constantly putting him in these situations at a later date. I'm very proud of how this turned out, so, as always, please lmk your thoughts and I hope you enjoyyyy :)
Taehyung kneels across from you, devoid of the armor and shield which make up his regular attire. They’ve been stripped from him, leaving him in just his frock and riding pants. Two of his fellow knights hold his arms out, turning him into the image of the cross before your eyes. You don’t repent, since God is not the one you need to beg for forgiveness.
Your nails scratch harshly against the wood below you as you listen to the footsteps of the King circling around before they halt behind your back. His footsteps which are so familiar and were once the sound you stayed up waiting to hear come down the corridor.
Time moves like the cogs of an ungreased wheel, each click of its turns bringing you closer to the fate which awaits you.
Taehyung glares at the King and thrashes against his restraints, even though every soul in the room, including him, knows it’s useless. His insubordination goes ignored.
“Any last words, your Highness?”
Eyes snapping shut, your emotions betray you as a sob escapes from your chest and tears fall from your eyes onto the floor below. An unalterable grief overtakes you when you look into Taehyung’s chocolate eyes one last time before returning your gaze to the floor.
“I love you,” you whisper across an exhale, most likely your last. “I am so sorry.”
A single poignant moment passes before the sharp blade slices across the delicate skin of your neck.
You gasp and grab at your throat, but the sound becomes a gurgle as blood pours from your neck, staining the wood and your gown below you. The deep red liquid flows around your fingers and stains your skin with its potency. Your vision is already gone, and your hearing follows only seconds after. Your body meets the floor with a thump as the light in your eyes flickers out.
Blood continues to spill from your wound and run through the knots in the wood like a river around stones, creating a halo of it around your body.
“No, no, no, Y/N!” Taehyung cries as he pulls against the knights again, trying to reach you even though you’re already gone. The beautiful eyes he adores stare lifelessly back at him. “You monster,” he sneers.
The King doesn’t say another word, and doesn’t offer Taehyung the same grace he did to you. He just slowly makes his way across the room before repeating the action across his former first knight’s neck.
His body falls next to yours, his blood fanning out around him and combining with yours into a pool of thick, dark liquid that leaks through the cracks in the wood. Your clothing absorbs the fluid and paints you both red.
A final thump follows shortly after.
PRESENT DAY
Taehyung doesn’t know where he’s going, but he thinks it must be the right direction because he can hear cheers from the building coming into view. It’s massive compared to the rest of the school's architecture, but he’s not surprised by that. Most universities nowadays put more emphasis on sports than anything else.
The cheers only grow as he approaches, a loud buzzer triggering the eruption of sound each time. When he enters the gym, the bounce of the basketball and swoosh of it falling into the net joins the mixture of noises coming from inside. He hands his ticket to the woman at the entrance before heading towards the basketball court.
It’s uncomfortably warm in the gym. All the bodies stacked in the bleachers and the sweat from the players creates a thick air around the whole scene. The combination of the temperature and loud noises only perpetuates the distortion of his senses, as if he isn’t anxious enough already. Taehyung’s eyes scan the space as he stands in the doorway, off to the side to avoid disturbing the patrons who come and go.
It only takes him a few seconds to find you.
You’re standing courtside, among the first row of cheerleaders who stand with their pom poms behind their back. Hair down and in curls, with a piece of it tucked behind one ear, and glitter all over your eyelids and cheeks. You look nothing like the last time he saw you and yet somehow you’re exactly the same.
Every few minutes you rub the plastic poms together to cheer on the team, sometimes shouting for them, too. It’s so mundane and yet it takes Taehyung’s breath away. It’s only natural, given that this is his first time seeing you in… well, since his last life.
He never moves from his spot in the doorway, he just stands and admires your every movement and gesture.
His eyes trace across your familiar visage. Your eyes still sparkle, your skin is soft and dewy, and your lips steal his attention instantaneously. The faint blush across your cheeks reminds him of his childhood and of home. It’s been so long, but seeing you now makes him feel like it was only yesterday.
The only thing out of place is seeing you in this attire. Your cheerleader uniform consists of a miniskirt and tight top which only just meets the top of your skirt. Every time you stretch or move your hips, a sliver of your stomach shows and Taehyung is holding his breath. It’s enough to send his mind into a frenzy. In his last life, he never saw so much as your ankle until the first time he made love to you.
All too soon, the game ends with a final buzzer. Your team must have won, because you join the rest of the cheerleaders in a chant with the spectators behind you before congratulating the team one by one.
Once the celebrations are through, you begin packing your things in a duffel matching the university's colors. One of the basketball players walks over and talks to you as you swap out your shoes for something more comfortable and bring a sweatshirt down over your head. Taehyung’s in a love-filled daze as he watches you pull your hair out from where it’s trapped under the neckline and smile at your conversation partner. Every little thing you do is pure magic in his eyes.
Suddenly, you’re waving goodbye to the athlete and walking towards the very exit where Taehyung stands. He’s nervous, more nervous than he’s ever been in his entire life. This one, at least. His heartbeat slows in time with your steps as you grow closer and closer.
“Hi!” Taehyung catches your attention.
You look confused as to where the voice is coming from, your eyes flitting around the room to find the answer, but then you spot Taehyung in front of you and smile.
“Hi,” you respond.
“You — you were great out there,” Taehyung compliments.
Your head tilts to the right and your nose scrunches as you smile. There’s an ache in Taehyung’s chest at the familiar movement. Even your mannerisms are the same.
“Was I? Thank you,” you say. “I didn’t do much.”
“Maybe not, but it’s obvious why you’re front and center,” Taehyung continues.
“That’s what I get for being cheer captain,” you sing-song. Taehyung opens his mouth to say something else, but you continue before he can. “I’m so sorry, my boyfriend is sick so I’m trying to get back to him as fast as I can.”
“Oh.” Boyfriend? “That’s alright, I’ll leave you be. I’m Taehyung, by the way.”
“Y/N,” you reply with a miniature curtsy. You have no memories of ever being a royal, but it must still be in your blood somewhere. “Well, see you later.”
“Yeah, later,” Taehyung concurs.
Taehyung should be elated about having his first conversation with you after an over twenty-year-long hunt, but he didn’t account for everything before traveling across the country to find you. The possibility of you already being in a relationship when he found you never once crossed his mind.
How is he supposed to kiss you and return your memories if you’re already taken?
Taehyung sits in his new dorm for the next couple days and paces around the small room as he thinks of a plan. Eventually, he decides to befriend you, which should be easy since an introduction has already been made, and make you fall in love with him the same way he did in your last lives together.
He stole you from someone once before and all he has to do is do it again.
The next time he sees you is in the library. You’re sitting at a table near the wall of windows that overlooks the large plane of grass marking the center of campus. You have big pink headphones on and are moving your head slowly back and forth to whatever music is coming from them. There are two books and a laptop in front of you and you’re writing diligently in a notebook which rests on your lap.
Taehyung approaches you slowly, checking his surroundings for any mysterious boyfriends who may come to join you.
When he reaches you without any interruptions, he taps the desk with his knuckles to grab your attention. You smile when you see him and remove your headphones.
“Hey, Taehyung,” you greet him.
His heart soars over you remembering his name.
“Hi, mind if I join you?”
“No, of course not,” you respond. Gesturing to the empty seat across from you with your hand, you smile again as Taehyung takes his backpack off and sits down. “So, you’re new around here. Transfer student?”
“Yup,” Taehyung says as he pulls his laptop out.
“Are you a senior, too?”
“Yeah, I’ve got a majority of my credits, but because of the transfer nonsense there are some things I’ll need to retake,” he explains.
“Bummer,” you reply. Your hand fishes in your backpack before pulling out a piece of candy and popping it in your mouth. “Do you play any sports?”
Before Taehyung answers, you offer him a piece of your sweets, but he declines with a wave.
“Just fencing and horseback riding, if you count those,” he answers.
“Um, woah. Yes, I count those,” you laugh. “That’s way cooler than contact sports.”
Talking to you is as easy as breathing and it sets Taehyung’s heart alight in his chest. It makes him remember all of your long conversations about everything and nothing. Your presence is so warm, welcoming, and familiar that it’s easy for him to forget this is only your second conversation.
“How’s your boyfriend?”
“Oh, he’s doing a lot better. Thanks for asking,” you say. “Normally, he’s at the games with me, since he’s the captain of the team, but he caught a nasty cold last week and couldn’t play.”
“So he’s a basketball player?” You nod and bite your candy in half. You’re adorably vicious with the chewy treat. “And how long have you known each other or been together or whatever.”
“Two years,” you say nonchalantly.
Two years?
Taehyung definitely has his work cut out for him. You’re not just in any relationship, you’re in a serious, long standing relationship. He needs to learn more about him so he can better understand who he’s up against. Hopefully, as your friendship grows, you’ll offer to introduce the two of them.
“Wow, that’s awesome,” he says even though it tastes bitter in his mouth.
“Yeah, we met freshman year and were just friends for a long time, but the heart wants what the heart wants, ya know?”
Yes, he certainly knows all too well.
You end up studying together for a couple hours before you leave for cheer practice. After that, you form a routine of meeting up to work on assignments and study, which perfectly aligns with Taehyung’s plans.
The study “dates” always happen at the library on Tuesdays and Thursdays, usually after lunch. It works well for you both because the silent moments are comfortable and the conversation is easy. Your study sessions are the only time Taehyung sees you for a couple months, and he’s yet to meet your boyfriend.
That changes one Thursday when you invite him to the basketball game the following night. Apparently, it’s against the university’s main rival and you’re giddy about the competition and hopefully seeing the team win. Taehyung graciously accepts and tells you he’ll see you then when you say goodbye.
Taehyung is wearing a hoodie with the university logo on it that he picked up from the school store earlier today. He blends in seamlessly with the crowd of students all wearing the same colors to support the team. After handing his ticket over, he makes his way into the gym and finds one of the few empty spots on the bleachers.
The court is currently empty since there’s still some time before the game starts. The other students on the bleachers are conversing with each other and eating their concessions, but Taehyung is mentally preparing himself to finally see his competitor for your heart.
Taehyung isn’t one to brag, but he’s been told he’s pretty handsome, and he likes to think he’s got a good personality. He’s just worrying himself sick over whether those attributes will be enough to make you end a two year long partnership. All he can hope for is that you walk into the gym with someone of below average looks and a shitty personality.
His leg bounces incessantly as the minutes tick by and the start time of the game nears. He watches other cheerleaders and basketball players filter in through the doors, every single one making his heart stop until he realizes it isn’t you. When it finally is you, Taehyung finds himself moving to the edge of his seat, his lip catching between his teeth.
You walk into the gym through the large metal doors first, but Taehyung can see a hand laced with yours. His eyes trace from where your hands are connected up the tattooed arm of your companion until he’s able to see the stranger’s face.
No amount of mental preparation could’ve prepared him for this sight.
As if his prior life is flashing before his very eyes, he watches in horror as you reach up on your tiptoes and press a kiss to your boyfriend’s lips. Your boyfriend smiles against your mouth in return, chasing your lips with his own before pulling back and moving your hair away from your face.
There is no mistaking the familiar features Taehyung is seeing. Besides maybe the length of his hair and the tattoo sleeve occupying his right arm, everything is identical.
Taehyung scores through his memories for an answer, any explanation for the disturbing scene he's watching. It doesn’t make any sense. The reincarnation spell should’ve only applied to you two. So why are you walking hand-in-hand across the basketball court with the King?
What the fuck is Jungkook doing here?
1422
The spring rainfall gave life to more blooms this season than last, creating a beautiful vision of purple and white in the valley near your home. They’re only wildflowers, but they still spread a sweet fragrance through the air. The sight of the flowers billowing in the wind is picturesque and something you look forward to at the conclusion of every winter.
On the road parallel to the valley, two figures on horseback come into view ahead of the slow-sinking sun. You wave to greet your regular visitors, laughing when you notice one of them speeding up and leaving the other in the dust.
The horse galloping towards you is a familiar sight, and you trust the rider enough to know he’ll stop with plenty of time before he reaches you.
“Jungkook, that was not very nice,” you scold him playfully once he’s close enough to hear you.
Taehyung follows the same path to you on his own steed, a frown evident on his features as he approaches.
“He is never nice!”
“I am always nice,” Jungkook corrects him.
They both dismount gracefully, and you follow your usual routine of walking over to Jungkook’s horse, Bam, and petting him on his forehead. Your fingers gently move down the horse’s face as you coo at him. Bam nudges his muzzle into your hand, making a noise of appreciation at the attention you’re providing him.
Jungkook watches the scene affectionately, his starry eyes following the movement of your hand and the smile that grows on your lips the more you interact with his beloved horse. You don’t see the way his eyes trace over your profile with a smile of his own.
“You can ride him, if you would like,” Jungkook offers.
“What?” You ask, but before he can answer you, Jungkook’s hands are on either side of your waist and he’s lifting you onto the saddle. “Oh, wait, wait!”
Your hands grab onto the saddle to steady yourself, your eyes wide as you look down from the great height.
“Uh, Jungkook —”
“Do not worry, I am holding you. You are not going to fall,” Jungkook states.
You feel his palm on your lower back, and his other hand is petting Bam to keep him calm. It’s unfamiliar, but not unwelcome, feeling the heat of his hand on you, but you don’t want him to see the blush appearing on your cheeks.
“Oh… okay,” you mumble.
Eyes glancing down again, you shut them instantly when you see how high off the ground you are.
“I believe she would still like to get down, Jungkook,” Taehyung comments.
You look down at Jungkook with fearful eyes to confirm Taehyung’s statement. His lips quirk downward in a frown before he grabs you by the waist again and brings your feet safely to the ground.
“I am sorry,” Jungkook tells you, his hands still on your waist. “I did not mean to scare you.”
“You did not scare me,” you say, stepping back so his hands fall away from you. “Bam scares me. Well, not Bam, because he is so sweet, but Bam’s height.”
Jungkook smiles at your explanation, his eyes crinkling in the corners, and it makes you mirror his expression.
“Yeontan would like some attention, too, m’lady,” Taehyung says as walks towards you both, his horse following him by the reins.
“I will be there in a moment,” you say. You pet Bam’s forehead once more before moving to Taehyung’s horse to give him the same affection. “What was the subject of your royal lessons today?”
“Battle strategy,” Jungkook says as he ties Bam to your stable. Taehyung follows suit with Yeontan once you’re done petting him.
Your heartbeat comes to a screeching halt at his answer, and a wave of fear washes over you at the dramatic change of topic for their lessons. Yesterday, they were learning about the proper way to eat soup and which fork should be used first.
Jungkook notices your worried expression and walks towards you. His eyes search yours for the reason you look so frightened as his hand slowly rises to hold your own. You allow him to take it, and you know he can feel the way it shakes in his grasp.
“That is not because you will be heading to battle anytime soon, is it?” You ask him.
The Kingdom is at war with a neighboring country and has been for nearly three years. Despite how long the men have been fighting, there is still no end in sight. It’s been devastating for the Kingdom as men leave their homes and families never to return again. Almost every child in your town is without a father and their mothers are left alone to care for their land and houses.
“No,” Jungkook answers, his hand squeezing your own before letting it go. Relief spreads across your chest and dispels the anxiety pooling in your gut. “Two heirs cannot go to battle at the same time.”
Your friend Jungkook is actually Prince Jungkook, but it’s easy to forget that when he’s teasing you or rolling around in the valley. He’s the younger of two sons, and his brother Junghyun is fighting alongside his father in the war. Since Jungkook isn’t next in line for the throne, he lives life at a slower pace and is more carefree. You appreciate that about him and enjoy taking part in his boyish antics.
Taehyung comes from a long line of knights who have served the crown for generations. Knights begin training at a very young age, and depending on their lineage, their future role is decided long before they complete their training. Taehyung has known he’d eventually be Jungkook’s first knight since childhood. The pair have known each other since they were toddlers and are as close as brothers.
You grew up with both of them because your parents work at the castle and you lived in the staff quarters until you began working yourself. Jungkook’s mother, the Queen, absolutely adores children and believes education is essential to living a good life. As such, she hires tutors to teach the children of all the staff as well as the young knights and royal family. It was during these lessons that you first met Jungkook and Taehyung. The three of you bonded over folktales and your love of animals and quickly became close friends.
Since you no longer live at the castle since becoming a midwife, the two boys come to visit you nearly every day between their daily lessons. The time is usually spent talking about what they learned or which books they’re reading. Sometimes, often in the summertime, the three of you play childhood games in the valley or take a short walk to the river where you can sink your feet into the cool water.
A new anxiety emerges when you remember that the rules which dictate Jungkook’s life are not the same for Taehyung.
“That does not apply to Taehyung, does it?” You question as he comes to stand beside you, too.
“No,” Taehyung says with a grimace. “I could be called upon at any time, but I am not fully trained. I do not believe that will occur unless there are no other options.”
Taehyung spoke too soon, because within a month’s time, he’s visiting you to tell you he has to leave for the battlefront in a fortnight.
Something in you knows as soon as you see him what news he’ll be sharing, but your heart shatters all the same when the words leave his mouth. You cry into your hands as he sits across from you at your kitchen table. He’s your best friend and you know there is a chance you will never see him again once he departs. The fear and sorrow coursing through you are enough to drown you. There is nothing that terrifies you more than losing him or Jungkook.
Taehyung reaches across the table and removes your hands from your face to hold them instead.
“I promise I will come back, Y/N, and when I do… I will take care of you. If you will have me,” he states.
“What?”
“I love you, and I want to marry you,” he confesses.
The thought doesn’t make sense within your mind. Taehyung’s noble status gives him the right to have the pick of the litter in terms of a wife. You don’t even have a dowry you can offer him.
“I do not understand how you could love me,” you respond.
“How could I not?”
He kisses the back of your hands and then rests his cheek against them.
You’re unsure how to respond to his proposal, or if you even should. He’s saying this now because he’s leaving, and you can’t give him an answer when there’s a chance he’ll never return. The reveal of his feelings for you frazels your mind and makes you question everything. So, you decide his proposal is something you’ll organize your thoughts about once he returns, if he returns.
The fortnight passes by both agonizingly slow and too quickly. The anxiety eating away at your nervous system turns the days into long threads of time with no end, but simultaneously, the calendar seems to be skippping ahead multiple days at a time.
When time lands on the third day from his departure, the whispers of a tragedy spread across the land like wildfire.
You hear it first from one of your patients, an expecting mother who you’re checking up on after she fell ill. When she whispers the news to you, your blood runs cold. You don’t believe her initially, but then, as you leave her home, you hear it repeating all around you in the voices of your neighbors.
King Jeon and Prince Junghyun are dead. The father and son perished in a bloody battle which took more than half of your men’s lives.
Whispers in bars and conversations across fields about how the King’s death will affect farming and trade are all you hear in the days following the announcement, but all you can think about is whether or not Jungkook is alright.
Unsurprisingly, you have no visitors until the morning Taehyung is supposed to leave. You watch from your kitchen window as the sunrise breaks over the valley. As the sky goes from deep blue to orange, you hear the familiar sound of horses galloping down the road.
Exiting your house in a flash, you wait for your friends to reach you and dismount before approaching them. You go straight to Jungkook, taking his hands in your own and rubbing over his knuckles with your thumbs.
“I am so, so sorry, Jungkook,” you tell him.
He squeezes your hands in return and a small smile appears on his lips, except it doesn't reach his eyes the way it normally does.
“I am alright,” he assures you. “I will miss them dearly, but it is my mother I truly worry about.”
“If there is anything I can do, please tell me,” you reply. His only response is a nod as Taehyung comes from behind the horses after tying them up. “When do you leave?”
“I am not leaving anymore,” he states. “I have to stay to protect the King.”
“The King?” The dead King?
“Yes, the King,” he parrots, gesturing to Jungkook.
You feel so foolish for forgetting what the consequences of Junghyun’s death really are. Jungkook will now have to take up the mantle of King without anyone ahead of him to guide him into the role.
You gaze at your childhood friend, attempting to imagine him in a crown. A smile appears on your face when you think about how handsome he will look with it sitting atop his pretty black hair. Jungkook is prudent, kind, and compassionate and you know he will make a wonderful ruler.
“Oh,” you say, letting his hands go as you take a step back. It’s one thing to be affectionate with a Prince, it’s another entirely to do so with a King. “Well, I suppose I will be seeing a lot less of you then.”
Jungkook frowns deeply and shakes his head.
“I do not want that,” he responds. “You are important to me and I will make time to visit you regardless.”
You’re sure Jungkook means what he’s saying, and believes it himself, but the odds of it being true are slim to none. A King has to bear the weight of the world and his new role will certainly keep him and Taehyung from visiting you as often.
It feels like goodbye as you wave at them and watch their figures disappear down the road. Your head falls forward and tears fall from your eyes onto the grass. The world is changing too fast for you to keep up.
Despite your worries, Jungkook comes to visit you the next day carrying a bouquet of white roses.
You’ve never been in a carriage before, let alone in one which is currently on its way to the castle. It’s been years since you were last at the monumental estate which houses both your parents and best friends.
As you approach, you notice the familiar grounds where you once played as a child. You see visions of you, Jungkook, and Taehyung running around in circles as they chase you and all at once the memories of your time here come flooding back. The memory of when Jungkook accidentally sent you both flying into one of the fountains brings a smile to your face. You’ll never forget the look on his mother’s face when she saw you both soaked and dripping on the castle floor. And the one of Taehyung picking flowers for you only for them to blow away when a strong wind flew in. He pouted for hours afterwards.
The feeling of returning home brings you comfort amongst all the chaos surrounding you.
The carriage stops in front of the entrance to the castle and you see the massive stone doors which separate the outside world from the home of the royal family. Your parents are already waiting for you along with some fellow staff, their faces giddy with excitement about seeing you. The driver offers you his hand to help you down the steps and once your feet hit the ground, you run straight into your mother’s embrace.
“Oh, honey, we missed you,” she tells you.
“I missed you, too,” you sigh.
A lurching sound indicates the doors are opening and Jungkook and his mother emerge from behind them. Jungkook takes two steps at a time, skipping down the limestone to reach you faster. His mother sighs knowingly at his behavior, a warm smile present on her lips.
“I am happy to see you arrived safely,” he says as he offers you his hand.
You curtsy to his mother, the Queen, who you haven’t seen since in many years now. She’s just as beautiful as you remember, even though her eyes carry a new sadness in them.
“Your Majesty, I am so very sorry about your husband and son,” you say to her.
“I appreciate it, my dear. I am so happy to see you,” she replies. “Let us go inside and I can show you around.”
She hooks her arm around yours and you almost recoil away from her in shock. The Queen is escorting you like an old friend and it defies all the logic in your brain. Even though you grew up here, you have always been well aware of your place in the world.
Your mother and father wave goodbye to the three of you as they report back to their duties. A pair of matching smiles on their faces as they watch you enter the castle.
Once inside, your eyes sweep around the grand entrance and the corridors which splinter away from the room. You notice all the beautiful artwork and intricate architecture of the castle that you didn’t take the time to admire as a child. You were too busy playing and soaking up all the knowledge you could from your tutors.
“I apologize, I have a meeting to attend, if you will excuse me,” Jungkook tells you.
Then, much to your surprise, he takes the back of his hand and runs it along your cheekbone, the softest of smiles present on his face as he does so. Your eyes open in wonder at the gesture, but once he’s turning and walking away from you, a matching smile appears on your lips.
Your skin feels warm where his fingers were, and you avert your eyes from his disappearing figure to try and stop the blush from continuing to spread. When you turn to your left towards the Queen, that knowing, motherly look is back. She just shrugs before turning in the opposite direction to lead you further into the castle.
When Jungkook enters the room the sound of chairs scraping against the stone floor permeates the air. All of the staff, parliamentarians, advisors, and knights stand at attention in the presence of their future King. The knights place their arms across their chest out of respect, including Taehyung, who is sitting to the left of the throne. Not yet being acclimated to the sight, Jungkook gestures for everyone to sit with a wave of his hand before taking his seat next to Taehyung.
The throne to the right of Jungkook, which is reserved for his future Queen, remains empty.
“How is the planning coming along?” Jungkook asks the royal coordinator. He is effectively the head of staff who oversees everything that goes on inside the castle.
“Wonderfully, your Highness. The wedding and coronations will occur subsequently in the chapel three days from now. The Priest is already preparing the sacraments,” the man replies.
“Wedding? Whose wedding?” Taehyung asks as he looks over at Jungkook.
Jungkook doesn’t get the chance to answer him before a parliamentarian joins the conversation.
“Have you not heard? She is supposed to be arriving today, is that right, your Majesty?”
“Yes.” Jungkook clears his throat before continuing. “Y/N arrived only moments ago and is currently touring the castle with my mother.”
“Y/N?” Taehyung snaps. His whole body turns towards Jungkook, the shock and disbelief distorting his features. Jungkook doesn’t explain or answer, he merely glances at him in warning before continuing the meeting.
When the meeting concludes, the entire room stands at attention again as Jungkook exits. Taehyung follows closely behind and catches up to match Jungkook’s pace.
“You are marrying Y/N?” Taehyung asks incredulously. “When did this happen?”
“Yes, I am,” Jungkook responds flatly. “She will be your Queen soon. You should refrain from calling her by name.”
“What is wrong with you?” Taehyung stops Jungkook with his arm. “I have known you my whole life, you would never do something like this to me.”
“Do to you?”
“Yes, your Highness,” Taehyung says sarcastically. “You know how I feel about her.”
“Things change, Taehyung. Half of my family is dead. I have a role to play that I am nowhere near prepared for. I am sorry if this hurts you, but I have different priorities now; different responsibilities.”
“What do those responsibilities have to do with Y/N?”
Jungkook stops walking again and turns to face his friend, his wall of regality dropping to allow his true emotions to surface.
“Because there is no else I would rather have by my side when I face them,” he answers whole-heartedly. Jungkook doesn’t wait for Taehyung to reply before he continues down the corridor.
When you wake up on the morning of your wedding, you momentarily forget where you are until you see the dazzling wedding dress hanging from the wardrobe. The gown is almost too beautiful to wear, and it stares at you from across the room as if to ask “are you ready for this?” You aren’t sure of the answer.
The sound of knocking steals you away from your thoughts. Assuming it’s the maids coming to help you get ready, you tell them to come in and rise from your bed.
It’s shocking how efficiently the group of women work to turn you into a living, breathing doll. One of them brushes and styles your hair, another puts makeup on you for the first time in your life, and two of them work to get you into your dress.
The dress takes longer to put on you than both the hair and makeup combined. It’s a massive pool of fabric and you can barely tell which end is the top and which is the bottom. You stand with your hands gripping the dresser as both women tug at the strings of the corset and lock you into place. When they finish, you clutch your stomach and attempt to inhale a deep breath. They smile assuredly at you and encourage you to walk around so you can get used to being in such a gown.
Later in the day, you’re alone with one of the maids while she finishes your hair by placing pins in it. A sudden knock interrupts her and she goes to answer it. You aren’t sure who it is until you see her stepping back with wide eyes. Jungkook enters with a slight bow of his head and she immediately curtsies and then proceeds to stand at attention.
Jungkook chuckles nervously, still acclimating himself with everyone’s new behavior towards him.
“Can we have a minute?” He asks her and she obeys with a curt nod before exiting the room.
“Hi,” you greet him.
“You look beautiful,” Jungkook tells you.
“It is none of my doing,” you say. “The maids are amazing at making me look like something I am not.”
“That is not true,” Jungkook argues. “You have always been beautiful, Y/N.” Tilting your head to the right, your nose scrunches and you smile at his compliment. “I wanted to make sure I came to see you before… I know it has been a few days and I apologize, it has been so hectic lately.”
You haven’t seen him since arriving at the castle and he’s certainly a sight for sore eyes. Rising from your seat, you walk to him and take his hands.
“You do not have to worry about me,” you affirm. “I know you have a lot of responsibilities.”
“Yes,” he smiles. “And unfortunately, soon you will, too.”
“Right,” you laugh. “Being the Queen and all.”
The idea is still so foreign to you that it feels unnatural leaving your lips.
“I… I cannot thank you enough for doing this for me, Y/N. I know it is a huge commitment and I am so grateful.”
“Jungkook.” You grip his hands a little tighter and he reciprocates the action. “Why are you acting like I am the one doing you a favor? You asked me to be your Queen, to rule a Kingdom by your side. I should be thanking you.”
Jungkook sighs, his gaze dropping to your connected hands. His thumbs massage over your knuckles absentmindedly.
“I just know this was not the life you envisioned for yourself,” he eventually responds.
“It is not,” you concur. Jungkook frowns and you continue before he gets the wrong idea. “I would say it is better. I loved being a midwife and bringing children into the world, but I grew up here and now I get to spend the rest of my days here.” You squeeze his hands one more time before speaking again. “I am here because I wish to be, Jungkook. Nothing more.”
Jungkook smiles at you and lifts your hands to his lips to kiss them before letting you go and heading for the door.
“I will see you at the altar, my Queen.”
Your dress weighs down on you like a pile of bricks. It’s your first time wearing a gown, and you didn’t anticipate it being this hard to move. Despite the uncomfortability, the lace and fabric cover you beautifully and it’s easy to feel like a Queen when you look down at its design.
When you first enter the chapel, Jungkook’s eyes go wide and his lips part before his expression slowly softens into one of admiration and awe. He saw you only moments ago, but the vision of you coming towards him surrounded by flowers and soft candlelight takes his breath away.
When you see him, you’re equally as stunned. His hair is pushed back away from his forehead, leaving his pretty features as the main focal point. The style makes him look regal and elegant. His wedding attire compliments him in all the right places and the white color accentuates his honey skin. When he visited you before he was still in his normal clothes, so the sight is truly something to behold.
Once you reach the altar, Jungkook stands to the right of you as his left hand holds yours. You’re thankful because if he wasn’t holding your hand the entire room would be able to see it shaking. You know he can feel the movement in his grasp, because every so often he squeezes your fingers. Sometimes he does it twice or three times in a row, and it reminds you of the secret messages you would send to each other across the library during lessons.
In the back corner behind the altar, just on the other side of Jungkook, stands Taehyung, dawning his armor for the first time. It makes you so proud to see him living up to his family’s legacy.
Although, his new uniform isn’t what catches your attention, it’s the deep scowl painting his features into something you’ve never seen before. It makes you look over at him with a face of concern, silently questioning what’s wrong, although, you believe you know the answer already.
Taehyung has every right to be angry with you. He told you he loves you and wants to marry you, and then you accepted a proposal from his best friend. To make matters worse, you weren’t able to tell him about the marriage yourself since you didn’t see him before traveling to the castle. You want to tell him everything, explain your feelings and why you’re standing next to Jungkook today and not him, but the conversation will have to wait.
The wedding ceremony ends with a final prayer before the Priest immediately begins the prayers and readings for the coronation. You and Jungkook turn around to face the crowd and it only heightens your nerves. Jungkook notices the shift in your body language and soothingly runs his thumb up and down your pointer finger. Taking a deep breath, you squeeze his hand in return to communicate to him that you’re alright.
At the instruction of the Priest, the two of you kneel down together and wait patiently for the crowns to be placed on your heads.
Jungkook goes first, and you watch in awe as the Priest places a large gold crown onto his head. When he does, a lock of shiny black hair falls onto Jungkook’s forehead. You can’t help but smile, noticing how it somehow makes him look even more handsome. Your best friend is a King now and you have to blink a couple times to stop tears from forming in your eyes.
Only a moment later, the cool metal of a tiara is resting on your hair, the edges of it sinking between your strands to keep it secure. It simply doesn’t feel real and you’re terrified of waking up from this dream come true.
You stand up as one and the entire chapel erupts with cheers and hollers. You and Jungkook make eye contact and both have to suppress a laugh. His eyes are shining with the light of the whole galaxy, and it brings you more happiness than you can put into words.
The celebratory feast commemorating your marriage begins as soon as you leave the chapel. The transition happens so quickly you don’t even get to speak with Jungkook privately before you’re entering the grand ballroom. The large space is ornately decorated and every corner has a giant table of food and wine.
Jungkook never once lets go of your hand.
There is a constant stream of guests greeting and congratulating you, and his touch and presence beside you is the only thing keeping you calm. Jungkook is used to this, and he handles every single encounter with grace. You mostly stumble about and nod as people regale you with kind words and affection.
Taehyung is on your mind the entire night, and your eyes are constantly scanning the massive crowd of people for his familiar head of hair. You want to speak with him as soon as possible to clear the air between you. He’s so important to you and it kills you knowing how much you hurt him. You never find him, and the evening comes to a close before you have a chance to reconcile.
Before you know it, you and Jungkook are traveling in a lavish carriage to begin your honeymoon. The war prevents you from traveling to another country for the occasion, but you’ll still be spending a month at the family’s countryside estate before returning to your regular duties at the castle.
Even though it’s the middle of the night when you arrive, there are staff outside the entrance waiting to greet you and take your luggage.
The head parliamentarian escorts you and Jungkook to the King’s suite. Your hands are shaking again as reality kicks in, but you curl your fingers into your palm to keep anyone from noticing.
The parliamentarian must escort you as well as stand outside your door tonight so he can report back that the marriage has been consummated. The thought of a stranger listening in on your first night with your husband makes your skin crawl, but this is how things are done when you’re royalty.
The man opens the door to the suite so you and Jungkook can enter before shutting it behind you with a slam. Silence overtakes the room as your eyes roam over the walls and windows, the sachet in the corner, and the large bed in the center of the back wall.
You take a shaky breath, itching at your sleeve where the unfamiliar material rubs against you uncomfortably.
Jungkook gets your attention with a call of your name. He points at the artwork on one of the walls, a large painting with a gaudy gold frame encapsulating it.
“What was the artist thinking when they made this one?” He asks through a laugh.
You hum as you study the painting. It’s rather unpleasant to look at, and you can’t even fully make out all the shapes and colors.
“We will have to call upon him to ask,” you respond. “I do not think one could guess if they tried.”
Jungkook laughs and the familiar sound eases your mind and calms your nerves a little. You keep reminding yourself that it’s just him, someone you’ve known all your life, but your brain still persists with its overthinking.
You mosey around the room and peruse more of the artwork and decor before falling onto the bed with a plop. Despite your best efforts, your gown is too heavy and large to sit down normally. You’re half laying-half sitting on the mattress as your feet dangle over the edge. The fabric pools all around you and threatens to drown you in white lace.
Jungkook joins you on the bed, but leaves a decent amount of space between you.
“I am unsure if I know how to get this monstrosity off of me,” you admit with a scoff.
Reaching over your shoulder, you tug at the ribbon caging you into the gown. When you aren’t able to loosen it yourself, Jungkook clears his throat, raising his eyebrows and gesturing towards you to ask permission. You let your hands fall back onto your lap before answering him with a nod of your head.
Jungkook kneels behind you on the bed so he can begin loosening the ties of the corset. You jump when you first feel his hands brush against you. He moves slowly, his touch as light as a feather as he unties the knot and begins to weave the ribbon back and forth to remove it. Once he’s about halfway done, the tension releases from around your waist and you take your first unimpeached breath of the day.
“Oh, thank you,” you sigh. You watch curiously as Jungkook stands to face you and reaches his hands out for you to take. “What?”
“Stand up and I will help you out of it,” he replies.
You obey quickly, standing up while holding the fabric to your chest so it doesn’t fall away. Jungkook laughs when he notices the action.
“Why are you laughing?”
“I cannot get you out of it if you are holding it up, my darling.”
The deep timbre of his voice as he uses the pet name is enough to make your heart skip a beat.
“Right,” you reply and let go.
Maybe Jungkook isn’t as nervous as you, or maybe he just hides it well. As a woman, you are completely untouched, your own hand being your only source of pleasure so far. But the rules are different for men and Jungkook may not be as shy about these things as you are.
The dress falls into a heap on the floor and Jungkook takes your hands to hold you steady as you step out of the large skirt one foot at a time. Even with your body still covered by your underdress, this is the most exposed you’ve ever been to another person. The raw vulnerability causes your hands to start shaking again, but you let go of Jungkook before he can notice.
“Feel better?”
“Yes, thank you so much,” you respond.
Jungkook grabs the expansive amount of fabric and places it gently over one of the dressers. You return to your spot on the bed and he follows suit, this time sitting a bit closer to you.
A weighted tension creeps into the room like fog across the morning air. It beckons a silence between you that leaves only your breathing as background noise. There’s a feeling of anticipation floating around as well, like the whole atmosphere is on edge and waiting to see what happens next.
“How do you feel now that everything is done?” Jungkook asks.
“Hmm, I am happy, but also nervous,” you admit.
“Me, too,” he replies.
“You are? I figured you would be used to this.”
“It is not the royal aspect I am nervous about.”
“What are you nervous about then?”
Jungkook chuckles and runs a hand through his hair, ruining the style and bringing his black locks down onto his forehead. It makes him look boyish and charming.
“Not only did I go from being a Prince to a King in a matter of days, but I am a husband now, too. Your husband,” he explains. He looks down and sighs, his eyes closing momentarily. “I want to do right by you, Y/N.”
“You have always done right by me, Jungkook, I do not see that changing anytime soon,” you reassure him.
There’s a lull in the conversation, but the tension is slowly dissipating and morphing into a comforting aura instead.
“Hmm, I am so glad it is you. I cannot imagine how anxious I would be if it was anyone else,” Jungkook states.
“Is that why you asked me?” You probe him. “Because I am familiar to you?”
“No,” he says with a shake of his head. You raise your eyebrows at him when he doesn’t add anything else to his answer. He chuckles and licks his lips. “I asked because I wanted to marry you. Simple as that.”
His eyes meet yours and the ever-present stars and sincerity in them make you feel like you’re the only person in the world.
“Why?” You whisper. You fear if you speak too loud it will ruin the moment.
Jungkook tilts his head and tongues his cheek.
“You know I am not good with my words,” he says. “Can I show you instead?”
“Show me?”
Jungkook nods as his hand twists around your forearm, gently pulling you towards him. You stand to better adjust your position, but then he pulls you into his lap, holding you by the backs of your thighs so he can place them on either side of his own. The sudden movement makes you gasp and hold onto his shoulders for support.
Being this close to him is startling, but feeling him beneath you is as comforting as a warm bath after a long day of work. You wonder how you ever went this long without touching him like this in the first place.
Jungkook’s hand caresses your jaw as he looks into your eyes. You can see the cogs turning in his mind as he assesses whether or not you’re comfortable with his touch.
His hand is bigger than your entire cheek and the feeling of his skin on yours makes your eyes shut in pleasure. You feel his thumb gently moving back and forth across your cheekbone and you sigh happily.
“Jungkook,” you murmur. “That feels so nice.”
“It does?” You nod your head with your eyes still closed. “Do you want me to keep going?”
“What do you mean?”
Jungkook’s chuckle forces your eyes open. There are crinkles around his eyes as his gazes at you from mere inches away. He looks so pretty up close.
“We have to appease the man outside at some point tonight, so I am asking you if you would like me to keep making you feel nice,” he explains.
Your mouth snaps shut as the overwhelming anxiety from earlier begins to burrow inside you again. There’s no doubt your body wants your husband, wants Jungkook, as you can feel a tightness in your thighs you’ve only experienced during self exploration before, but it’s all so nerve wracking that you can’t bring yourself to answer him.
“I… I have never, I —”
“I know, my darling,” he responds. His thumb moves across your cheek again before he leans in and presses a kiss to the other one. He lets his lips linger there for a moment before coming back to face you. “Was that alright?”
“Mmhmm.”
“Alright, how about I keep going and you tell me if you want me to stop,” he suggests.
You only nod in response, not trusting your own voice to get your thoughts across clearly.
Jungkook leans in and kisses the same spot before moving down your face, pressing his lips to every inch of skin he comes in contact with. When he reaches your jaw, he lets his tongue drag across you and it pulls a gasp from your throat. He kisses you even harder when he gets to your neck, his lips and tongue moving slowly against your delicate skin before sucking over your pulse point.
“Oh,” you gasp at the unfamiliar sensation. “Oh, Jungkook,” you moan, not recognizing the tone of your own voice.
“Still feel nice, my Queen?” His words dance across the wet spot he’s left on your neck.
“Yes, my King,” you answer breathlessly.
He continues to kiss across your neck and the exposed area on your shoulder while his hand moves away from your face to caress your body. Starting at your shoulder, he traces your outline slowly until he reaches your hip, where his other hand already resides on the opposite side.
His lips leave your neck and a whimper escapes you involuntarily. Jungkook smiles and rests his forehead against yours.
“Can I kiss you?”
You giggle at him being chivalrous enough to ask when he was just painting your neck in his saliva.
“Yes, of course.”
Jungkook kisses you tentatively, so gentle with the pressure of his lips that you almost don’t feel it. You can tell he’s hesitant and doesn’t want to scare you, but when you feel his lips on yours for the first time, your own hesitation melts away.
Your hands leave his shoulders to wrap around his neck as he moves his lips in a slow rhythm against your own. It sends sparks throughout your entire body and makes the feeling in your thighs even more distracting. Jungkook wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you closer to him so your chests touch. His hands flex against your back as he moves them up and down to feel you.
You begin kissing him back as you get the hang of things, mirroring his movements and turning your head to gain better access. Jungkook’s hand sinks into your hair and you moan into his mouth when you feel his fingers on your scalp. The kiss is slow and sensual and you already feel more in your loins than you ever have when pleasuring yourself.
“Jungkook,” you speak when you come up for air. “I need more.”
Jungkook smiles adoringly at you and kisses you once more before lifting you off his lap and standing up. He takes his first layers of clothing off without ever breaking eye contact with you. It has your thighs rubbing together as you watch his fingers pop open buttons and untie laces.
Once he matches you in his state of undress, he gestures to you to come closer with his pointer finger. You obey instantly, not wanting to wait another moment to feel him against you again.
“Have you ever touched yourself?” He asks once you’re standing inches from him. You nod. “Good.”
“Have you… done this before?” Jungkook frowns at your question, and you know he doesn’t want to disappoint you with his reply. “I will not be upset, I promise.”
“I have,” he answers.
“Will you show me, then? I want to make you feel nice, too,” you ask quietly.
The corner of Jungkook’s mouth quirks up and he nods in affirmation. His hands reach out to caress your waist before he turns you around so your back is pressed against his chest. The movement has you gasping, but it morphs into a moan when his lips return to your neck.
He sits again, bringing you with him. He spreads your legs overtop his own which completely opens you up for him. It makes your heart race and your nerves come alive, but you push the anxiety away to continue enjoying his touch.
His hand catches the bottom hem of your underdress and slowly moves it up until your undergarments are exposed to the air. You gasp and grip Jungkook’s forearm when his palm comes to rest over your center. He isn’t touching you yet, necessarily, but you can still feel your core pulsing in anticipation.
“Do you trust me?” He whispers directly into your ear.
“Always,” you reply without missing a beat.
Jungkook hooks his fingers in your undergarment and you lift your hips just enough for him to remove it from your body. The cool air against your wetness sends shivers down your spine.
The initial feeling of Jungkook gently tracing your folds makes you jump in his arms. He shushes you quietly before continuing his ministrations, adding more pressure as his fingers spread your essence around. His hand moves upwards until he’s touching your swollen nub and a loud moan escapes from your mouth.
Your hand covers your mouth in response, your eyes wide in shock of a noise like that coming from you. Jungkook chuckles warmly from behind you.
“No, no,” he says, removing your hand from your face. “They are supposed to hear us, anyway. Do not muffle your noises. I want to hear everything, my Queen.”
Jungkook presses down on your clit and your moan again without restraint. He uses the wetness he collects on his fingers to massage you in your most sensitive spot and it makes your head spin. You’re certain if he wasn’t holding you, your knees would give out. They’re the same motions you use on yourself and yet his fingers make it feel so much more intense. It’s incomparable to anything you’ve ever experienced before in your life.
He retreats back into your folds to spreads them apart before pushing his middle finger into your hole. You gasp again, your nails digging into his skin where you’re still holding onto his arm.
“Is this okay?”
You nod repeatedly in response. It is more than okay. It feels so heavenly you wonder if you’re about to meet God himself.
Jungkook’s finger moves in and out of your hole slowly, a squelching sound accompanying each slide of his appendage. Before long, he adds his ring finger and fucks you with them both, stretching your hole open for the first time.
“Oh, God,” you moan as your head falls to his shoulder. “That… that is amazing, my King.”
Jungkook presses a kiss to your cheek, leaving his lips there as he continues to fuck you slowly with his fingers. He presses his palm down so it meets your clit as his hand moves against you. Your moans are short and high pitched, happening in quick succession now as your orgasm nears.
Your husband picks up the pace, moving his fingers faster and sending them deeper into your pussy. Every time he enters you he reaches a spongy spot inside your walls that has you reeling from the pleasure.
Not only are you focusing on your own ecstasy, but you can feel him hardening beneath you and it makes you want him even more. There is a deep, instinctual need inside you to provide him the same pleasure he is giving you.
“I want you to come for me, my darling,” Jungkook whispers before kissing your neck again. “Can you do that for me?”
“Yes, Jungkook, I am so close,” you respond.
The words have barely left your lips when you feel your orgasm crashing over you like a wave with a high pitched scream that barely sounds like yourself. Jungkook continues to pump his fingers into you as you shake in his arms and your pussy convulses around him.
It’s the most euphoric thing you’ve ever felt and it’s almost too overwhelming to bear. Your thighs are still shaking even once he removes his fingers. You watch with wide eyes as he slips them into his mouth to suck your juices off.
“Jung — mmhf.”
He cuts you off with a kiss, gripping your jaw to keep your face where it is. You moan into each other’s mouths as you devour one another passionately. Jungkook leans you both back, the two of you crashing to the bed with him above you. Leaving your lips for only a moment, Jungkook reaches down to grab the hem of your dress and pull it over your head.
It leaves you completely bare before him and on instinct you go to cover your chest and stomach. Jungkook smiles affectionately at your shyness, but he doesn’t scold you, just laces his fingers with yours and moves your hands away from your body.
“I want to see you, too,” you say as you look into his deep brown eyes.
Jungkook obliges you silently, stretching up and removing his top before kneeling to remove his pants, leaving him with only a single garment covering his manhood.
“Better?”
You nod and reach up to bring his face to yours again. He lovingly traces over your figure beneath him, moving his hands over your waist, hips, shoulders, and arms. It feels as though he is trying to map you in your entirety. His big hands complete their exploration by grabbing both of your breasts and massaging them. You moan, your head falling back against the bed and opening your neck up for him to kiss again.
He doesn’t stay there long before moving lower and kissing across your tits as he squeezes them. His lips latch onto your nipple and you gasp, you hand gripping his black hair in response. He sucks and licks over the nub of your left breast before moving to the right. The sensation has you going mad and it makes your hips buck up against his own.
When you do, you feel how hard his cock has become. Your hand sneaks down and you grab him over his garment, pushing your palm gently against his bulge.
“Oh, darling,” he gasps. You laugh happily at his reaction, feeling accomplished that you’re pleasuring him as well.
“Is this alright?” You ask as you bat your eyelashes.
“It is… so much more than alright. Please do not stop,” he begs you.
You continue the same movement, applying more pressure as Jungkook’s head falls to your shoulder, pressing soft kisses on your skin as he moans.
Feeling more confident now, you stop your movements to remove his undergarment. He stares at your hands as they reveal his body to you. A shuddering breath pushes past your lips when you see your husband’s cock for the first time.
“Oh,” you say as your voice drops an octave.
Jungkook is what you can only assume is large. It’s certainly bigger than the penises you’ve seen in art and statues, but you have no real life comparison. He’s long and thick, with large veins running down his shaft. You don’t think your fingers will touch if you wrap your hand around him.
Jungkook chuckles and raises your head to meet his eyes.
“Do not worry. I will make sure you are ready before you take me,” he assures you.
“How will you do that?”
Jungkook doesn’t respond verbally, he simply maneuvers you both to the center of the bed before sinking down so his face is in front of your cunt. He leans down to kiss and bite along the supple skin of your thighs as he makes his way to where you’re leaking for him already.
His eyes bore into yours when he finally reaches your center and his tongue leaves his mouth for a tentative lick along your folds. You break his eye contact with a loud and deep moan as your head tips back and hits the pillows beneath you.
“Oh, my King,” you sigh in ecstasy.
Your husband wastes not a single second more, his tongue flattening against your hole and licking up the essence that’s collected there. Your legs shake where they rest next to his head and your nails dig into the sheets, twisting them in your grasp.
Jungkook is relentless, despite your body already showing signs of oversensitivity. His tongue slides through your folds as he kisses your cunt and moans into you. Then he moves to lick your clit and suck it into his mouth, before returning again to fuck his tongue into you. While his mouth is abusing your hole he uses his nose to create friction on your swollen nub. Everything he does sends shockwaves through your entire being and you feel like your consciousness is no longer on the earth.
You come again faster than you can even register, your thighs locking around Jungkook’s head as you whole body spasms. Jungkook doesn’t stop, though, even once your breathing begins to return to normal. He continues on as if you didn’t reach a climax at all. It sends your body into overdrive and you gasp at the painful pleasure that shoots through your core.
Hands finding his hair, you tug on the strands as your hips move to meet his mouth. He groans against you, nodding as if to tell you to keep going. You do, your pussy rubbing against his face while he licks your cum away.
Everything about it is downright filthy and yet it creates the most wonderful feeling to ever course through your veins.
Jungkook’s mouth moves against you like he knows your body better than you do. His tongue only laps at you a couple more times before another orgasm hits you, and it causes you to gasp and moan pathetically as your hips gyrate against him. He finally comes up for air once he feels your body still, his head resting on your thigh as he kisses it softly.
“Did that feel good, my darling?” Jungkook asks with a smile. His pink lips are swollen and shiny with your essence.
“You have no idea,” you pant, each word coming out across an exhale.
Jungkook’s smile grows exponentially and he comes up to meet you at your lips again. You can taste yourself on him and it makes you moan into his kiss.
“Are you ready, my Queen?”
His eyes peer into your own when he asks and you can tell he wants to see you so he knows whether you truly are or not.
“Well, what about you?”
“You do not need to worry about me,” he tells you.
“But I want to,” you argue. “I want to pleasure you, my King. I want to give you everything.”
Jungkook pauses your conversation as his eyes search yours for something.
“Are you saying that because you think it is your duty?”
“No.”
“Then —”
“I am saying it because it is how I feel about you, Jungkook. It has nothing to do with duty.”
Jungkook sighs and kisses the tip of your nose. You can’t help but blush, the gentle affection warming your heart and making you smile up at him.
“I would love nothing more, my darling,” he tells you. “But I think we should save that for another day. Truthfully, I need to be inside you or I will go mad.”
His words spread heat throughout your entire body.
“Is that so?”
The smirk currently occupying your lips isn’t there for long because Jungkook kisses it away. A dreamy sigh comes from you as your tongues meet for a lazy dance inside your mouth. You could kiss him forever if given the chance. The taste of his lips and the feel of them against your own has you completely hypnotized.
Jungkook uses the distraction of his kiss to line himself up with your core, gently running the tip of his cock through your folds and then spreading your cum down his shaft to lubricate his skin. Your pussy reacts immediately, clenching around nothing and leaking more cum onto your thighs. When he’s ready, he nuzzles his nose against yours and kisses your cheek.
“This may hurt,” he warns you.
“I know,” you smile reassuringly. “I will be alright.”
“You will tell me if you are uncomfortable at all, yes?”
“Yes, darling,” you reply in a mock-tone of his deep voice. He beams at you, his eyes disappearing for a moment before giving you one final peck.
Jungkook enters you slowly, letting just his head push past your tight circle of nerves before waiting to make sure you’re alright. Your nails dig into the skin of his shoulders as your pussy stretches to accommodate him. It isn’t as painful as you expected, more so a tight pressure within your walls. You nod reassuringly at him once you’ve adjusted and he continues gently until his hips meet yours and his cock is nestled up against your cervix.
You gasp at the full intrusion, your lips kissing his shoulder and biting down on the muscle to relieve the foreign ache.
“Try to relax, darling, it will help,” he coos in your ear.
Taking multiple deep breaths, you close your eyes and wait for the pressure to subside. Once it does, you’re mesmerized by the pleasure. Jungkook’s cock throbs inside you and he’s so thick that you can feel every ridge and vein pressing against your walls.
“Okay,” you say, looking into Jungkook’s eyes and brushing his hair away from his face. He still looks hesitant, raising his eyebrows at you confirm you’re truly ready. You answer him with a kiss and he smiles against your mouth.
Jungkook rears back slowly, never once looking away from you to ensure you’re alright, and then sinks back in. You moan when he enters you again, this time feeling nothing but pleasure and euphoria. His tip repeatedly hits the same spot inside you and it makes you see stars as your eyes roll back.
His body hovers over yours, his forearms holding him steady. Your hands are in his hair and around his neck, tugging on the strands in time with his movements. He grabs your leg to bring it higher around his hip and thrusts into you even deeper. Your moans tangle together in the air between you along with the wet sound of his cock entering you over and over. Jungkook is fucking you like his life depends on it, like is whole life has lead to this very moment. He kisses your shoulder and neck and sucks on your earlobe before finally coming back to your lips to ravish your mouth.
Consummation of marriage doesn’t seem like the right term for this act anymore, it’s too exquisite to be described in such a mundane way.
You gaze up at Jungkook as he watches his cock come out of you and go back in again. He groans at the sight, throwing his head back, and you run your hand down his sharp jaw to grab his attention.
“I love you,” you tell him, despite how terrified you are for him to finally know the truth. His eyes go wide, his mouth opening and shutting again when he can’t find the right words to reply. You smile at his reaction, finding it utterly adorable how you’ve stunned him into silence. “I love you, my King, my husband… my Jungkook.”
Jungkook blinks repeatedly and you can see tears pricking at the corners of his starry eyes, which only makes yours do the same. He maps your face with his eyes as he relishes in your confession. His head shakes in disbelief, but then he smiles and breathes out a laugh.
“I love you, Y/N,” he finally responds. “My Queen, you have no idea how long I have loved you.”
He kisses you again, this time so ardently it steals your breath right from your lungs. His thrusts speed up while your mouths chase each other, the emotions swirling inside you both making you even needier. Your nails rake down his back in red streaks as he pistons into you and grinds against your hips.
“M’close, my love,” he tells you with a kiss to your neck.
“Give me a child, Jungkook,” you reply. “Fill up my womb, please.”
Jungkook groans extensively into the skin of your neck as his pushes your hips deeper into the bed so he can fuck you harder. One his hands sneaks between your bodies to massage your clit, making sure you are on the same precipice as he is.
You come together, loud moans filling the air as your pussy spasms and squeezes Jungkook’s cock inside your walls. Warmth spreads through you as his cum fills you up and he fucks it deeper into you. Gasping at how utterly full you feel, you go to move until Jungkook stops you with a squeeze to your hip.
“Not yet,” he whispers. “I do not want you to lose a single drop.”
The thought of Jungkook’s seed sitting deep inside your womb and him refusing to pull out to keep it there has you moaning all over again.
You whine at the feeling of emptiness that overtakes you when he does finally leave the warmth of your cunt. You’re in delirium from all the climaxes and pleasure your husband gave to you and you can barely keep your eyes open.
Jungkook cleans away any excess fluid from between your legs with a rag before tucking you in and joining you in the bed. He kisses you goodnight with a peck to your lips and forehead before telling you he loves you again. You are already halfway asleep, but make an attempt to tell him the same nonetheless.
The honeymoon gets extended to three months, simply because Jungkook refuses to share you with anyone else; completely content with having you all to himself for just a while longer. Now that the feelings you were both hiding for so long are out in the open, you want to enjoy your time together without reality sneaking its way in.
When you do finally return, you’re very much pregnant. Initially, you and Jungkook decide to keep it a secret, but then his mother notices the small bump over your womb and practically shouts the news from the rooftop of the castle. Your mother and father are absolutely elated and everytime they even glance at you tears of joy well up in their eyes.
Your pregnancy is celebrated all throughout the Kingdom with festivals and parades, but there’s one person you never hear congratulations from. In fact, you barely see him around the many halls and rooms which surround you, as if he’s merely a myth your mind conjured up.
Once you do see Taehyung, it’s a far cry from the reunion you were hoping for. All he does is bow to you before continuing on down the corridor. His eyes don’t even meet yours and his expression is stone cold and empty. Your heart absolutely shatters in two and you find solace in the library to cry the ache away.
Jungkook finds you before anyone else does, his eyes going wide when he sees you slumped over with your head in your hands.
“Darling?” He crouches down before you and pulls your head up by your chin. “My love, what is wrong? Is it something with the baby?”
“No,” you cry and shake your head. “Taehyung… he will not even look at me.”
Jungkook frowns and tucks some of your hair behind your ear.
“Just give him some time,” he tells you.
You shake your head again.
“No, I need to speak to him. I have to tell him why I accepted your proposal and not his,” you explain.
“Taehyung proposed to you?” Jungkook asks, shock evident in his tone.
“Yes, when he came to tell me he was leaving for the war,” you state. “He told me he would come back and marry me, but I did not give him an answer.”
“Why not?”
“Because I have only ever loved you, Jungkook.”
Just as you feared, time does nothing to bridge the gap between you and your best friend.
The war ends six months into your pregnancy, and even as all the residents of the castle gather in the ballroom for a celebratory feast, he utters not a single word to you. When you give birth a few months later, your relationship is still not mended and you fear it never will be.
PRESENT DAY
Taehyung thinks he’s going to throw up. His hands are sweaty and shaking, his internal temperature is dropping, and his leg won’t stop bouncing against the bleachers. Despite all that, he can’t bring himself to peel his eyes away from you and Jungkook as you enter the gym together.
Jungkook’s fingers are laced with yours as you walk just ahead of him. Your smile is so bright when you glance back at him momentarily and all Taehyung can think is that you don’t know. You have no idea you’re holding hands with your own killer.
Once you reach the other cheerleaders, you wrap your arms around Jungkook’s neck to hug him. He smiles at your embrace and nuzzles his head in the junction of your neck and shoulder, pecking your cheek before letting you go. You mouth “I love you” to him and his smile grows as he repeats the phrase back to you. As if it could get worse, Jungkook taps your ass before walking towards the locker room. You don’t even turn around to scold him, just playfully slap his hand as he laughs and leaves you with your teammates.
Bile threatens to scratch Taehyung's esophagus as he watches Jungkook stroll away from you and disappear into the locker room. He hopes no one notices his staring problem, but it’s impossible for him to look away from the reincarnation of his former best friend.
This shouldn’t be possible and yet he can’t deny what’s right in front of his own eyes.
A buzzer pulls Taehyung from his thoughts and the game begins with introductions of both teams. You’re standing courtside in your usual spot at the center of the formation. You cheer as they announce all the players and you yell even louder when they announce Jungkook, after which he winks at you and returns to his position on the court.
The irony of a former King and Queen being reincarnated as the captain of the cheerleading squad and the captain of the basketball team doesn’t escape Taehyung. Because what else would they be?
Taehyung would love nothing more than to enjoy the game and cheer along with the rest of the crowd, but his mind is slowly spiraling into madness.
He needs to find out if Jungkook remembers his past life or not.
If Jungkook does have his memories, that means he’s dating you when he knows what he did and you don’t. Taehyung’s face scrunches in disgust at the thought. He would have to be getting off on it if that’s the case, of knowing he has you back in his clutches while you’re clueless.
On the other hand, if Jungkook doesn’t remember his last life, then you two are clearly drawn together by some other force of nature that Taehyung isn’t aware of. Perhaps this is just the way your fates are always meant to align, with you and Jungkook together while Taehyung has to come in and save you from him. At least this time Jungkook doesn’t have the authority to murder you.
The biggest question of the night is still how.
Sometime before you and Taehyung were killed, he sought out a sorceress to cast a protection spell. The spell was simple, but it could only be cast on one of you, so Taehyung made the decision to cast it on you instead of himself. It read:
The person you love will follow you into the next life, and with a kiss, your memories will be returned to you.
Taehyung chose the spell because he wanted you and him to get a do-over in case something bad happens to you. The only requirement of the spell is that you have to die together, or at least in quick succession to one another. Since that prerequisite was met, you were reincarnated and he has knowledge of his past life.
Jungkook being here adds a wrench of astronomical proportions to his plans and makes him wonder if Jungkook cast a spell of his own before he killed you. Maybe he got wind of what Taehyung had done and decided to add himself into the mix.
He may never find out, especially if Jungkook is truly clueless to who he was before.
When the game ends, Taehyung watches with a clenched jaw as Jungkook scoops you into his arms and lifts you off the ground. You giggle as he does it and the sound is so beautiful it almost brings tears to Taehyung’s eyes. He can practically feel the happiness radiating from you as Jungkook kisses you before setting you back down on the floor.
It feels like the past is haunting him and laughing in his face. The image of you two before him is so familiar he can almost picture you in your wedding gown instead of your uniform.
You and Jungkook hold hands again as you converse with all the students coming over to congratulate the team on their big win. Taehyung knows it’s now or never and makes his way down to greet you two.
“Taehyung!” You wave at him with your free hand.
Jungkook looks up to follow your line of sight. He doesn’t look stunned by the sound of Taehyung’s name and his eyes don’t go wide when he spots him amongst the crowd, so that must be a good sign.
“Hey,” Taehyung says as he steps in front of you.
“Taehyung, this is Jungkook and Jungkook, this is Taehyung,” you introduce the two boys.
Taehyung could laugh out loud at the irony of it.
“Hey man, it’s nice to finally meet you,” Jungkook says as he shakes Taehyung’s hand. “Y/N has told me all about you. I’m glad she finally has someone to study with who doesn’t distract her.”
“You mean yourself?” You say, turning to him with a smirk.
He teasingly blows a kiss at you and your head tilts to the right, accompanied by your usual nose scrunch and smile combo.
“It’s nice to meet you, too,” Taehyung says with a forced smile. If he could go a hundred lives without ever meeting Jungkook again, he would. “She talks about you a lot, as well. The mysterious boyfriend.”
“Yeah, I wish we could’ve met sooner. This one says we would get along great,” Jungkook explains.
He moves behind you to rest his arms over your shoulders, his chin meeting your hair. Your fingers absentmindedly trace his tattoos where his arms hang over your chest. Taehyung’s eyes follow every movement and he has to fight not to lose his mind at the displays of affection.
“You think so?” Taehyung asks you and you nod repeatedly.
“Oh, yeah,” you answer. “I don’t know what it is, I can just tell you’d be like two peas in a pod.”
“Well, we should all hang out sometime and see if she’s right,” Taehyung suggests.
He only does so because he needs to know for sure about Jungkook’s memories. If he can find ways to test him and possibly trip him up, he will.
“I’m always right,” you argue.
“Mmhm, sure you are, my love,” Jungkook says as he kisses your shoulder before standing back up to his full height and taking your hand.
Taehyung almost visibly recoils at the sound of one of Jungkook’s old pet names for you.
“We have to get going to the team’s celebration dinner, but I’ll text you and maybe we can plan something with the three of us?” You propose.
You go to grab your bag but Jungkook is already slinging it over his shoulder. When you notice, you smile and slap his arm playfully.
“Yeah, sounds great,” Taehyung responds.
Jungkook waves goodbye and you follow suit before you’re both turning around and heading for the door. You lay your head on Jungkook’s bicep as you walk and he bends over to kiss the top of your head.
Taehyung throws his head back with a groan. He’s waited hundreds of years and spent the last 20 or so looking for you only to find you in Jungkook’s arms yet again. He wants to have a word with the universe so he can really speak his mind on the matter.
You text him a couple days later inviting him to a party with some athletes at an off-campus house. It isn’t ideal, but he needs to get as close to you as possible if this is ever going to work.
The familiar stench of cheap beer and marijuana is already infiltrating Taehyung’s nostrils as he enters. In fact, he walks right through someone’s puff cloud and coughs his whole way into the house. Once inside, he grabs a strong drink from the kitchen and starts searching for you.
When he finds you, you’re facing his direction while closing one eye to better aim your ping pong ball. Jungkook is opposite you, his back to Taehyung, as everyone waits with bated breath for the outcome of your shot.
You toss the ping pong ball with precision and it bounces once on the table before sinking right in the center cup. Throwing your hands up to cheer, your proud eyes find Jungkook’s to validate your accomplishment even though he’s on the opposing team.
“Ha! Take that, Kook,” you tease.
“Alright, alright, I’ll give you that one,” Jungkook responds as he grabs the ball from the cup and downs the drink. “But it’s the last one you’re going to get, baby.”
Jungkook is much quicker than you with his aim and sinks his ball into the matching cup on your side of the table. He puts his arms out and shrugs when you pout in his direction. Rolling your eyes, you chug the beer before setting the cup to the side.
Taehyung stands to the side to watch the rest of the beer pong tournament and unfortunately for you, Jungkook was right, and you never land a ball in one of his cups again.
When the game ends you sulk your way over to Jungkook, making a show of crossing your arms over your chest and pouting at him. Taehyung has to look away when he notices Jungkook bending down to kiss the pout away. By the time he looks back, Jungkook has his arm around your shoulders and yours is around his waist.
“Oh, Tae, hi!” You shout when you notice him. “Oh wait, can I call you that?”
“Of course,” Taehyung replies with a smile. “Hey Jungkook.”
“Hey, what’s up? Glad you could make it,” Jungkook says.
“You know I think the rules of boyfriendship say you’re supposed to let your girlfriend win at these things,” Taehyung points out.
“See! What did I say?”
You look up at Jungkook, the pout returning with a vengeance.
Jungkook squishes your cheeks between his fingers and coos at you mockingly. You giggle and your eyes squeeze shut before pushing him away with a gentle shove to his chest.
“I never let anyone win,” Jungkook states.
I am fully aware.
“It’s true, he’s stupid competitive, but he’s also magically good at fucking everything, so it kinda works in his favor,” you explain.
“I bet I could beat you at something,” Taehyung says casually.
Jungkook’s eyebrows move up his forehead, a big toothy grin appearing on his face.
“Am I finally about to face a worthy opponent?” He asks rhetorically, his voice pitching up with eagerness. “What’s your game, Taetae?”
Taetae?
Taehyung is almost tempted to ask Jungkook to slice his neck open again. It’s becoming increasingly difficult to feign nicety when all he wants to do is punch the guy. Whether he has his memories or not, he’s still the only obstacle left standing in Taehyung’s path to you.
“Um,” Taehyung scopes out the landscape of the house. “Darts?”
Jungkook nods, pursing his lips as he thinks and gazes at the dart board.
“I can do darts,” he replies.
You leave to grab more drinks while they stroll over to the empty corner where the dart board is hanging. Jungkook pulls the darts from the board and tosses some to Taehyung before stepping back behind the duck tape marking the floor. He gestures with his hands for Taehyung to go first.
“So, I don’t want to make anything awkward, but I feel like I have to give you the obligatory ‘don’t try anything with my girl’ speech,” Jungkook says after Taehyung has thrown his first dart. “Not to say you guys can’t hang out because I’m not like that. She can do whatever she wants. I just like to let guys know that I mean business, ya know?”
“What do you mean?” Taehyung asks.
“I mean that I’m head over heels in love and would do just about anything to keep her next to me,” Jungkook states. He aims quickly and throws his first dart. “As long as she wants me, of course.”
“And if she didn’t… want you, I mean, would you fight for her?” Taehyung continues before taking his next throw.
“Of course I would,” Jungkook responds with a shrug, as if it’s the easiest answer in the world. “She means everything to me.”
Taehyung can hear the sincerity in Jungkook’s voice and it reflects in his eyes, too, even in the dim lighting.
“I hear you, Jungkook. Loud and clear,” Taehyung says before gesturing for Jungkook to take his next shot. “How did you guys meet anyway?”
Jungkook takes a sip from his cup before throwing his next dart, the guy barely has to look at the board and he still hits a bullseye. Some things never change.
“The weekend before freshman orientation all the athletes move in early and have this big mixer,” Jungkook explains. “She took my fucking breath away from across the room, but we were actually friends for a long time before we started dating.”
“Why is that?” Taehyung throws his last dart and then leans against the nearby railing.
“Well, honestly, I wanted to try out the whole ‘soil your oats’ thing when I first got to college, but then the more time I spent with her, the more I couldn’t get her off my mind. I never even touched another girl the whole year, even before we got together.”
“Baby, I brought drinks!” Your sweet voice rings out before they can continue their conversation.
Jungkook turns around at the sound of it, a huge smile on his face even though you’ve only been gone a couple minutes.
“Oh, thanks, Princess.”
He greets you with a kiss as he takes the beer bottle from your hand.
Taehyung has to hide the way his teeth grind together at the nickname. He hates how ironic it is given that you were never a Princess, only a Queen, because you were shoved into a role you never asked for by your so-called best friend.
His inner monologue is interrupted when you hand him a beer bottle as well. He thanks you with a bow of his head before turning back to the game. Jungkook throws his last dart and then leans forward to count up the points.
“Oh, you guys are tied,” you say with a smile. “Looks like someone’s giving you a run for your money, Kook.”
“It appears so,” he responds. “I think you were right about me and Taetae, we’re gonna be great friends.”
Taehyung’s head tilts at the tiny lick of sarcasm in Jungkook’s voice. He doesn’t think you notice it, though, since you’re still smiling at your boyfriend like he hung the stars in the sky.
There isn’t a second round because you tug on Jungkook’s hand and ask him to dance with you instead. He obliges your request without hesitation, already moving towards the other room while you wave goodbye to Taehyung. Once you’re gone, Taehyung runs his fingers through his hair and looks at the dart board with matching scores. Figures.
He doesn’t see you again until much later after he’s had a little too much to drink. When he does, he immediately regrets coming to look for you.
Jungkook is pinning you against the wall as he kisses you slowly, his mouth moving against yours like he has all the time in the world. His knee is between your thighs and he’s caressing your waist beneath your shirt. You make out hungrily, his tongue slipping into your mouth while you bite on his lower lip. Then he grips your jaw and kisses your neck, sucking on your skin until you whimper. Your hands run up his back and grip tightly onto his jacket.
“Kook,” you moan. “Upstairs.”
Jungkook nods at your command from where his face is still against your neck. Without missing a beat, he takes your hand and leads you around the corner to the back stairwell. Taehyung can hear your giggles as you two run up the stairs together.
Taehyung actually does get sick this time. It’s a mixture of the alcohol and his mind agonizing over the thought of you two in a bedroom alone together. His knuckles turn white as he grips the edge of the toilet bowl he’s currently bent over.
Jungkook shouldn’t get to touch you like that, shouldn’t get to hold you or kiss you after what he did.
Taehyung’s eyes snap shut as the memory of you clutching your bleeding neck flashes in his mind. He presses his knuckles to his eyelids to try and get the image to go away. It never does. Taehyung is constantly haunted by the look of terror in your eyes as you fall over and bleed out right in front of him.
He presses his forehead against the cabinet next to him as he tries to catch his breath. He still isn’t sure if Jungkook has his memories or not, but it doesn’t matter anymore. You deserve to know exactly who you’re dating.
A few days later, you’re sitting across from him with half a gummy worm hanging from your mouth while you read something on your laptop. Every so often you start typing and your brow creases in concentration. Taehyung can’t keep his eyes off you for a second. You’re undeniably endearing and it’s taking everything in him not to reach across the table and kiss you right now.
“Jungkook says he really likes you,” you say without looking up.
“Really? I honestly couldn’t tell,” Taehyung replies.
“Oh yeah, no, he talked about you a lot after the party. Said he finally met his match,” you continue.
“Hmm, he wasn’t jealous at all?”
You look up with confusion written on your face.
“No,” you stretch out the syllable. “Should he be?”
“No, no! I just know him and I talked about it a bit and —”
“Talked about what?”
“Well, about you being his and that I should respect that,” Taehyung explains.
“Oh, yeah, he does that,” you say with a wave of your hand. “In his eyes, I’m the most beautiful girl in the world, so everyone must want me, ya know?”
“You are,” Taehyung accidentally says before biting his lip aggressively. Your eyes bulge as you stare at him in shock across the table. “I… I didn’t mean it like that.”
You nod, your lip held captive between your teeth while you look everywhere but at Taehyung.
“Um —”
“Y/N, I’m so sorry,” Taehyung interrupts. “I promise, I’m not trying to make a move on you or steal you away from Jungkook. You just… I mean, objectively, you are beautiful, and truth be told you remind me of someone I used to know, so I just… oh I don’t know.”
“It’s alright,” you say with a gentle smile. “Let’s just forget about it, yeah?”
You end up missing your study session with him on Thursday, shooting him a text an hour after you normally arrive that you got caught up with something else and you’ll see him next time.
Taehyung already knows next time is never going to come. You’ll subtly ghost him after making excuses for a few weeks, and he doesn’t blame you. He crossed a line and you’re trying to set some boundaries in return. But he refuses to leave you in the dark any longer, and if his plan is failing, he’ll need to come up with another one.
There’s a home basketball game tonight, so Taehyung buys a ticket at the entrance before heading into the gym. You’re already there with the other cheerleaders, but Jungkook is nowhere in sight. Taehyung knows he has to be quick about this and doesn’t hesitate to approach you courtside.
“Hey,” he greets you.
“Oh, hi,” you respond with your usual smile. Maybe you really were busy yesterday or maybe you’re just good at hiding your true emotions.
“Can we talk for a minute?”
Your body tenses at his question, and your eyes flit to the other side of the room, but you eventually nod and the two of you leave and stand in an unoccupied area behind the gym doors.
“What’s up?” You ask as you cross your arms.
“I just wanted to make sure everything is still good between us,” he admits.
You nod slowly and chew on your lip as you debate over your answer.
“Honestly? No,” you confess. “You’re really fun to hang out with and I’ve enjoyed our study time together, but what you said the other day… it’s obvious that this is more than a friendship for you and I’m not comfortable continuing to hang out one-on-one knowing that.”
Taehyung’s hands begin to shake as he digests your words. He knows what he has to do and yet he can’t bring himself to do it.
“Look, I do like you as more than a friend, and I think you should give me a shot because Jungkook isn’t who you think he is.”
“Excuse me?” You gawk at him. “You’ve met him twice, Tae! How dare you?”
“No, Y/N, you don’t understand.”
“What don’t I understand, huh?”
“That… you don’t have all the information, but I can give it to you,” Taehyung offers.
“Information? What are you even talking about?” There’s a momentary pause until you shake your head and put your hands up in surrender. “You know what, no, I don’t even wanna know. I trust my boyfriend more than a guy I’ve known for barely three months.”
You start to walk away, moving swiftly past Taehyung, but he catches your wrist.
“Wait!”
“Taehyung, let go of me.”
“I’m sorry about this.”
Taehyung uses his grip on your wrist to pull you into him and presses his lips to yours. He never wanted to do it this way, never without your consent, but he’s losing you again and he can’t risk that.
It only lasts two seconds before you’re shoving him off of you, but it’s enough. This kiss is the final puzzle piece to returning your memories so you can be together again.
“What the hell, Tae?” You shout before running back towards the gym.
The words have barely passed your lips when the first wave hits you. It stops you in your tracks, your hands bracing themselves on the cold metal doors as images flood your mind.
Ball gowns, children playing, a grassy field with wildflowers, two horses galloping towards you, blood pooling on the floor. You gasp and your hand instinctively grabs at your neck. The mirage stops and you shake your head, thinking it’s just some bizarre daydream brought on by the stress of Taehyung’s actions.
You return to your courtside formation just in time to see Jungkook entering the gym from the locker room. As soon as your eyes land on his silhouette, more images appear.
A large bed in a dark room, a gold crown, white roses, a baby cradle, his hand pulling a dress up your thigh, him spinning you in the air, and finally, his eyes, sharp and cold, looking at you in disgust.
You trip over nothing at all, accidentally bumping into your teammate behind you. She asks if you’re alright, but you're too frazzled to verbally answer her and nod instead.
Jungkook notices your abnormal behavior from across the room and pivots to walk towards you. When he does, the Jungkook you know seemingly blinks out of existence and is replaced by a version of him in medieval attire with a crown on his head. You blink rapidly to eradicate the hallucination, but it only lasts for a split second before you see him in his basketball uniform again.
Lifting your hands to stop him from coming any closer, you avoid his eyes and turn around to take a sip of water. Your head is pounding as unfamiliar scenes infiltrate your mind one at a time. Nothing makes sense and you wonder if you somehow fell asleep and are dreaming all of this. You pinch your forearm and flinch when your nails dig in and send a sharp pain through your skin.
You try to steady your breathing, but the images are unyielding and overwhelming. Looking up into the bleachers, you see Taehyung, and just like before, he phases into a version of himself wearing knight’s armor and a shield.
Grasping the side of your head and massaging your temple, you turn back towards the game just as the buzzer sounds.
The roar of the crowd and the players yelling commands at each other only serves to make matters worse. You brace your head between your hands and bend over, willing the kaleidoscope of visions to cease. Squeezing your eyes shut, you count your inhales and exhales in a feeble attempt to self soothe.
Another cheerleader rubs your back and asks if you’re feeling okay, but her voice sounds like it’s coming from underwater. All you can see, hear, and feel are the vivid daydreams of you, Taehyung, and Jungkook in medieval clothes as you stroll around a huge stone castle. The last thing you see is Taehyung held taut by two knights. A deep, foreboding aura seeps into your bones and then you feel a sharp blade slice across your jugular.
Everything fades to black as you pass out.
“Oh, my God, Y/N,” the cheerleader behind you gasps as you fall into her.
All movement on the court comes to a screeching halt, and Jungkook is throwing the ball out of his hands before running over to you.
“What happened?” He asks as he bends down. His fingers gently move your hair away from your face and he presses the back of his hand to your forehead to check your temperature.
“I don’t know, she looked like she was having a migraine and then she was just out,” someone explains.
Taehyung starts moving through the stands to reach you, but before he can, your eyes begin to blink open. He stands still as a statue as he watches you take in your surroundings. When you see Jungkook leaning over you, you gasp and move away.
“No… no,” you whimper.
“Baby?”
“No, don’t touch me,” you yell when his hand goes to caress your arm.
“Y/N, it’s me.”
“No, no, no,” you cry as you cradle your head in your hands. “Make it stop, please make it stop.”
Jungkook looks at the girl still holding you in horror, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes.
The first-aid team runs in and heads towards the commotion. One of them tries to move you, but you only wail louder and coil into yourself, preventing them from doing anything to help.
“We’re gonna need to sedate her,” one of them says.
“What?” Jungkook asks with wide eyes. “What do you mean?”
The paramedic doesn’t answer him, they just stick a small needle in your arm and push the medicine into your vein. Your cries subside into whimpers almost immediately, and then you’re out cold again.
The gym is completely silent as everyone watches with concern for you and your wellbeing.
The paramedics move you to a stretcher and roll you out of the gym. Jungkook stands to follow them, but not before turning over his shoulder and meeting eyes with Taehyung.
“You, with me, now,” he orders.
And that’s the moment Taehyung finally knows for sure. Jungkook has his memories. He knows exactly who he was in his past life, and more importantly, what he did.
1430
You’re clutching your dress between the fingers of your left hand as you take quick steps down the hall, attempting to catch up to the tiny figure ahead of you. The five year old is far too quick for your liking, and she’s mischievous in nature which only makes it worse.
“Sooyoung,” you call when you finally catch up to her, scooping her into your arms when you’re close enough. “What did mommy say about running in the corridors? There are big, pointy objects all around and you could run into one.”
“Sorry, mommy,” she giggles, tucking herself into your chest.
You rub her back and place a kiss in her hair. Just then, you hear the sound of a door opening and Jungkook steps out, running his hands through his hair methodically.
“Daddy!” Sooyoung shouts and wiggles herself away from you.
Putting her down, you watch as her little feet carry her to his side. Jungkook stops in his tracks, his eyes bright with affection and a large toothy grin on his face. When she finally reaches him, he lifts her up by her waist, bringing her over his head as she giggles endlessly before resting her against his hip.
“How is my beautiful Princess doing?”
“Good, I learned the alphabet this morning,” she tells him.
“You did? Baby, that is wonderful,” he praises her. She smiles and leans over to plant a wet smooch on his cheek. Jungkook laughs and returns the favor to her, kissing her multiple times until she tells him to stop with a giggle. When Jungkook reaches you he leans down to kiss your lips. “Hi, my love.”
“Hello, my King,” you say as he passes Sooyoung over to you. You put her down and let her roam in the room just off to the left where some of her toys are. “Are you joining us for lunch?”
“No, my darling, I cannot,” he says with a frown. You mirror his expression and he tucks some of your hair behind your ear. “I am sorry, my Queen. You know I would if it were up to me.”
“I know,” you reply.
Even though the war which took the lives of Jungkook’s brother and father ended shortly before you gave birth to your first son, another one broke out three months ago. Thankfully, since his heirs are too young to rule in his stead, there was a mutual agreement that Jungkook wouldn’t go away to fight because of what happened during the last war. But even though he’s here with you, moments like this are some of the only ones you get to spend together.
Other than these brief encounters when you happen to cross paths, the only time you see him is when he comes to bed for the night. During the first month of the war, you would stay up for him, waiting in eager anticipation for the sound of his footsteps coming down the corridor. When he did finally arrive, he would sweep you up into his arms and make love to you before tucking you into bed and falling asleep with you in his hold. Over time, his entrances into your bedroom came later and later, and you would fall asleep while waiting for him. Now, he simply presses a kiss to your forehead in your sleep before pulling you into his arms. When you wake up, he’s usually already gone.
Everytime you get so much as a glimpse of him, it soothes the melancholy feeling in your heart and brings a smile to your face. Even if all you see is a familiar head of black hair and broad shoulders turning around a corner.
Time moves torturously slow without him beside you and you feel the ache of missing him all the way down to your bones. The loneliness is becoming unbearable, especially since your two eldest children, Sooyoung, who is almost five, and Junghyun, named after his late uncle, who is seven, are busy with their tutor most of the day. That leaves you with your identical twin boys, Minho and Wonshik, who are two. They’re quite entertaining, but nothing can fill the void of not having your beloved husband around.
“Perhaps I will see you tonight?” You ask.
“I hope so,” Jungkook says as he caresses your cheek. He bends down to kiss you again, for longer this time now that your daughter is out of the way. “I love you, my Queen, so very much.”
“I love you more,” you reply with a final peck.
Jungkook raises his eyebrow to silently challenge your statement before waving goodbye to you and your daughter as he continues down the corridor.
Sighing in exasperation, you call for your daughter and take her hand as you walk towards the dining hall to eat lunch with your other children.
Some days later you’re walking through the large gardens behind the castle while the twins nap inside. Early afternoons are the only time of day when you’re able to take a break from motherhood and be alone with your thoughts. Although, you’re certainly not lacking in alone time at the moment.
As you pass by the hedges on your way back inside, you spot Taehyung speaking with some fellow knights. You no longer attempt to make eye contact with him and neither does he. It’s been nearly eight years since you last spoke besides obligatory greetings or discussions involving his duties. The idea of you two ever being close again is a pipe dream you stopped hoping for long ago. You miss him dearly, and you always will, but it’s useless driving yourself mad over an impossibility.
After lunch, you hear a knock at the nursery door where you’re playing with Minho and Wonshik. When you see Taehyung enter after allowing the visitor entry, you’re taken aback. He’s usually only ever with Jungkook or completely a task on his behalf.
“Sir Taehyung, can I help you?” You ask him.
“I am assigned to be here, your Majesty,” he answers you flatly.
“Pardon?”
“The King has assigned me to be your personal guard.”
“Why would I need a personal guard?” You question, pulling Minho closer to your chest. There’s never been a reason or need for you to be under supervision before and you don’t like the sound of it.
“The battlefront has moved closer to the Eastern border and as such, King Jungkook wants you and the children to each be guarded day and night in the event that the enemy breaks down our defenses or sneaks into the Kingdom,” he explains.
You nod as you digest the news, looking down at your two-year old who gazes back with familiar big, brown eyes. Putting him back on the ground to play with his twin, you stand and walk towards Taehyung.
“If that is the case I believe we should have a conversation, Sir Taehyung.”
“I do not believe that is necessary, my Queen.”
“I think it is,” you argue. “If you are going to be with me around the clock I do not want it to be awkward.”
Taehyung grimaces and chews on his bottom lip as he thinks about his following words. You cross your arms over your chest for good measure, even though you look nowhere near intimidating.
“I do not wish to speak about the past, but I will attempt to be cordial with you for the sake of the arrangement,” he proposes. “Is that alright with you, your Highness?”
You mull it over in your mind for a minute before nodding curtly and turning back towards your children.
His assignment of guarding you is considerably more boring compared to his usual duties. All he does is walk behind you at a reasonable distance while you traverse the gardens, stand behind your seat at meal times, guard the door while you read in the library, and sit in the nursery with you as you play with the children.
Despite Taehyung assuring you otherwise, the first days of his assignment are extremely awkward. He hardly speaks to you and when he does, it’s clipped and cold. But time seems to massage the tension away and slowly, but surely, he warms up to you.
The first time you see him smile is when Wonshik decides to come towards you for a hug and falls flat on his face. Your whole body tenses in shock when you hear the nostalgic sound of Taehyung chuckling behind you. It brings a huge smile to your face even as you’re trying to calm Wonshik down from his accident.
Eventually, the quiet moments turn into real conversations.
You often stop to enjoy nature during your garden walks and there’s a large bench near the creek you like sitting on. One day, your hand taps against the stone and you look over your shoulder at Taehyung. He raises his eyebrows, silently asking if you mean for him to sit there. When you nod, he waits a few moments before moving towards you and sitting down on the other end of the bench.
“Is this not the most beautiful view?” You ask as you gaze out across the creek.
“It is one of them, for sure,” Taehyung answers.
It’s the first time he’s said anything of substance to you in close to a decade, and you almost begin to cry at the thought.
“The valley by my house was beautiful, too, but I believe I prefer this,” you state. Taehyung only hums in response. “Do you have any special spots around the castle you think are particularly nice?”
“I do, actually,” Taehyung says. “There is a corridor just off the maid’s quarters where they store the new and old artwork as they cycle through them. I go there sometimes and look at the art up close. Not many people know about it, so it is always peaceful.”
You admire his profile as he speaks, and a smile appears on your lips involuntarily. Even with the passage of time, his features are identical to the boy you once knew. Losing his friendship has always been your biggest heartbreak, and you can feel your soul slowly healing whenever you’re with him.
That encounter becomes the starting point for your new relationship with Taehyung. It becomes a routine to stop and chat during your daily walks, and you look forward to it everyday. As time goes on your conversations grow longer and dive deeper. You never touch on the past, but you don’t need to. The friendship picks up where it left off as if no time has passed at all.
A few months into Taehyung’s assignment as your personal guard, you’re walking through the garden when Jungkook comes out from the castle.
“Darling?” You call out to him when you see him. “What are you doing out here?”
“I came to say goodbye, my love. I have to leave to speak to some allies in a neighboring town,” he tells you.
You frown and your shoulders drop. When Jungkook reaches you he takes your hands in his and kisses them.
“How long will you be gone?”
“Three days.”
“That is Sooyoung’s birthday.”
“Well, then I will make it two days,” he responds without missing a beat.
“Are you sure?”
Jungkook smiles and tucks your hair behind your ear.
“I would not miss it for the world, my love,” he assures you. You acknowledge his promise with a nod before wrapping your arms around his neck to hug him goodbye. He returns the gesture in kind, lifting your heels off the ground as he embraces you tightly. “I love you, I will see you soon.”
He kisses you for a lingering moment before nodding towards Taehyung and leaving to meet the parliamentarians in the entryway of the castle.
You bite down hard on your lip to stop the bubbling sorrow within you from spilling over to the surface, but it does so anyway. Hands coming up to hide your face, a sob breaks from your chest as your palms collect your tears.
“Your Majesty? Is everything alright?” Taehyung asks, his surprise at your reaction evident in his tone. He moves to stand in front of you.
“I am sorry, I do not mean to be emotional,” you say as you lift your head and wipe the tears away.
“That is nothing to apologize for,” he states. “Can I do anything?”
“No, no,” you respond. “Unless you know how to end this Godforsaken war.”
“Is it the war that is upsetting you, my Queen?”
“Yes, because it is the war that is keeping my husband from me.”
“What do you mean, your Highness?”
“I have not had a real conversation with Jungkook in nearly half a year, Sir Taehyung,” you tell him. “Moments like these are all I get. He is too busy with battle strategies and trade routes to spend any time with me or the children.”
“Your Highness, I am so sorry to hear that. I was not aware,” he replies.
“I should not be telling you this, I apologize,” you say. “Please forget I mentioned anything.”
“Your Highness, if there is anything I can do to help, please let me know,” Taehyung offers.
The conversation ends there and you finish your stroll before returning inside to your children for dinner. When you tell them about Jungkook being gone, they all cry the same as you, not used to their father being gone even though he’s around less these days. The sentiment is shared amongst all five of you. You feel Jungkook’s absence from the castle everywhere you turn even if you wouldn’t normally see him anyway.
Exiting your room the next day, you find Taehyung outside your door as usual, but he has something hidden in his left hand. Before you have the opportunity to question him about it, he pulls a bouquet of wildflowers from behind his back.
“I wanted to cheer you up, your Majesty, I hope I am not overstepping.” The flowers are purple and white, same as the ones which grew outside your home. You gasp in delight, your hands coming up to cover your mouth.
“Oh, Taehyung, they are so beautiful,” you tell him as he hands them to you. “Thank you so very much.”
You don’t realize your slip of the tongue, the honorific noticeably absent when you say his name, and it brings a smile to your companion’s face.
“I am glad you like them, my Queen,” he says with a deep bow.
You smile at him, your head tilting to the right as your nose scrunches, before putting your nose to the bouquet to smell the flower’s sweet scent. It reminds you of home and fills you with a deep, comforting warmth.
Over the next two days you and Taehyung begin to speak even more, conversing as you walk the halls and making jokes while playing with the children. Taehyung even joins you on the floor and playfully teases the twins with a game of peek-a-boo. It’s the happiest you’ve been in months. You still miss Jungkook dearly, but the loneliness that’s made a home inside your heart goes away on a brief vacation.
By the morning of Sooyoung’s birthday Jungkook has yet to return, but you still have hope he’ll make it back before the end of the day.
You’re arranging some of her presents sent from family members and citizens alike when Taehyung enters with some more that were just dropped off. As you’re moving one of the larger gifts, your hair falls into your face and you attempt to push it away by blowing air out of your mouth since your hands are full.
Suddenly, you feel a fingertip against your cheek, and you look over to see Taehyung moving the strand out of the way for you. He’s close enough that you can see the deep chocolate color of his irises.
An unfamiliar tension threads itself between you both as you stand in silence only inches apart. Taehyung opens his mouth to say something, but is interrupted by a voice coming from outside the room.
“Where is my beautiful wife?”
Your eyes light up at the sound of Jungkook’s voice, breaking the moment between you and Taehyung in an instant. Rushing towards the door, you throw it open and look for the source of your husband’s voice.
Jungkook spots you from down the hall and he sighs in relief, an adoring smile growing on his lips. Running towards him without another thought, you laugh cheerfully as he opens his arms to welcome you into his chest.
Instead of hugging you, though, he grabs you by the waist and lifts you above his head as he often does with your daughter. You make a sound somewhere between a laugh and a squeal before wrapping your arms around his neck as he brings you down into his embrace.
“Oh, I missed you, my darling,” he whispers into your hair.
“I missed you so much, Jungkook,” you respond and bury your face into his shoulder. “You made it back in time.”
“I promised you I would, did I not?” You look up and nod, fresh tears evident in your eyes. He frowns when he notices them and reaches up to wipe the tears away. “What is wrong, my love?”
“I just missed you, that is all,” you answer.
Jungkook nods in agreement before bending down to kiss you, your mouths naturally moving together in a practiced rhythm. He holds you in place with a desperate grip to the back of your head as your fingers curl around the fabric of his shirt. His head tilts to kiss you with more fervor and swallow the noise you make when his tongue traces your bottom lip and sinks into your mouth. It’s a passionate dance you haven’t experienced in months, and it almost makes you start crying again.
You reluctantly pull away, the breath missing from both your lungs, as your hands tighten around the collar of his shirt.
“I am sorry it has been so long since I have done that,” Jungkook pants as he caresses your face. “I hope you know I think about it all the time. I am always thinking of you, my Y/N.”
You nod as another tear rolls down your cheek. Jungkook kisses it away before letting you go so he can greet the children.
Your strange moment with Taehyung is forgotten, and weeks go by with your friendship continuing to blossom as it did over those two days.
Jungkook leaves again, this time for a week, to visit with the ruler of a neighboring Kingdom who can possibly help end the war. It breaks your heart all over again, even though you know a week isn’t that long. The distance between you has just grown so wide, that seeing him between meetings and feeling his arms around you at night is the only thing keeping you sane.
You haven’t had sex since the first month of the war, and it feels like you’re being slowly drawn and quartered. Before, sex was almost a nightly occurrence, sometimes even twice a day if the children were with their grandparents. Jungkook spoiled you with pleasure, and now the torture of being without his touch is downright unbearable.
Sometimes you pleasure yourself, just to take the edge off, but it’s nothing compared to Jungkook. He knows your body better than you do, and your hands don’t even come close to doing him justice.
Last night you cried yourself to sleep from the pain of missing him and the need pulsating in your thighs. You’d do anything, even take up a sword yourself, to end this war so you can have him back. Whenever he’s gone, it feels like the weight of the entire castle is sitting on your chest.
Your emotions from the night before are still evident on your face this morning, and Taehyung notices.
“Are you alright, your Majesty?” He asks after greeting you in the library. “Your eyes look swollen, did you have a negative reaction to something you ate?”
“No,” you say with a shake of your head.
“Then, what is it, my Queen?” Taehyung probes with a look of concern.
“It is nothing, Sir Taehyung,” you answer. “I was merely missing my husband again.”
Taehyung frowns and takes a step closer to you. You notice the movement, but don’t step back as you normally would.
“Is there anything I can do? Anyway I can help you, your Majesty?”
Taehyung’s gaze is piercing and it makes your face and neck flush with a pink hue. Without warning, an undeniable heat begins to spread across your abdomen and simmer in your gut. You know the sensation all too well, but you’ve never felt something like this for Taehyung, even before you were married. Forcing your eyes shut, you will the temptation to disappear. But it’s been so long since you’ve been touched, and Taehyung is the one constant in your life at the moment.
“I… am not sure,” you admit.
“Is it just him that you miss or something else as well?” Taehyung asks cautiously. “I cannot do anything about your husband not being here, but I can help in other ways.”
Biting your lip hard enough to draw blood, you avoid his stare and beg your feet to move away from him. All you need is to take a single step back and the tension will break.
“Taehyung,” you speak softly.
“Y/N,” he replies, his eyes sharpening. It’s the first time you’ve heard his voice speak your name since before you got married, before you became Queen.
“Will you help me… please?”
Taehyung moves like lightning, as if he’s been waiting an eternity for you to say those words. His warm hands engulf your waist so he can push you back until your thighs hit the large desk behind you. He lifts you effortlessly, placing you on the edge of the wood without ever breaking eye contact. Descending to his knees before you, his hands trace the curve of your legs over your dress.
Your brain is screaming at you to stop now before you’re past the point of no return. But there is nothing you can do, your body is overriding the commands which normally control your movements. It’s aching to be touched, and it no longer cares who’s doing it.
Taehyung’s hands disappear beneath your gown, caressing your ankles and calves before he’s pulling up the fabric so it rests above your knees. His head leaves your line of sight, and then you feel a featherlight touch to your covered sex.
You gasp, clapping your hand over your mouth when you do. Taehyung’s fingers trace your folds through your undergarment, and you can feel his warm breath on your inner thighs. Then, you feel him pull the fabric aside and he touches you for the first time. You moan into your palm as he dips his fingers into your essence and carries it up to your clit. He gently circles the sensitive nub before pressing down hard and rubbing. Head tipping back in euphoria, you use your elbows to keep yourself somewhat upright.
He plays with your pussy for a while, exploring the unfamiliar territory of your body, before finally sinking his fingers into your hole. Your desperate whimper is muffled by your flesh when he inserts two fingers into you and begins pumping them in and out. The wet squelch of him fucking his fingers into is almost foreign, since it’s been so long since you’ve heard it.
A shockwave of pleasure devours you whole when he kisses your clit and then flattens his tongue to lick you repeatedly. He matches the pace of his fingers and the dual sensation has you biting down on your hand to stop yourself from screaming. You feel yourself drowning in the hellish desire that’s slowly overtaking your soul.
Taehyung moans against you, removing his hand from your pussy to grip you by the thighs and pull you closer to his face. Once he’s hands-free, he begins devouring your cunt like he hasn’t eaten for days. He licks all the way up your slit before circling your clit with his tongue. Then he goes back down and kisses you as he drinks the juices leaking out of your hole. Your mind is paralyzed by the pleasure and it isn’t long before you feel your orgasm nearing.
Your hand grips his hair, tugging on the dark strands and making him grunt. He licks you harder in response, fucking his tongue into your hole and using his nose to keep friction on your clit. You come with a cry, sinking your teeth into the skin of your hand to keep yourself quiet.
It’s only then you realize you’re crying, but they aren’t tears of pleasure. The emotional response is from the unfathomable guilt and self-hatred over what you’ve just done. An act you can never take back and must live with for the rest of your life.
Taehyung licks you a few more times, slurping up your cum and moaning at the taste before rising to stand in front of you. Your chest is red and heaving as you come down from your high. He looks smug and proud of what he’s done to you, and it makes you sick.
You gag into the hand still covering your mouth before leaping off of the table and finding the nearest basin. The contents of your stomach force their way up your throat as you vomit into the receptacle. Your fingers shake and you grip the metal edge to hold yourself upright. Bile burns your esophagus as tears roll down and collect on your chin.
When your stomach is completely empty, and only mucus drips from your mouth, you fall over onto the floor. Your hands cover your face as you scream and cry. The harsh, deep sobs making you gasp for air and cough repeatedly.
“What have I done?” You wail into your hands and shake your head back and forth, as if the movement could somehow turn back time. The faces of your children and husband flash across your mind and make more tears fall. You think of Jungkook, hundreds of miles away, probably wondering how you’re doing, and your soul tears itself to shreds. “Oh, God, what have I done?”
Taehyung crouches down next to you and moves his hand along your spine to soothe you as best he can. You’re undeserving of his affection, the only thing you deserve now is damnation.
Jungkook comes home three days later. You get sick again as soon as you hear his voice filtering in from down the hall.
A month goes by without you or Taehyung mentioning the incident. You push forward and pretend like nothing happened, or least you do. It’s uncertain how Taehyung feels, but frankly, you don’t care to know. The only thing that matters is that it can never happen again. You’ve loved Jungkook since you were a child, and the putrid thought of betraying him again is enough to send you to your grave.
But it’s hard, it's so very hard. Because he isn’t here beside you to hold you and kiss you and remind you that everything’s going to be alright. You only hear his voice every few days, if that; only feel his touch once every other week if you happen to wake up in the night and feel his arm around you. The loneliness is suffocating you from the inside and you feel it choking you to death more and more everyday.
You cry for hours on end most days. The self-hatred, guilt, sorrow, and despair mix together to create a cacophony of emotions you have no way of controlling. Taehyung just waits outside your door and listens to your sobs with no power to do anything about them.
Your children are the only joy in your life at the moment, but even spending time with them is difficult because all four of them share a pair of eyes with their father. Everywhere you look you see pieces of Jungkook, whether in the children or in the desolate halls of the castle, but you never see the man himself.
At least strolling through the gardens and speaking with Taehyung while you sit near the creek brings you peace. It reminds you so much of old times and you’re relieved to finally have your best friend back after reconnecting over these many months.
He makes you laugh and listens intently when you tell him about the books you’re reading and what the children are learning about in their lessons. In return, he talks about knighthood and whatever silliness the men got up to in their freetime. Without him, you don’t think you would be surviving this endless solitude.
“Your Majesty, if I may?” Taehyung says from beside you on the bench. You gesture with your hand for him to continue. “Forgive me for my forwardness, but your mental state is only getting worse. I do not know how much longer you can go on like this.”
Eyes glancing down, you pick at the fabric of your dress and pull at the threads with your fingers.
“I will be fine. I just have to wait until the war is over,” you state.
“Your Highness, the last war went on for close to four years, and it has not even been one yet,” he points out. “You cannot go on like this.”
“What would you have me do?”
“You already know the answer to that.”
“No,” you snap at him.
“Y/N —”
“No, do not even think of speaking it out loud,” you order him sternly. “That was the biggest regret of my life and I will not give into it again.”
“There is no reason you should be alone, Y/N!” Taehyung stands and faces you as he speaks. “Jungkook asked you to marry him and now he leaves you alone and untouched and it is killing you.”
Tears prick at your eyes as Taehyung’s words force reality close enough until you can no longer hide from it. Jungkook’s love for you is unquestionable, and you know the war is the sole reason he isn’t beside you, but the war is still ongoing, and he has no control over its end.
“Taehyung, I cannot betray him again,” you whisper, more so to yourself than to him.
“It does not have to be like that,” Taehyung argues. “It is just pleasure. A body to touch and hold you so you are no longer lonely and isolated. Nothing can take away from the love you and him share. But this situation is unfair to you, and you know it is.”
“What is in it for you, Taehyung?” You ask him. “Why are you so set on being the body which helps me with that endeavor?”
“You already know why, my Queen. My feelings have never changed, even after all this time.”
The day Taehyung confessed his feelings for you was so long ago it almost feels like another lifetime. You never responded, because you didn’t share those same feelings for him. But these months together have meant more to you than you can even articulate, and you aren’t sure if that’s still the case.
What you feel for Taehyung is very different from what you feel for Jungkook.
Jungkook is, without a shadow of a doubt, the love of your life. Your love for him burns deep within your heart like an ever-glowing hearth. It’s solid and foundational to your very being. He's your best friend, husband, and father of your children, and there’s nothing in this world that could make you love him less.
Taehyung is more like a candle, something that only burns you if you reach out and touch the flame. It’s warm and inviting during a time where your whole world feels dark. The love feels familiar because the seed was planted long ago and nourished throughout your years of friendship, but now it’s blooming.
“You still love me?”
“With every part of me.”
You pause and compartmentalize your thoughts before continuing.
“I never meant to hurt you, all those years ago,” you tell him. “I am sorry for doing so.”
“It is alright, my Queen,” he responds, taking his seat beside you again. “I know you did not have much choice in the matter.”
You assume he means the speed at which everything happened, and don’t correct him.
“I care about you very much, Taehyung.” You inhale and close your eyes, counting to four before releasing the air from your lungs. “I do love you. It… it is not like my love for my husband, but it is there. I cannot deny that.”
“Then will you let me do this for you?” Taehyung asks. When you look at him, his eyes are glossy, no doubt from the confession of your newfound feelings. “I am not asking for anything in return, your Majesty. I only want to help you.”
Your thoughts trample over one another as they all scramble for the top position on the dog pile. But you truly believe the only way you’ll survive this war is if you shut your mind off, turn out the lights and let your body puppeteer you.
Taehyung is right that your depression and isolation are slowly killing you. There’s no energy left for you to play with your children, you can barely eat or sleep, and your hair has even begun to fall out.
So, you follow him to his quarters in the Eastern wing of the castle.
You jump at the sound of the door shutting behind you and locking into place. It’s strange being inside his bedroom, but the trinkets and items scattered around the room feel familiar to you because they’re his.
Taehyung is quick to capture your lips with his and it sends a shock through your nervous system. You’ve never kissed anyone but Jungkook, and he kisses you so differently than your husband does. If Jungkook is water, Taehyung is fire. The kiss scorches you and burns across your insides until it lights a fire inside your stomach. You allow yourself to return his affection, let your lips move against his as he walks you backwards towards the bed.
The two of you fall together onto the mattress with a soft bounce. Taehyung’s hands find your own and pull them over your head, imprisoning them against the bed. He begins to kiss down your face and neck, sucking gently and licking over your skin. You moan and tilt your head to give him more access to you. It’s been so long since you’ve felt ravished and worshipped, and your body welcomes it on impulse.
He moves slowly from your neck to your chest, his lips and tongue caressing the tops of your breasts and softly biting down on the fatty flesh.
You nudge him with your knee to make him sit up before reaching around to untie your corset. Taking the hint, Taehyung begins undressing as well. His armor meets the floor with a loud metallic clap as you step out of your clothes and return to his bed.
He moves you up the mattress by your waist, all the while still kissing you and exploring your mouth with his tongue. Taehyung takes a moment to admire your bare chest before him, his hands coming up to caress your breasts and then kiss them. His tongue circles your nipple before sucking on it, turning it hard and sensitive between his teeth. You gasp and moan as your hands grab onto his hair.
Continuing down your body, Taehyung removes the undergarment hiding your pussy from him and kisses your folds. Your head falls back against the pillows as your chest rises with ragged breaths. He eats you out like it will be his last meal, and if the two of you are ever caught, it will be. His tongue fucks into your hole and the sloppy sound of your essence and his salvia mixing into one fills the room. He moves to your clit and lets his teeth scrape over the flesh. You whine as he sucks and licks on your sensitive nerve endings.
His two middle fingers enter you with a wet squelch and he starts curling them so they press against your spongy walls. You moan freely, knowing the first knight’s quarters are completely secluded. He pumps his fingers in and out of you as he devours your clit with his mouth. Your head is spinning in ecstasy. Your pussy greedily sucks his digits in and leaks essence all over his hand.
It doesn’t take long for you to come with a strained gasp, your legs shaking and clenching around his head.
Taehyung removes his fingers slowly before licking them clean and kissing along your thighs. When he kisses you again you can taste yourself on him. It’s been so long now that the flavor is almost foreign.
You push forward without reprieve, wrapping your legs around Taehyung’s thighs to flip him over. He matches your eagerness and starts pulling his undergarment off so you can pump his cock with your hand. The sound of spit has Taehyung’s eyes rolling back as you coat his length in your saliva and begin sliding your fingers up and down his shaft. He moans from deep within his chest. His eyes close as he relishes in the feeling of you jacking him off. His cock is big and thick, and your mouth waters instinctively as you think about him filling you up.
Once he’s hard and leaking precum all over your hand, you position yourself over him and sink down into his lap. The intrusion hurts at first, since your hole isn’t used to stretching open anymore, but then your pussy adjusts to the shape of him and pleasure rolls over you in waves.
Taehyung’s hands grasp desperately at your hips, his fingertips making divots in your flesh. He leans in to kiss and suck on your breasts again and you hold his head to you to continue enjoying the feeling. Hips rising until only his tip is left inside, you slam down against him and proceed to bounce on his dick at a steadfast pace. Identical moans breach the air and Taehyung sits up to kiss at your exposed throat when your head tips back. He licks across your jugular and bites into the skin below your ear. Need and desire course through you like lava as the veins of his cock rub against your velvet walls.
You force your mind into submission, refusing to allow the feelings of guilt and despair to take a single breath. This is something your body has been craving for months and now isn’t the time for your incessant thoughts to bury you in agony. For the first time in a long while, your mind is completely silent.
Tears of pleasure fall as Taehyung guides you by the hips to bounce on him harder, sending his cock deeper into your cunt until you can feel him in your stomach. When your bodies meet, you grind against his pelvis to create friction on your clit.
“You cannot come inside me,” you say through a groan. “You will have to pull out and come on my skin instead.”
Taehyung nods responsively before grabbing you by the hair to kiss you feverishly. His tongue sinks into your mouth and tangles with your own and you moan around the wet muscle. Your teeth drag his bottom lip away before letting it snap back into place. You hear him growl beneath you.
“Does it feel good, my Queen?”
“Yes,” you answer breathlessly before pushing him back onto the bed and gripping his chest to support your body.
Your nails scratch at his pecks as you fuck yourself on his hardness, leaning down to kiss his collarbones and shoulder. Taehyung takes the opportunity the new position grants him to plant his feet on the bed and thrust up into you. You scream, biting down on his shoulder to muffle the sound as he abuses your pussy. You feel his balls slapping against your ass as he fucks into you relentlessly, not slowing his pace for a single moment.
“I am going to come,” you pant into his ear.
“Please, my Queen, let me feel you finish,” he responds.
Your orgasm builds from embers into a slow-burning fire as Taehyung’s final thrusts send you over the edge. When your cunt pulses and soaks Taehyung’s length in cum he moans and rolls you over in one fluid motion. His cock leaves you empty and he fucks his hand before painting your stomach in his seed.
You gasp at the novel feeling of cum splashing onto your flesh. It’s hot and sticky, but you feel prideful over the physical manifestation of Taehyung’s pleasure on your body.
Taehyung gets up from the bed while you’re still trying to catch your breath. The feeling of a wet cloth greets you as he wipes away his cum from your skin and then throws the cloth onto a dresser.
“Did it help, your Highness?”
You can only nod in return, too fucked-out and delirious from the pleasure and adrenaline.
It does help. The two of you continue to sneak away to his quarters two to three times a week so you can use his body to relieve the ache of loneliness. Soon enough your energy returns, allowing you to play with your children again. You lovingly watch their smiles and hear their laughter as they run around the grass. Your appetite returns and your health improves, both physically and mentally. The guilt still eats at you like a famished predator, especially anytime you see Jungkook around the castle or feel him pull you into him at night, but your mind has reached its limit and it can no longer carry the weight of the world.
Neither of you speak of the feelings you shared in the garden before this all started. Taehyung knows how fragile and vulnerable your mental state is and he doesn’t want to pressure you into making this anything more than what it is; just the pleasures of the flesh, only desire, and not love.
The anniversary of the war comes and goes as if it’s just another day, and you and Taehyung continue your affair unbridled. Your entanglements don’t last much longer than that, though.
On the last day of your life, you and Taehyung are in his quarters getting dressed after sleeping together. He leans down to kiss you goodbye when the sound of his door hinges breaking forces you apart.
Four knights barge in, followed by Jungkook.
Your husband’s eyes are unrecognizable, cold and harsh, with no light in them. Reality grips you tight and your hands clasp over your mouth when you realize what must happen now. Jungkook doesn’t say a word, just gestures towards you with his head to command the knights to grab you.
“No! Wait!” You shout as they take each of your arms and restrain you between their bodies. They do the same to Taehyung and he thrashes against their hold. “Wait, Jungkook, please let me explain.” He’s turned away from you now, but you see his hands shake before clenching into fists. The membrane around your heart closes in on the beating muscle. “Jungkook, please just let me see the children,” you beg. “Let me say goodbye to them. Please, my King.”
There’s a heavy moment of silence, the only sound coming from the tears already rolling down your cheeks.
“Take her to the nursery before bringing her to me,” he instructs the knights before exiting. The knights holding Taehyung force him out of the room to follow Jungkook while they bring you in the opposite direction.
The knights hold you taut between them as you walk to where your children are with their nanny, but there is no need. You won’t fight the inevitable.
When you reach the nursery, they let go of you with a glare of warning before allowing you to go inside. The tears begin to fall again as soon as you see your children playing with their toys and books on the ground.
“Mommy!” The four of them shout in unison before running over to you, the young twins stumbling over their little legs to get to you.
You bend down and open your arms for all of them to embrace you at once. Your hands comb over their hair as you kiss their heads. The tears never once cease as you gaze at their beautiful faces.
“Why are you crying, Mommy?” Junghyun asks as he wipes at a tear on your cheek. He’s practically a mini Jungkook, his big eyes and black hair identical to his father’s.
“I have to go away for a while, and I am going to miss you so very much,” you tell him as you caress his cheek.
“Where are you going?” Sooyoung asks with tears in her own eyes.
“It does not matter, my Princess, all that matters is that I love you, and I will miss you all so, so much,” you explain as your voice breaks. “Daddy is going to take good care of you, alright? You know mommy and daddy love you more than anything, yes?”
All four of their little heads nod at you. It makes you smile through the streaks of tears coming down.
“I love you, mommy, and we will miss you, too,” Junghyun says.
He wraps his arms around your neck and you have to bite your lip to suppress a sob. Minho and Wonshik coo and make grabby hands at you for attention. You pick them up one at a time and kiss their cheeks as they tell you they “wuv you foo.”
Sooyoung, your brave little girl, wipes her own tears away before hugging you and kissing your cheek. You return the affection and brush her hair from her eyes.
“Alright. Goodbye, my loves,” you say as evenly as you can.
You don’t glance back at them as you leave. If you see them even once more, you know you will not be able to walk down the long corridor to the fate that awaits you. The knights take your arms again once you’re out of sight of the children. The tears finally cease, and you walk with your back straight and head up.
There’s no reason to cower from what lies ahead, you made your bed and now you must lay in it.
PRESENT DAY
The first-aid team brings you to the nurse’s office in the adjoining building to the gym. The nurse briefly checks your vitals before letting you sleep off the medicine in the back room. It’s supposed to last about an hour, so she places two chairs inside for Taehyung and Jungkook to sit while they wait.
Jungkook storms in first, barely allowing Taehyung to shut the door behind him before he’s facing him with rage burning in his irises.
“Really great fucking timing, Taehyung, truly,” he snaps.
Taehyung has to refrain from physically attacking Jungkook. He clenches his hands into fists until his nails make crescents in his palms.
“You disgusting piece of shit, you fucking monster!” Taehyung shouts. “How dare you hold and kiss her and let her love you when you know what you did and she’s clueless!”
“How dare I?” Jungkook mirrors his tone. “How dare you! You transferred to our fucking school and became friends with her just to try and steal her from me again.”
“I am trying to save her from you!” Taehyung says through gritted teeth.
“Save her? What am I going to do to her? I’m not a King anymore, I’m a fucking college basketball player.”
“You murdered her and she deserves to know.”
Jungkook pauses for a moment, taking a deep breath and releasing the pressure from his neck with a turn of his head.
“Executed.”
“I’m sorry?”
“I executed her, Taehyung, not murdered. And I did it because it was my fucking job as King!” Jungkook yells as he closes in on his former friend.
“She was your wife, the mother of your fucking children and —”
“YOU LEFT ME NO CHOICE!” Jungkook screams at him before stepping back again. He runs his hands down his face and pushes his hair back before continuing, calmer this time. “What did you want me to do, huh? What should I have done when my Queen and first knight betrayed me? Should I have made you sleep in the stables and called it good? That would’ve done an amazing job at showing the entire Kingdom and all our enemies how much of a coward I am.” Jungkook laughs incredulously. “No, no, you do not get to make me the villain, Taehyung. I may have held the blade in my hand but you are the reason she died.”
Taehyung doesn’t respond to his statements, just shakes his head and asks him what he really wants to know.
“How are you even here, Jungkook? I had a sorceress put a spell on Y/N to reincarnate us. You were never supposed to be a part of it,” Taehyung explains.
“I don’t know, what did the spell say?”
“That the person she loves will meet her in the next life and return her memories.”
Jungkook stares him down with his eyebrows raised.
“I’m sorry, you’re confused why a spell like that would bring me, her husband, here, too? You can’t see why that would include me?” Jungkook scoffs and turns away. “Do you think I forced her to marry me? Forced her to be with me and bear my children? Who the fuck do you think I am?” He turns back towards Taehyung again with more fire in his eyes. “She loved me. We loved each other and your little affair did nothing to change that.”
“That’s not what I mean. There was a catch, Jungkook. We had to die together for the spell to work. One right after the other.” Jungkook goes quiet after he hears Taehyung’s words, his eyes tilting towards the floor as his jaw ticks. “Wait…”
“I hadn’t even cleaned your blood off my sword yet.”
Taehyung takes a step back, his eyes opening in shock. He shakes his head, pushing his hair from his eyes as he does so.
“You aren’t seriously saying —”
“I didn’t plan to do it,” Jungkook admits quietly. “But when I looked down at you two, I just…” He glances at your sleeping form, his eyes following the way your chest rises and falls. “I couldn’t live without her. Couldn’t live without either of you, truthfully.”
Silence is all Taehyung can respond with as the true answer of how the three of you are all together again breaks his resolve of confronting Jungkook. The two don’t speak again, they just take the seats at opposite ends of the room and wait for you to wake up.
When you do, it’s with a groan. Your hand comes to rest against your temple as you slowly sit up. Once you’re sitting on the edge of the bed, your eyes finally open and land on Jungkook across from you. They widen for a moment, but then soften as tears well up in them.
“Jungkook,” you cry, your arms opening for him.
He gets to you in a millisecond, pulling you into his chest and wrapping his arms around you. You sob against him as your hands grip the edges of his uniform. He shushes you comfortingly, combing through your hair with his fingers and pressing his lips to the crown of your head.
“S’okay, baby, I’m right here,” he whispers to you.
You stay like that for a while, your cries filling the room and breaking both their hearts in the process.
“Do you know?” You ask without looking up. “Do you have your memories, too?”
“Yeah, my love, I do,” he answers you.
You look up at him with glassy eyes. It’s overwhelming now that your memories are back. He’s here in front of you as you know him, but just underneath the surface there is a shimmer of the King you once knew.
“And you still wanted to be with me after we met?” You ask through a hiccup. “Even knowing what I did?”
Jungkook grabs your face with both hands, pushing your hair out of the way so he can see you properly.
“Are you kidding?” He smiles at the memory of your reunion. “When I found you again it was the happiest day of my life.” A watery chuckle comes from your lips. “I don’t care about any of that, Y/N. I have loved you in all of my lifetimes and I will continue to do so in however many more the universe grants me.”
“I love you so much,” you tell him. “And I am so, so sorry.”
He shakes his head, his thumb moving across your cheekbone lovingly.
“It was a long time ago, my darling. All is forgiven.”
“It doesn’t feel that way, it feels like it was only yesterday.”
“That’s only because you just got your memories back,” he reassures you. “After a while, they’ll feel more like an old dream.”
You nod to acknowledge his words before crashing back into him, letting your arms snake around his neck as he pulls you into his lap. It only takes you another minute to fall asleep again in Jungkook’s arms, a side effect the nurse warned them about earlier.
Taehyung doesn’t stay much longer. Truthfully, he needs to gather his own thoughts, and he knows you’ll be in no condition to talk with him when you wake up.
You text him once the weekend passes and ask to meet by the lake behind the university. When he arrives, you’re already sitting on the wooden bench with your legs crossed and a notebook open in your lap. He doesn’t approach you right away, instead he just takes in the sight of you tucking a piece of hair behind your ear and bending over to write in your notebook.
“Hi,” Taehyung greets you as he rounds the bench.
“Hi,” you reply quietly and gesture for him to sit beside you.
“I didn’t see you around campus at all this weekend,” Taehyung notes.
You sigh and meet his eyes with a soft smile.
“Yeah, um, Jungkook and I decided to take the train to the museum they built out of our castle. We saw our family crypt, too, where we, our children, and grandchildren are buried,” you explain.
“Oh, wow,” Taehyung replies.
“There was this history book they were selling at the gift shop with our entire family tree in it. We sat where the library used to be and read it together. It talked about what happened to the children and had the names and titles of all your grandchildren,” you tell him. “It was really nice.”
“So, what happened with your children?”
“The royal advisor ruled in Junghyun’s stead since he was too young to be King when Jungkook died. The war ended after about five years, and then when Junghyun turned sixteen he was able to rule on his own. Sooyoung married a Prince in a neighboring Kingdom and ruled there as Queen, which is exactly what she always wanted. Minho and Wonshik married a Duchess and Viscountess and they actually became royal tutors. You know, like the ones you and Jungkook had growing up, who taught you sword fighting and horseback riding and all that?”
“Yeah, I remember.”
“I’m so happy knowing they all grew up well and started their own families. Jungkook and I have ten grandchildren.”
“Ten? Wow,” Taehyung laughs. You proudly nod your head and gaze out again at the water. “I’m glad you were able to learn all about them.”
“Yeah… I just wish I had been there to see it,” you whisper. “Wish we both had.” A moment later you snap your fingers when you remember something else. “Actually, we saw your grave, too. It’s in the knight’s crypt not far from our own.”
“Knight’s crypt? I shouldn’t have been buried there. I was stripped of my knighthood when we… well, you know,” he replies.
“I thought the same thing, but Jungkook told me he ordered you to be buried there anyway before the execution,” you respond.
Taehyung is completely dumbfounded by what you’re telling him. It doesn’t compute in his brain why Jungkook would allow him to be buried among the other knights. Before he can question you further, you turn towards him, crossing one leg under your knee so you can face him directly.
“Look, I never got to explain everything to you about what happened leading up to Jungkook and I getting married, and I would like to, if you’ll let me.”
Taehyung nods encouragingly for you to continue, gesturing with his hands that you have the floor to speak your mind. You thank him with a calm smile before sitting up straight so you can finally say what you need to after all this time.
“When you first told me you were leaving for the war, and said you loved me and wanted to marry me, I didn’t reply because, one, I was shocked, and two, because I didn’t feel the same way about you. Growing up, I only ever had feelings for Jungkook. My feelings for you were definitely strong, because you were my best friend, but they were platonic. I honestly put your proposal in the back of my mind because you were leaving, and I didn’t even know if you would survive the war or not. Then when Jungkook had to become King and you were no longer leaving, I didn’t know what that meant in regards to your proposal. You were about to become first knight and have a lot more responsibility, so I figured I would wait for you to talk to me about it and I would tell you my answer at that point.”
“But then Jungkook came to see me the next day and asked me to marry him, and that… that was my dream, Tae. I had loved him for almost my entire life. I wanted to speak to you before the wedding or even before arriving at the castle, but there was no time. I wanted to explain my feelings so you knew I wasn’t just ignoring your confession and doing whatever I wanted. But obviously, I never got the chance and you stopped speaking to me altogether.”
“Then, when the war broke out, and we grew close again, I did end up developing feelings for you. You were there for me when no one else was and it was easy to fall for you when we would spend day in and day out together. But, Taehyung, that was the first time I ever felt anything romantic for you. I know you think Jungkook stole me from you or forced me into becoming Queen, but that’s not the case. My heart has always belonged to Jungkook from the very beginning, and even when I did grow to love you, my feelings for him never waned.”
“All this to say, I am so grateful you had a spell cast on me so we all get a second chance at this, but the memories you returned to me are just that… memories. The life I’m currently living, the one where I was born to two pediatricians, went to ballet school, and became a cheerleader, that’s my life, not the one where I was a midwife and a Queen. Even if you and I had been these star-crossed lovers who never got the chance to be together, it doesn’t change the life I’ve lived so far. It doesn’t change that I fell in love with Jungkook. Not the Prince or King, but the computer science major who plays basketball and is competitive, funny, spontaneous, and kind. I love him for who he is today, memories or not.”
Taehyung takes several moments to absorb everything you’re telling him, and truthfully, he’s confused. His entire life he’s always believed you felt the same way for him, and when you told him you loved him in the gardens he thought you meant you always had.
“But, before you were executed, your last words… you told me you loved me, Y/N,” Taehyung argues.
Your eyes widen and a sympathetic frown appears on your face.
“Taehyung, my last words...” You sigh. “I wasn’t saying that to you. I was saying it to Jungkook.”
The truth forces a sob out of Taehyung as tears escape from his waterline. He goes to wipe them away, but your finger is already grazing his cheek and doing so yourself.
“This was supposed to be our second chance, Y/N. For you and me to finally be together,” he cries.
“It still can be. Romantic love is not the only kind there is. You are and forever will be my best friend, and this can be our second chance to have the friendship we were always supposed to have. For all three of us to be together the way we once were,” you propose.
“No, I could never forgive Jungkook for what he did,” he snaps.
“Forgive him?” You respond harshly. “Tae, we stabbed him in the fucking back. I vowed to love and cherish him and then I fucked his best friend and first knight. The one person he was supposed to trust more than anyone in the world. Then we forced a sword in his hand and made him kill the two people he loved the most. We knew when we started sleeping together what would happen if we got caught and we did it anyway. He didn’t kill us, we killed him.”
You exhale and tuck your hair behind your ear, chewing on your lip as you calm down and think of your next words.
“I love you, Taehyung. I will always love you, and I want you in my life. Jungkook wants you in his life,” you state. “But you have to be willing to move on from the past and accept what happened. Take accountability for the things we did and let it all go.”
Once you leave, Taehyung sits in silence as he stares out across the lake, sorrowful tears staining his skin. He knows you’re right about the past. It’s time to move on and start living the life he has now, but it isn’t easy when he’s spent so long just waiting for you to start your lives together.
The sun disappears from the sky before Taehyung comes to the realization he can still have that, just as you said, because being together doesn’t have to mean romantically. And truth be told, he needs his friends more than anything else.
He finds you and Jungkook at a picnic table outside the library about a week later.
Your arms are pushing at Jungkook’s shoulders to keep him from grabbing the candy bag between your legs. He’s sporting a mischievous toothy grin as he tries to maneuver around your hold to successfully steal your treat. You laugh loudly when Jungkook bites at the air in a feeble attempt to use his teeth as a method of thievery. It distracts you enough, though, and Jungkook uses the opportunity to snatch the bag from you before stealing a kiss, too.
“Nooo,” you whine as he laughs and eats your candy uninterrupted.
Taehyung clears his throat, and you both stop in your tracks, the candy bag falling from Jungkook’s hands onto the table with a soft plop.
“Hey,” Taehyung says through a chuckle. “I just wanted to say that I’m sorry for… well, there’s a lot, isn’t there?” He runs a hand through his hair. “I’m just sorry, and if you guys would be interested, maybe we can all hang out sometime.”
For the first time, he looks at Jungkook instead of you, and watches the way his expression morphs from surprise to delight. In an instant, Jungkook is standing and rounding the table to bring Taehyung into a crippling embrace. Taehyung chuckles awkwardly, hesitant to show any affection in return, but then Jungkook rests his chin on Taehyung’s shoulder, and the bittersweet nostalgia makes him wrap his arms around him.
“I missed you,” Jungkook confesses.
Taehyung sighs and tightens his grip.
“Missed you, too… your Highness.”
“Don’t even joke, man.”
You squeal behind them, your feet tapping against the ground while you do a miniature victory dance from your seat. They both turn to look at you with completely endeared twin smiles, and you smile right back, head tilting to the right as your nose scrunches up.
The smell of wildflowers wafts through the air, despite there being none around, as if the universe is congratulating the three of you on finally making it back home to each other.
Summary: You took the risk of falling in love in a world where your perfect match is decided for you by the universe itself. When a name you never could've predicted appears on your wrist, you do everything you can to stop the inevitable.
Pairing: Jungkook x Reader, (Brief) Taehyung x Reader
Genre: Soulmate AU, Boyfriend's Best Friend, Friends to Lovers, Angst, Fluff, Smut
Word Count: 19.3k+
Warnings: swearing, drinking, partying, yelling, crying, lying, heartbreak, physical pain, injury, burning sensations, cramping, chest aches, lose of appetite, vomiting, insomnia, mentions of UTI and mono, emotional cheating (kinda), a break-up, loss of friendship, use of pet names (baby, pumpkin, princess), soccer, use of sports lingo, fear of heights, tattoos. SMUT: one-night stands, kissing, hair pulling, fingering, hand job, oral sex (both receiving), penetrative sex, unprotected sex (she's on bc), missionary, dick riding, big dick!jk bc I'm nothing if not accurate, cum swallowing (m & f), spitting, gagging via hand, cream pie, scratching, aftercare, please lmk if I missed any!
Author's Note: I've returned from my mandatory military service (writer's block) after over two years. I'm very excited to be writing again and hope you all love this one as much as I do. It's my first time posting smut that I've written so I'm v nervous and would appreciate any feedback on that or the story as a whole. Please, please let me know what you think :)
Your thighs are growing sore from the metal of the bleachers digging into them. Taehyung warned you to bring your bleacher seat, but in your rush out the door tonight you forgot it. Shifting uncomfortably, you rise up just enough to readjust your clothes to create a barrier between you and the cold steel.
The girl next to you chuckles at your situation.
You don’t know her very well and honestly you barely remember her name. Jisoo? Jihyo? It isn’t in your best interest to try and memorize the many women who accompany you to these games.
As if to make matters worse, it’s a night game, and the brisk wind of nighttime is nipping at your thighs through your jeans.
What’s-her-name is wearing a skirt and tights, even though you told Jungkook to tell her she should dress warmly. You’re too nice for your own good; trying to keep these women comfortable while they cheer for your team for the sole purpose of spending their night with the star player afterwards.
Jeon Jungkook is only a sophomore, while your boyfriend, Kim Taehyung, is a junior. Nevertheless, Jungkook can only be described as a goddamn soccer prodigy, and as such he’s garnered most of the attention since joining the team.
It’s certainly no skin off your back. You don’t need hordes of women trying to get at your man. Jungkook can keep all that attention for himself. Which he does. Joyously.
You hold no resentment or judgement towards Jungkook for the fact that you come to these games with a new woman every week. Some would even say he’s making smarter choices than you are by having a serious, long-term boyfriend whose name isn’t tattooed on your wrist.
At some point during young adulthood a name appears on everyone’s wrist indicating who their soulmate is. Impossible to predict nor refute, they could be a stranger you’ll meet down the line, someone you’ve known since childhood, or anything in between. Many people, such as yourself, allow love into their hearts regardless of the impending reveal of one’s soulmate.
Truthfully, if Taehyung isn’t your soulmate, you don’t know who the hell could be. A perfect match doesn’t even scratch the surface of him. He’s attentive, always catching on when your mood shifts. Considerate, asking for your input over the most menial decisions. And loving, holding you close and providing you with unyielding affection. Taehyung will do whatever it takes to bring you happiness and you strive to reciprocate that.
You were introduced to your now-boyfriend by none other than Jungkook. The pair are childhood best friends who’ve been playing soccer together since they could kick a ball. It was over freshman orientation weekend after you and Jungkook were assigned to the same icebreaker group. Upon mingling for the day, Jungkook served his best friend to you on a silver platter and the rest is history. As soon as you saw his boxy grin, being around him became a non-negotiable.
There is a piece of you that refuses to admit your soulmate could be anyone else, but the rest of you knows how great the possibility is. A gnawing anxiety regarding that fact likes to find its way into your bones every once in a while.
Your fingers dance across your wrist in thought, pressing down against your vein to feel your pulse.
When you look up, it’s just in time to see your boyfriend’s best friend scoring a goal. Ji-something stands up to cheer as loud as she can. The soccer field is large, but not that large. She only needs half the volume to get her message across.
You chuckle at Jungkook’s entire face going red when he hears her holler. He scratches the back of his neck as he returns to his position for the next set of plays.
Eyes perusing for a familiar head of black curls, you find your boyfriend in his defensive position. A smile creeps in without you realizing as pride swells in your chest. You clap when he successfully prevents the other team from scoring, but don’t make yourself as known as your companion.
A wishful sigh breaks you from your admiration.
“I wish Jungkook would settle down like Taehyung has,” the girl pouts.
“Well, I think he’s trying to spare both your feelings, don’t you think?” You’ve had this conversation one too many times with one too many girls. “Neither of you know if you’re soulmates and getting into a relationship could lead to heartache.”
“Then why did you do it?”
That’s a great question, and one you wish you knew the answer to. Your nature is cautious and you've always been prudent when it comes to love. Prior to college, your plan was to remain single until your tattoo materialized. There were hookups occasionally during your high school years, but never once breaching into the realm of dating.
“I just fell in love, and the idea of not being with him hurt more than the possibility that he isn’t my soulmate.”
“Wow,” she stares in awe. “That’s so romantic.”
You only grant her a nod before reverting your attention back to the game. It’s nearly over now which means you can finally get your arms around Taehyung and hold him close for the rest of the night.
The team is victorious as usual and the players gather around in the center to celebrate their victory with an indiscernible cheer. Leading your companion down the bleachers, you wait at the separation between the stands and the field as both boys come jogging over.
Taehyung’s smile is radiant as he beams. He pulls you in for a kiss immediately once he reaches you. You’re giggling against his lips as he pecks you repeatedly in quick succession.
“Proud of you, baby,” you whisper into his mouth.
You steal his hand from behind your head to lace his fingers with yours. When you glance over, Jungkook is speaking with his woman-of-the-week. Although, you aren’t sure you can describe her eager rambling and his mindless nodding as a conversation.
Taehyung’s knowing chuckle meets your ear.
“They never learn,” he says.
“Oh no, she knows she’s disposable,” you correct him. “She just wants him bad enough not to care.”
“JK,” Taehyung grabs the younger one’s attention. “We’re gonna grab dinner, you and Jiseon wanna join?”
Wow, you feel like such an asshole. If Taehyung can remember her name surely you should’ve.
“Nah, we’re good.”
Jungkook winks at his friend and you feign a gag sound. Sticking your finger near your mouth for dramatic effect. Jungkook only rolls his eyes before waving goodbye. The brat didn’t even thank you for entertaining his little fling tonight. Unbelievable.
Besides his questionable choices in sexual partners, you genuinely enjoy Jungkook’s company. You aren’t necessarily close, but he’s around enough that you know his favorite food and band. You know that he’s sweet and caring towards the people in his life. And he certainly doesn’t mistreat the women he spends his time with. There is a thick boundary laid before anyone ever steps foot inside his apartment. His girls know exactly what they’re signing up for.
After dinner, Taehyung walks you back to your place while reminiscing over the most exciting moments of the game. You listen intently while swinging your connected hands back and forth between you.
He spends the night like he often does after a Friday night game and you wake up together just in time to catch brunch at the closest dining hall.
While you dress in the comfiest outfit you own, your boyfriend’s voice is telling someone where you’ll be. He ends the call with a quick goodbye before leaning in the doorway of your bathroom.
“JK’s meeting us for brunch, if that’s ok?”
“Is his girly friend joining?”
“Nope,” he says with a pop of his lips. Your head hangs as you chuckle. Figures.
When you turn around, Taehyung is admiring you like you aren’t in an old hoodie and sweatpants. His hands reach for your waist, pulling you closer and enveloping you into his chest. You sigh, resting your head where his heartbeat can be heard.
“I love you, pumpkin,” he says with a kiss to your hair. You rest your chin on his sternum to get a better view.
“I love you more, handsome,” you reply.
He kisses you briefly before dragging you from the warmth of your apartment to eat some poorly-made pancakes and instant eggs.
The dining hall’s familiar scent infiltrates your nostrils. Frankly, you’re starving and need to consume something before the hangry version of you comes out to meet the world.
You and Taehyung are already eating by the time Jungkook comes in through the large glass doors. The boy looks a mess; hair pointing in a million directions, hoodie barely on and revealing part of his stomach above his joggers, and a purple bruise sits to the left of his throat.
“Wow,” you say as you chew through a pineapple slice.
“Yeah,” he says with a boyish smile, his body leaning against a chair back. “It was fucking awesome.”
“Ew,” you groan.
Taehyung cheers for his friend, high fiving him as the younger one takes a seat.
“Hyung, you wouldn’t believe the shit she did with her —”
“No, no, stop that,” you scold him before he ruins your breakfast. “We’re eating.”
“So? There’s nothing gross or bad about sex, Y/N,” he argues.
“You’re right, but I don’t need to hear about your sex, okay?”
“I, for one, would like to hear about it,” Taehyung responds. You gawk at him from across the table. “What? Maybe we could learn a thing or two.”
“Tae!”
Jungkook’s hearty laugh only furthers your annoyance. Once he leaves to get food, you point your fork at your boyfriend in a silent warning before continuing to eat.
There’s a party tonight at another teammate’s off-campus house. Taehyung begs you with his big, adorable puppy eyes and you instantly fold. They are your only kryptonite and you agree without another thought when he asks to go.
You travel hand-in-hand back to your apartment after brunch so you can finish some homework before the party. With a kiss and a promise to pick you up at 8, he heads home.
The biology homework for your mandatory gen-ed is staring you in the face. It’s the last of your assignments to complete before you’re free to get ready. A groan passes through your lips while you tip your head back in frustration. Science is so not your thing and this is the last class you’ll ever have to take on the subject. There is a high probability of the course tanking your GPA this semester.
Chewing on your lip, your phone teases you with its presence. There is someone you know who's a biology major, but you’ve never asked him for help before and you aren’t sure you can handle the teasing that will follow if you do.
You curse as your fingers find his contact before you can change your mind. You’ve never once called or texted him separately, only ever in a group chat with your boyfriend and a few others.
He answers after a couple rings, but his voice is laced with confusion when he does.
“Hello?”
“Hey,” you stretch the syllable as far as it can go.
“What’s up?”
“Jungkookie…” you play coy. “Could you possibly help me with something?”
“What is it?”
You hear shuffling on the other end, as if he’s already getting up to fulfill your request.
“My bio homework,” you answer. “Can I just send you a picture of it or something and you can tell me the answers?”
He chuckles, low and soft.
“Sure.”
You cheer to yourself, kicking your feet and flipping off the paper in front of you that will finally be conquered.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” you shout.
“Mmhm, just send it over.”
You do so as soon as you hang up. It’s barely been fifteen minutes when the photo returns, this time with answers added next to each question.
You throw your head back and resist the urge to literally kiss the photo on your phone screen. This assignment has haunted you for days now. Vowing to repay Jungkook in kind, you complete the worksheet to match his answers before heading to the shower to get ready.
When Taehyung arrives at 8, you still have to finish putting on your jewelry. He smirks knowingly at your consistent lack of punctuality. His body takes purchase on your bed while you adjust the final details of your outfit.
It’s nothing special, just a sweater and a skirt, but you can tell it does something for your boyfriend by the way he eyes you from his position. His legs are spread, feet firmly planted as he licks his lips. Ever the temptress, you situate yourself on his lap when you’re finished.
His hands instinctively meet your thighs, rubbing them as he eyes your lips.
“Careful, baby, we have somewhere to be,” he says.
“Do we, though?”
You tilt your head without breaking eye contact. He answers with a nod, but his lips are already ascending on the junction between your neck and shoulder. You moan appreciatively, resisting the urge to move against his crotch.
The kiss is far too short and light for your liking, and once he’s satisfied with his teasing he stands to leave. You groan and give him your best pout. Adorably pleading with him for more affection, but he merely tsks at your antics before tugging you out of the apartment.
The party is heard before it’s seen. The bass of the music is vibrating the floorboards as you walk inside. Taehyung leads you in by your hand and you greet his teammates and their partners or guests for the night on your way to the kitchen.
He pours you both a drink into dinky plastic cups and hands one of them over. The first sip burns, but the next couple are smoother as you acquire the taste.
You traverse the party together as normal, mingling for a while and dancing together for a spell. After a couple hours, Taehyung joins his team in a beer pong tournament while you head to the porch for some fresh air.
You rest your elbows on the hardwood railing and let your heavy head fall forward. Truthfully, you aren’t that drunk, but stuffy heat from the house mixed with alcohol isn’t doing you any favors.
The door behind you opens, and none other than the friendly-neighborhood fuckboy comes tumbling outside. When he notices your presence, he sighs in relief and joins you at the railing.
“Who are you running from?”
“Jiseon,” he answers. You giggle. That would explain his antsy behavior.
“Let me guess, she didn’t take the ‘one night only’ hint,” you say. He shakes his head, dark hair falling into his eyes. “Aw, poor you, it must be so hard to have an endless amount of women at your disposal.”
He turns towards you, leaning sideways against the railing so he can face you.
“This isn’t my preferred method of human connection, you know,” he says. “I would love nothing more than to have what you and Taehyung do. All I want is for my soulmate’s name to show up so I can finally seek the comfort of their arms instead of whatever random girl is chasing after me that day.”
“Then why don’t you try with someone to have what Tae and I do?”
“Because I don’t want to get my heart broken,” he answers truthfully. “Not that you and Tae will, I just —”
“No, it’s okay.” You turn to face him as well. “I know it’s a possibility.”
“It may seem backwards to you,” he adds. “And it’s not like I don’t enjoy casual sex. I do.” Your eyes roll back on reflex. “But I don’t sleep around because I’m insatiable or abundantly horny. I’m just lonely.”
You frown, never realizing the extent of Jungkook’s feelings on the matter. One of your hands reaches out to grasp his tattooed wrist.
“You’ll find her someday soon, Jungkook,” you offer with a smile. “And she’s gonna love you.”
If only you knew just how soon he would find her or that he already knew her.
You finish the night off with a brief makeout in the downstairs bathroom. It’s not the most romantic or pretty location, but you’re too intoxicated at that point to care when Taehyung’s lips are on yours.
He walks you home and ensures you enter your apartment safely before retreating back to his own. You fall into your bed with a plop, the soft blankets surrounding you with warmth and comfort. Nuzzling into your sheets, you’re in dreamland before you can notice the black ink slowly darkening on your skin.
Upon waking up, your headache is the first to greet you. Feet finding the floor through half-closed eyelids, a groan erupts from your chest as you stretch the sleep out of your body. Your eyes are still barely open as you trudge to the bathroom to see the aftermath of last night.
Unfortunately for you, the version of you from last night forgot to take off her makeup. You gently wash away the dried mascara and lip gloss before applying some product. The entire routine is complete before you ever notice the new addition on your skin. It’s only once you brush your teeth and your wrist is in your direct eyesight that you see it.
You yelp, your toothbrush falling from your mouth and clattering in the sink. Your first instinct is to try and wash it off, as if it’s some cruel prank someone pulled. As hard as you possibly can, you run your wrist under the water and scrub at the name staring back at you. You even add soap, as if that will somehow reverse what you already know to be true.
“No, no, no,” you chant desperately. “Please,” you beg to whatever or whoever is in charge.
After scrubbing until your skin is bright red and burning, you finally turn the water off. Your hand shakes almost violently from the fear and adrenaline coursing through you. Pressing your finger down over your vein, you close your eyes in an attempt to bestill your racing heartbeat.
It’s as useless as scrubbing, and when you open your eyes and look into the mirror, a cry breaks from your body as you collapse into your bathroom carpet. You hug your knees to your chest, keeping your eyes tightly shut as tears escape them. This has to be some sick nightmare. It simply can’t be reality.
The weight of the truth is pushing you down below the surface of your tolerance. It feels like you’re drowning, swallowing gallons of water and burning your esophagus in the process. Your body couldn’t produce enough tears if it tried. The soul-crushing emotions are too insurmountable.
The sound of your phone ringing brings your heartbeat to a grinding halt. Your eyes find the source atop the bathroom counter. All you can do is stare helplessly at destiny calling. You already know who the caller is because soulmate tattoos always appear in pairs.
Attempting to settle your breathing, you crawl to where you can reach your phone from the floor. The vibration of it against the marble is identical to your shaking hand as you answer it. You inhale three shaky breaths before moving it to your ear.
“Y/N.”
His voice catapults your heart completely out of your chest. You’re unsure where it’s gone, but you know it isn’t inside you anymore. The urge to cry again is so forceful you have to bite down on your lip to restrain yourself. Even then, when you respond, your voice breaks over the words.
“What do we do?”
As you speak, your eyes fall to your wrist again. There, in small, black, cursive lettering is the last name you ever expected to find.
Jungkook
“I’m going to come over, alright?”
You’re nodding before remembering he can’t see you.
“Okay,” you whimper. And then, a voice you don’t believe is your own says, “Hurry, please.”
It’s damn near impossible to lift yourself from the floor. You feel concrete in your bones and lead in your blood. Tears are staining your cheeks, but you barely register it over the sound of your thoughts running wild.
The knock on your door arrives quicker than you expect, but then again you did tell him to hurry. An unfamiliar feeling spreads through your chest at the thought of him rushing to you. Ignoring the way it reminds you of butterflies, you finally stand to answer the door.
You think your soul must have been replaced with someone else’s. Taehyung is the only person your heart has ever somersaulted for. Your sweet, adoring, funny, and wonderful boyfriend. His smile comes to mind and it constricts your airway.
Does the soul bond really reconstruct your emotional landscape that quickly? The answer comes as soon as you open the door.
You’ve seen Jungkook at least 500 times over the course of a year and a half and locked eyes with him even more often than that. You did so just last night on the porch. Seeing him on the opposite side of your door should be simple. Yet, nothing prepares you for the swarm of emotions you feel when you finally see him.
It’s as if the world has tilted on its axis, but not as if it’s suddenly spinning the wrong way. No, it’s as though this whole time it has been wrong, and only now is it right. You hold your breath without meaning to. Your very soul yearns to leap from your body just to get an inch closer to him.
Jungkook’s eyes are blown wide, pupils dialated to the point where you can’t tell where his irises begin. His face is flushed, but you’re unsure if it’s from seeing you or the method of speed he used to reach you. His inhales and exhales are shallow, forced out only by muscle memory. You notice his hands are shaking where they rest limply by his side. They twitch towards you before he’s closing them into fists.
“Holy shit.”
It falls from your lips before you can stop it. The feeling is a riptide pulling you under without anything to stop it.
Jungkook inhales deeply at the sound of your voice, as if it was the one thing he needed to hear. He steps into your apartment and closes the door behind him. You take a parallel step back to hold the distance between you. Your own body scolds you for doing so.
It isn’t for long, because when Jungkook reaches out slowly to take your wrist in his hand, you melt. Your body succumbs to the feeling of his touch the way it feels to slip into a warm bath. Your mouth is releasing a sigh of relief before you can tell it not to.
He observes your skin curiously, taking in the view of his name written there. His thumb delicately traces the curves. His eyes are misty and filled with something unreadable.
“Jungkook,” your voice comes out so small. His eyes find yours and you come to realize how much his heart is breaking, too. “We should talk.”
Hand dropping yours, he nods and follows you to your couch. Although you were the one who suggested a conversation, words die in your throat. The silence stretches between you like molasses.
“I…” you try to find the right words only to realize there are none. “I love him, Jungkook. I can’t — god — I can’t hurt him like this. I don’t want to lose him.”
“I know,” your companion nods solemnly. “I can’t either.” He runs his hands through his hair. “I’ve known him since I was four. He’s the only reason I even started playing soccer.” A deep breath. “He’s my best friend.”
Your head finds your hands as you fold yourself in half, letting your elbows meet your knees. The pain in your chest reverberates through your entire system. You didn’t even know heartbreak could carry a physical ache.
“What the fuck are we gonna do?”
You’re crying into your hands. You can’t catch your breath for the life of you. The sobbing is painful in your throat. A firm hand finds your spine, gently moving up and down in the only way it knows how to console you. The touch leaves a warmth in its wake that you’ve never experienced before.
“We can’t tell him,” you whisper into your hands. Looking up, you find Jungkook’s eyes again. “We just have to pretend like this never happened.”
“Y/N, you know we can’t do that,” he replies. “Bad things happen to people who ignore their soul bond.”
“I don’t care. The universe is fucking sick and twisted and I’m not going to give it what it wants,” you say. Then, after inhaling and allowing your thoughts to rationalize, you continue. “We just continue on like nothing is wrong, but we spend more time together. Find excuses to hang out as the three of us. Maybe that will be enough to keep the bond from retaliating against us.”
Jungkook looks skeptical, he tilts his head and tongues his cheek in thought.
“What if it doesn’t work?”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it,” you respond. Then, despite your best efforts to stop your mouth from opening, “you're not going to keep sleeping with other girls, are you?”
He shakes his head without missing a beat.
“No, I could never do that,” he answers. You despise the feeling of relief that washes over you.
“I’ll have to think of something to tell Tae. Say I have a UTI or something,” you muse.
“No, Y/N, you don’t have to do that. It’s different,” Jungkook argues.
“I couldn’t,” you reply. “The thought of… of him making love to me when I have someone else’s name, your name, on my wrist makes me sick to my stomach.”
Taehyung’s ears must be burning because your phone rings and his face lights up the screen. Shattering your heart in its entirety when you see the goofy smile in his contact photo. Glancing towards Jungkook, you get up to take the call elsewhere.
He tells you he wants to study together after lunch. The thought of seeing him right now nearly sends bile up your throat. It will be too suspicious for you to say no. It’s the weekend and you never shy away from spending time together. You follow through with what you discussed and ask if you can invite Jungkook. You lie through your teeth and say it’s because you need help with biology. He thinks nothing of it as he replies with a sweet “of course.”
Therein begins your corrosive web of lies. Time moves normally, even though you feel anything but. Everyday a new lie tumbles from your lips like smoke. You feel yourself choking on it as it suffocates you from the inside. You vastly underestimated how hard your body would fight you for rejecting your soul bond with Jungkook.
At first, it was tingling when you kissed Taehyung or an ache when you held his hand. But slowly, it got worse. After a few weeks, you couldn’t kiss him without a burning sensation on your lips. By the end of a month, holding his hand sent a stinging cramp down your arm. You explained you couldn’t have sex due to a UTI. Later, you claimed you couldn’t kiss because you caught mono.
After six weeks, the aches and pains don’t just happen when you’re with Taehyung. They start happening simply because you’re away from Jungkook.
You miss one of your morning classes because the cramping in your abdomen is so bad you can’t leave your bed. Dinners go uneaten because you can’t help but throw up the contents of your stomach. One night, while watching one of their soccer games, you leave because the most painful ache you can imagine is surging through your chest. You spend the evening alone, clutching your heart as you cry to whoever may be listening that this isn’t fair.
Jungkook isn’t doing much better, he tells you. His grades have begun to drop and he’s missing practices left and right. One day you see him limping across the courtyard. He tells you he pulled a muscle at the gym doing something he’s done a million times. That he can feel himself getting weaker everyday.
The pair of you try your hardest to stall the effects by spending as much time together as you can. You don’t think you’ve spent alone time with Taehyung in weeks now. You sit next to each other at meals with your friends. He comes over to study whenever he’s free. If he’s going to a party, so are you.
It’s not enough, because the physical closeness doesn’t make up for the emotional distance. You know it’s only a matter of time before nature forces you to confront what you’ve been avoiding.
You’re sitting on Taehyung’s lap in the basement of a teammate’s house. The three Motrin you took beforehand aren’t helping the cramping in your legs nor the burning that follows Taehyung’s touch along your thigh. Jungkook is next to him, an uncomfortable scowl written into his features. It’s almost permanent these days.
During a lull in the conversation, Taehyung leans forward to brush his lips on your neck. You yelp and stand abruptly from the sharp pain his kiss causes. Taehyung looks at you in concern, grabbing your hands to make you face him.
“Baby?” His eyes are so soft and loving when he peers up at you. “Are you alright?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” you lie as you massage your neck. “I just need to hit the restroom real quick.”
Jungkook’s eyes are swimming with distress as they follow you out of the room.
Forcing open the sticky bathroom door, you shut it behind you and brace yourself on the sink. When you look in the mirror, you don’t recognize the woman looking back. She’s skinnier than you, face pale, eyes hollow and devoid of light. You breathe deeply and are about to return when the door opens.
Jungkook moves as quickly and quietly as possible, peering out for any onlookers before shutting and locking the door behind him. Your body relaxes, your breath leveling, your nerves taking a rest from their constant anxiety.
“Are you alright?”
His hand is halfway in the air when he speaks, as though to reach out, but he changes his mind and lets it fall to his side.
You respect his hesitation, but you can’t do this a second longer. Grabbing his hand back, you place it on your cheek, covering his fingers with your own to hold it steady. His eyes widen momentarily before relaxing and gazing around your face.
“I am now,” you whisper. It’s true. His touch feels like aloe in the summer. The warmth of him is so comforting you could fall asleep standing up.
He licks his lips and you can see the gears turning inside as he analyzes your expression. You blink slowly, cat-like, and realize you don’t need words to communicate because he does precisely what you want him to.
His forehead presses to yours and your lungs sing as they finally work unimpeached. Tension releases from Jungkook’s body as his shoulders slump forward. You know how terribly you both need this, and yet your betrayal to Taehyung feels venomous. A moment of serenity passes over you in the silence of the room. It’s a welcome reprieve from the chaos your lives have become.
“I can’t do this anymore,” you admit. “Everyday just gets harder. My heart feels like it’s going to rip out of my chest every second I spend apart from you.”
His head twists against you, his eyes opening to catch your gaze. There’s an intensity in his stare you’ve never seen before. You’re on a precipice together, and Jungkook is like a dam just waiting to hear you say the word so he can break.
“Tell me what you want, Y/N,” he says.
“It’s not about what I want,” your tone is harsher than you hoped. “It’s about what I need.”
His other hand curls into your shirt near your waist, tugging you closer until your bodies are touching. Your free hand finds its way to his chest, fingertips passing over unfamiliar territory.
Jungkook sighs deep in his chest.
“I could stay like this forever,” he tells you. “Feel like I’ve been drowning and I can finally breathe again.”
Your eyes snap shut as you will yourself not to cry. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be and there is nothing you want more than for everything to go back to the way it was. But your harsh reality is staring you down and sinking its teeth into your jugular. The universe is sucking you dry and soon there will be nothing left.
“We'll tell him tomorrow,” you announce. The finality of it constricts your airway. Jungkook is pulling you into him before the first sob even exits your body. He wraps his arms around you as a hand finds home in your hair.
Your tears soak Jungkook’s shirt where it rests against his shoulder. Every single drowning emotion comes out in slamming waves, pushing you up against a rocky shoreline. It shuts down your nervous system and disrupts your mental state.
When the sobbing subsides, Jungkook gently lifts your head and his free hand swipes away at the tear stains still present on your cheekbones.
“It’s going to be alright,” he states. “And don’t ask me how I know,” he smiles just a hair. “I don’t. I’m just hopeful.”
You laugh for what feels like the first time in forever. It’s short and quiet, but it’s enough for Jungkook’s smile to grow.
He lets you exit the cramped space first, waiting a few minutes before exiting and finding a spot elsewhere so he has an alibi. You return to Taehyung feeling a mixture of dread and relief. Tomorrow could very well be the worst day of your life, but at least this nightmare will be over.
When you kiss Taehyung goodbye that night, you do it through physical ache, but knowing that it will probably be your last hurts worse than anything else.
You cry yourself to sleep because it’s the only way you know how to cause enough fatigue to fall into slumber.
The following morning you text Jungkook and Taehyung asking them both to come over. At this point it’s routine for the three of you to hang out so it goes unquestioned. When they arrive, you make yourself busy in the kitchen so you don’t have to touch your boyfriend unnecessarily. You also need the extra time to mentally prepare yourself.
Placing two hot bowls of ramen in front of them, you take a seat on the couch as far from Taehyung as possible. Jungkook sits in a chair just across from you.
“Pumpkin, you didn’t have to do this,” Taehyung says as he slurps his first bite of noodles into his mouth.
Jungkook is staring into the familiar food with a faraway look. You gesture for him to eat, but his response is a shake of his head.
“So, why’d you want us here on this lovely Saturday?”
Your gut twists at the notion of today being lovely. Taehyung is clueless that you’re about to shatter his heart in your hand. Yours has been slowly deteriorating all this time.
“I actually have to tell you something, Tae,” you start. His eyes glance at you briefly, nodding for you to continue while he eats. “You should probably put that down.”
Taehyung stops mid-bite, slowly setting the bowl back on the coffee table without breaking eye contact with you.
“What’s going on?” He questions as his eyes flit to his friend sitting silently across from him. Jungkook doesn’t dare look up as his eyes find something on the floor to distract himself.
“I got my soulmate tattoo,” you admit to him. The raw truth both burns and soothes your throat simultaneously as it breaches the air. Taehyung’s pupils are shaking when he looks at you and you can tell he doesn’t believe you yet. “It was almost two months ago now.”
“And you… you didn’t think you should tell me about that?”
His voice pitches up, but he doesn’t sound angry, just confused.
“I didn’t know how,” you reply. “And —”
“Wait,” Taehyung’s voice cuts through the air like a knife. “What is Jungkook doing here? Why would you want us both here, Y/N?”
Your mouth snaps shut in an instant as your eyes begin to water. There’s no mental strength left within you to even say it out loud.
“I’m so sorry,” you whisper.
“No.” Taehyung stands. “No, no, there is no fucking way.” He holds his hand out towards you. “Give me your hand.” Your limb is shaking as it stretches towards him. Despite his tone, he’s gentle when he grabs your wrist to inspect it. When he spots the familiar name etched into your skin, he gasps painfully. It’s a sound so unlike him it makes you flinch. “No,” he repeats. His voice breaks over the syllable in the most soul-crushing way. He blinks tears from his eyes as he just stares at your skin.
“Taehyung,” you grab his attention. Your tears mirror his own now. “I love you. This doesn’t change that.”
He lets your wrist fall limply against the couch before crashing down himself. His expression is so utterly broken you aren’t sure if he can even hear you.
“It changes everything,” he replies. “Love doesn’t matter in the face of fate.” He laughs, but there is no warmth in it. “How does this always fucking happen?” You want to ask what he means, but his eyes are already on Jungkook. His expression hardens into pure ice. “You always get everything you want, huh, Jungkookie?”
“Don’t do that,” Jungkook says coldly. “Don’t act like I fucking asked for this.”
“But that’s just the thing, you didn’t have to! The universe just spits out good luck at you like you won the lottery,” Taehyung explains. “Ever since we were kids you were always on top. Better grades, better skills, better looks, and now,” he laughs again, but this time with venom dripping from his voice. “It gives you the one thing that matters most to me.”
“Hyung, we tried —”
“Nah, you don’t get to call me that, kid,” Taehyung sneers. Jungkook’s face drops in terror, so unbelievably shocked at his best friend’s words. “You took my fucking girl from me. I will never forgive you for that, whether it was your choice or not.”
“Tae, it isn’t his fault,” you interject.
“And you,” Taehyung snaps. He stands to face you directly. “You little fucking liar! A UTI? Mono? Were you fucking him this whole time behind my back?”
“Jesus — fuck, no!” You match his stance as you stand before him. “I would never do that to you!”
“No, you’d just lie to my face instead,” he retorts.
“Yes, Tae, because I wanted to be with you. I did everything in my power to try and stop whatever destiny had in store for me,” you say. “You have no idea what I went through just to stay next to you for even a second longer. What we went through. For you!”
“Yeah, right.”
“I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t eat. I was missing class. I was taking double the daily allowance of painkillers,” you say calmly. “Touching you would send shockwaves down my arm. Kissing you burned. There were nights where I couldn’t breathe because the pain was so bad.” You inhale through your nose. “And I did it anyway. I did it because the thought of losing you was astronomically worse than any pain I was in.” Then, you point to Jungkook, who still sits defeated in the chair. “His muscles were literally atrophying. Could barely lift half the weight he used to be able to. His GPA dropped a whole point because he couldn’t focus enough in class. He would wake up drenched in sweat and so tired it was like he hadn’t slept at all.” You take a final deep breath. “You mean the world to me, to both of us. So don’t you dare claim we’re at fault for this. We’re hurting, too.”
Taehyung is staring at the ground as he mulls over your words. He sniffles and meets your eyes.
“So that’s it, then… we just break up?”
“I don’t know what else to do,” you answer truthfully. “I think the soul bond will kill me if I keep denying it any longer.”
Taehyung throws his head back with a groan.
“So I’m just supposed to watch you two date right in front of me? See you hold hands across the courtyard like it’s nothing?” The question makes you pause. Never once did you even think about what happens after. Jungkook answers on your behalf.
“No, Taehyung,” he starts. “We wouldn’t do that to you. We’re not gonna date… right away. And when we do we’ll keep it far from where you can see it.”
There’s a sense of finality in the room after Jungkook’s answer. Taehyung’s eyes move around the room, but his expression tells you nothing. His eyes land on you before grabbing his backpack and slinging it over his shoulder.
“Goodbye, Y/N,” he says as he leaves. He doesn’t spare Jungkook a single glance before the door closes behind him.
Before you can think of doing anything else, you crouch down in front of Jungkook, using your hand to gently bring his head up. Your fingers travel across his cheek, wiping the stray tear that’s fallen.
“He couldn’t even look at me,” Jungkook murmurs.
“He needs time,” you tell him as you caress his cheekbone with your thumb.
His fingers gently curl around your wrist, removing it from his face. You watch as his eyes bore into the ink on your skin. You hate how pretty they look when he’s sad. Slowly, he brings your arm closer and you’re in awe when he presses the softest of kisses to his own name on your wrist. The action makes your breath falter and your heart beat out of time. His lips leave your skin after lingering there and he bows his head so his forehead takes their place.
Your fingers are in the perfect position to comb through his hair, so you do. A hum of satisfaction comes from your soulmate.
“I’m sorry, Y/N,” he says.
“What for?”
“Existing,” he laughs, but it’s hollow. “I keep wondering if it would be easier for everyone if I didn’t.” Your blood runs cold. “You wouldn’t have a soulmate anymore and then you and Tae would be free to be together.”
“Jungkook,” you say sternly, making him face you. “Don’t you ever say something like that again.” You grab his face for good measure. “You’re mine. The one and only soulmate I’m ever going to have. The world, my world, is a better place with you in it and I don’t ever want to be someplace you don’t exist. Okay?”
He doesn’t reply, just nods. You push his hair out his eyes as he closes them, letting him rest his head in the cradle of your hands so he doesn’t have to hold it up himself. He looks peaceful like this and you let him savor the moment as long as possible. You’re nursing a heartbreak, but his best friend just walked out his life without a goodbye.
You already know how complicated and difficult moving forward is going to be. While grieving the only long-term relationship you’ve ever known, you’ll be crafting an entirely new one. Your heart has to recover from the ache while reconstructing into something new. It’s going to take time, but you’re unshackled now. The universe wants this for you, and so it shall have it.
The following weeks are composed of awkward silences and tentative touches, but you both take the necessary steps to get to know each other more. Jungkook begins to visit whenever he has free time to study or have dinner. You watch his games from the university sports channel for Taehyung’s sake, but Jungkook always comes over afterwards to celebrate. He helps with your biology homework and you rant to him about whatever classic novel you’re analyzing in your classes.
You’re fairly touchy with each other because your very soul yearns for him, but it’s yet to break past the platonic wall between you. Jungkook does often find himself leaning down to kiss your forehead, but you welcome it warmly. You rest your head on his chest when you watch whatever anime he wants to show you and he plays with your hair while you force your favorite films on him. Your relationship is in its adolescence and you’re both cautious about messing it up.
Jungkook wants more before you do. You can tell even if he thinks you can’t. It’s the way his eyes look when he sees you, even if your hair is a mess and your clothes are stained. The way his fingers twitch just enough when you’re cuddling to show he’s holding back. A piece of you wants to give in and grant his wish, but you’re unsure if your heart is ready to be given away again.
Spring enters with rainstorms and budding flowers. You’re basking under the sun’s rays while finishing your weekly readings. Your book is poised between two fingers while your back lays on the blanket-covered grass. The pages go one by one while the sounds of people moving through the courtyard fill your ears.
The familiar lisp that accompanies Jungkook’s voice is the only reason you pick him out amongst the rest. Turning your head to locate the source, you spot him not too far away. You twist and sit up onto your elbows.
Jungkook is standing at the corner of the courtyard, just outside the science building you know he has classes in. An unfamiliar girl is standing beside him. Perhaps too close. You can’t hear much of their conversation, only lone words as they float through the air.
That’s when you feel jealousy pooling in your lower stomach like acid for the first time. Surely, you have nothing to worry about. He’s tied to you by an unknown force that neither of you can control. Still, a sour feeling creeps through you when you watch her hand reach out to touch his arm.
He nonchalantly moves his arm out of her reach, and you can’t help the smile that appears on your lips. She seems persistent, though, and you wonder if you should intervene. When her fingers flit to his chest and dance across his shirt, you decide you definitely need to.
Jungkook is handling the situation with grace before you can even rise from your position on the blanket. His hand removes hers from his body and he tilts his head with a pointed look. When you see his expression, the reaction from your body is completely involuntary. A sensual heat pools where the jealousy once resided.
The girl is turning away from him with a scoff, her feet slamming the ground like a child with a tantrum. You cover your mouth to stop the laugh from escaping. Jungkook spots you then and he smiles, enough so that it crinkles the corners of his eyes. You wave at him before sending him a thumbs up, using your head to gesture in the direction the girl went. His eyes widen when he realizes you saw the interaction, but as he takes in your response, his lips form a smirk. He winks before turning in the opposite direction, off to whatever class he has next.
You’re unsure what it is about the entire scene, but something in you stirs. For the first time since finding out Jungkook is your soulmate you realize you want more, too.
Jungkook has a game tonight and you mutually agree that it’s been long enough for you to watch in person. Close to three months have passed since you and Taehyung broke up. Heartbreak has no timeline, but you figure hiding yourself amongst the crowd will ensure you don’t make him too uncomfortable.
The padding of the bleacher seat beneath you is comfortable, even if your bare thighs are sticking to it in the warm weather. The company you keep is much different than before. In fact, it’s the first time you aren’t accompanied by a stranger. Instead there are friends, parents, and siblings of the team all around you.
You gnaw anxiously at your bottom lip while you wait for the players to enter the field. When they do, Taehyung is one of the first to exit the locker room. He looks good, as he always does, and he’s smiling at something a teammate said. The sight spreads a melancholy warmth through you. Happiness is the only thing you want for him.
When Jungkook emerges, he’s tousling the front of his hair with his hand to keep it out of his eyes. His tattooed bicep is staring you in the face like you owe it something. You sigh, crossing one leg over the other as if that will help anything.
Your soulmate moves effortlessly across the field, leading to him scoring more than one goal against the rival team. Taehyung does well too, blocking players and passing the ball with expertise. You don’t miss the obvious tension between him and Jungkook. Even from the stands their aversion for each other is palpable.
Taehyung passes to someone else when Jungkook is wide open. Then he chooses to block a player who doesn’t stand a chance, leaving a different guy wide open to steal the ball from Jungkook. Their teammates are noticing it, too. You’re sure they have for the last three months.
In the second half Taehyung avoids assisting Jungkook and they lose a goal to the other team. Worry seeps into your bones. One thing you’ve always known about Jungkook is that he’s competitive. If he loses tonight, it will hurt more than usual.
You can hear the exacerbated sigh from Jungkook way across the field. His head tilts to the sky as he groans, running both hands through his hair. For whatever reason, this pisses you off more than it probably should. Taehyung can be angry with you and Jungkook, but to willingly allow the team to lose is petty.
Two can play at petty, though.
Standing up from your seat, you cup your hands around your mouth to amplify the sound.
“You got this, baby! Kick their asses, Jungkookie,” you shout. Everyone around you cheers in response, but the sound falls on deaf ears. The world goes into tunnel vision when Jungkook’s eyes find yours in the crowd. You wave excitedly at him and he smiles for the first time tonight.
“Baby?” He mouths at you as he walks backwards to get into position. You nod dramatically enough for him to see from afar before taking your seat again.
When your eyes land on Taehyung, he’s wearing an expression that seems to be an equal mix of betrayal, hurt, and rage. You don’t ever want to hurt Taehyung. A piece of you will always hold love for him. But if he couldn’t be a big boy, you weren’t going to be either.
They win the game by a landslide despite your ex’s best efforts. Although you already loudly made yourself known, you decide it’s too cruel to rub anything else in his face tonight. Instead of meeting Jungkook down below, you send a text that you’ll meet him back at your place.
There’s a knock on your door at the perfect time, since the post-game meal you always make just finished cooking. The tradition didn’t start for any particular reason and Jungkook never asked you to have warm food waiting for him. It started because one time his stomach was growling so loud you could hear it over the TV. Ever since then you cook him his favorites so he can eat after burning all his calories on the field.
You open the door and he slumps inside, dropping his bag unceremoniously by his shoes. He closes your apartment door lazily behind him.
“Sheesh,” he pants. “That was fucking awful.”
Your hands push back some of the sweaty locks from his forehead, trailing down and tracing his jaw once his hair is out of his eyes. He hums appreciatively, leaning his face against your hand.
“You did amazing, though,” you reply.
“Well, I had some help… baby,” he smirks proudly. Your eyes are rolling as he encompasses you in his arms. You giggle into his neck as he holds you by the waist. He smells like freshly cut grass and sweat, but it’s familiar now and you miss the scent when he isn’t around. Fresh out of the shower he smells like cedar and clean laundry. You’ve stolen a hoodie or two because you love the scent so much. “Thank you for that, by the way. I really needed it tonight.”
“Anytime,” you tell him.
He loosens his grip but doesn’t let go. His eyes are searching yours for something you’re unsure of, but you wonder if he’s trying to gauge how you’re feeling. There’s been an obvious shift in your affection towards him lately, but he doesn’t want to cross any boundaries.
“Where did that even come from?”
“Tae was pissing me off. He doesn’t get to do shit like that and get away with it,” you explain. Jungkook acknowledges it with a hum.
“Thank you for defending me.” He leans forward to brush his lips against your forehead. When he pulls back, there’s a pout on your lips. “What’s that face for?”
Some childish part of you wants him to figure it out on his own, even though you know he’s too chivalrous to kiss you without you explicitly saying you’re alright with it.
“Do it for real, Jungkook,” you grumble.
“Do what for…” his voice trails off as his eyebrows lift. “Wait, do you want me to kiss you?” You cross your arms across your chest, trying to paint the picture that he’s already taking too long. “You’re pouting because you want me to kiss you?”
“Yes, Jungkook! You’re my soulmate can’t you read my mind or some shit,” you respond to his teasing. Jungkook is throwing his head back in laughter rather than doing his soulmate duty of giving you a smooch. You can’t believe it. His pretty soulmate is asking to be kissed and he’s laughing. “Googie…” you groan, letting your foot stomp just slightly in retaliation. Now this is getting embarrassing.
As Jungkook slowly ceases his laughter, his hands find purchase on your cheeks. Your heart starts hammering in your chest, but much to your chagrin, he squeezes them to pucker your lips.
“You’re absolutely adorable, do you know that?”
“Jun Jungoo.” Your attempt at his name is pathetic. He laughs even harder and you hate how endearing it is while you’re trying to be annoyed. He stops squeezing but leaves his hands there.
“Yes?” Your eyes are shooting daggers at him, tired of having to beg for his lips on yours. He smiles so, so beautifully in response. It’s hard to do anything but adore him when he looks at you like that. “Patience, baby, I’ll give you what you want.”
The descent of his face to yours seems to stretch for eternity. You can’t tell if he’s deliberately moving slow or if the world has slowed in anticipation. When his lips finally do meet your own, it’s like nothing you’ve ever felt before and nothing you could’ve ever imagined.
There’s a shock when you touch for the first time, causing Jungkook to recoil for a second before pressing his lips fully to yours. It feels like all the seasons at once. The brisk air of autumn, the chirping birds of spring, the running waters of summer, and the crunch of snow in winter. Your body feels weightless as though the only thing holding you to the ground is him.
At first neither of you move an inch, your lips pressed together in the most middle school way. But once the initial wave of euphoria passes, Jungkook is moving his lips like he’s tired of wasting precious time. His hands grip your face tighter, his mouth devouring yours so passionately you can’t imagine anyone else ever kissing another human this way. You can’t even think clearly enough to do something with your hands. They lay limply at your side as you experience the utter bliss that is kissing your soulmate.
One of you moans when your tongues meet for the first time, and you truly don’t even know who. You’re unsure where you end and he begins. Jungkook licks into your mouth and you swear you’re never letting him outside again. He’s just going to have to stand here and kiss you for all eternity. Your tongues dance together, and you finally come to your senses enough to tease him, biting his lower lip before letting it go. He groans deep in his chest and you realize you’d do just about anything to hear it over and over.
You can see yourself passing out from lack of air soon, so you reluctantly pull away from his mouth. Only by a centimeter, enough to take a breath, but not enough that you can’t purse your lips and reach him again.
“Holy shit,” he breathes into your mouth. “You’re… you’re everything, Y/N.”
There is no response you can muster for him in the state you’re in. All you can do is nod and slip your fingers into his hair. Pray he gets the message that yes, you’re everything and more. You’re unsure how long you stay that way, but you whine embarrassingly when he backs up to look at you better. He smiles at your reaction, his nose scrunching in admiration for you.
“Don’t laugh at my pain, Jungkook. Get back here.”
You tug on his shirt, but he doesn’t budge. Another pout appears. He lifts your chin with his fingers, smiling and seemingly memorizing your face as he admires you.
“Why don’t we eat first? Then we can talk,” he says.
“Talk? I don’t want to talk, I want —”
“I know,” he chuckles. “I do, too. But I think we should talk about it. I don’t think we should be rushing anything.”
Begrudgingly, you lead him into the kitchen where the food waits. The two of you eat. Well, he eats. You push the food around your plate while deep in thought. Jungkook notices your behavior while he’s chewing. A crease in his brow appears while he deciphers your change of attitude.
“What’s wrong?” He says with a mouthful of rice. Your cheek falls into your hand, sighing as you scrape your fork around. “Baby.”
“Hmm?”
“Don’t do that,” Jungkook scolds you. “Talk to me.”
“Jungkook, you went through girls quicker than I could learn their names before all this,” you start. “So why do I get the 'let’s not rush things' treatment? Do you not want me like that?”
If expressions could speak, Jungkook’s would be saying you’ve got to be fucking kidding me.
“That’s a joke, right?”
“No, it isn’t. I genuinely don’t understand why I, your soulmate, am being rejected.”
“You are not being rejected,” Jungkook states. He ensures you’re hearing him by locking eyes with you. Staring you down so you know he means it. “I want you. You have no fucking clue how bad I want you.” A now familiar heat flares inside you. “But you are not like those other girls. You’re more special to me than I can even put into words and I don’t want to fuck this up.”
“But why?” You probe him. “Am I special because I’m me or because I’m your soulmate? Do you want me because you’re attracted to me or because the universe told you that you are?”
Jungkook scoffs, your audacity is so much for him that he takes the time to move his plate into the sink. You hear another scoff while he’s washing it off.
“You…” he starts, but stops to lick his lips. His eyes bore into yours with what you can only guess is a mixture of mild annoyance and curiosity. “We’ve spent nearly every day together for the past three months. I have watched every movie, read every book, and scrolled through every tik tok you’ve showed me. We cuddle in your bed watching anime together. You watch my soccer games and cook me a meal after every one.” He scoffs again just for good measure. “And you think you’re not special to me after all that? You think I’m not attracted to you? You! One of the most beautiful fucking girls on campus who I so luckily got paired with by the universe.” He throws his hands up and turns away. “Ridiculous.”
“So…” You play with your hands in your lap. Part of you feels a little silly, but the other part craves validation.
“So, no, it is not just because you’re my soulmate, Y/N. It’s because it’s you,” he answers, turning back towards you. “I like you.”
“But you still want to wait?”
Jungkook finally sits down again. He reaches for your hands and you gladly offer them to him. He presses his lips to your knuckles a couple times before holding both your hands between his own.
“It’s not that I want to wait, I just don’t want to go too fast,” he says. “We just shared our first kiss. I haven’t even taken you on a date yet.” A giddy smile overcomes your features. “Let me woo you a little first, alright?” Your answer comes in the form of you leaning over to kiss him. He hums warmly, a soft chuckle breaking against your lips. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
Jungkook proceeds to hold his kisses hostage until you finish your dinner, which you promptly inhale and then purse your lips at him expectantly. If it was up to you, you’d kiss him until the sun comes up and your lips are raw. Unfortunately, Jungkook already knows you have a biology exam coming up and decides helping you study will be a better use of your time. It’s borderline cruel and unusual punishment.
Jungkook makes you wait for your first date to happen. Not only is it exam season but he has a soccer game every Friday for three consecutive weeks. Once that glorious fourth Friday rolls around, he formally asks you out. The destination is a secret and he tells you to “wear whatever you want.” This gives you pause because you can’t wear the same outfit to a restaurant that you can to go skydiving. Jungkook is certainly the type to pull a stunt like that.
You meticulously curl your hair and delicately apply your makeup. This is the most important date of your life and you don’t want anything out of place. Jungkook deserves someone who puts in effort even when it’s unnecessary. Especially when this will be his first date ever. He’s never given his time of day to a girl for longer than a night. Even though he’s the one planning everything, you want it to be special for him, too.
Nostalgia over this being your first date since ending things with Taehyung makes it difficult to push down the feeling of missing him. You were together nearly a year and a half and those memories don’t go away just because you’ve moved on. One day, you hope you can have him in your life again. Perhaps once he’s found his soulmate and you can put all the pain behind you.
Three knocks tap against your door as you slip your dress on and ensure the placement is correct. It’s early in the season for sundresses but you enjoy driving Jungkook a little crazy. Trekking over the piles of clothes that didn’t make the cut, you open the door for him.
You’re met not with the handsome face of your soulmate, but a bouquet of bright red roses.
“Jungkook,” you gasp and take them from him. Hiding behind the large bouquet is Jungkook himself, smiling so wide you can’t see his eyes. “They’re so beautiful, thank you.”
“You’re so beautiful,” he tells you. His eyes trace over your figure as he tongues the inside of his cheek. You swear you hear a quiet “damn” leave his lips. He graciously accepts a kiss from you before entering your apartment. “Are you ready to go?”
He’s wearing a dress shirt and slacks, as opposed to the usual baggy clothes he sports. The top three buttons of the shirt are undone to reveal just a sliver of his pecs. You could die happily right here and now. Your man is so fine it is physically painful to allow him outside where others can perceive him.
Nodding in response to his question, you grab your purse and his hand before heading out.
Contrary to where you think you’re going, Jungkook drives towards the countryside rather than the city. Your anxiety spikes when you realize he may actually take you skydiving. You watch him cautiously from your peripheral vision, but he only smirks and squeezes your thigh.
After an eternity in anticipation, you realize where he is taking you when neon colored lights and a large ferris wheel come into view.
“No. Way.” You shift in your seat to turn towards him. “This is why we had to wait for our date. The carnival is in town!”
Jungkook’s smile appears in his eyes before it ever graces his lips. He steals a glance at you to watch your eyes light up excitedly.
“You like it?”
“Are you kidding?” You look down. “Wait, Googie, I’m in a dress.”
“Don’t worry, I stole some of your clothes the other day for you to change into,” he explains.
“You know, if I wasn’t crazy about you that would be really creepy,” you respond. “What about you?”
“I can wear this.”
He looks down to double check.
“Oh, thank god, if you change out of that anytime soon I’ll be so pissed.”
Jungkook parks and turns around in his seat to grab the clothes he brought for you. It isn’t exactly easy changing in his backseat, but at least he has tinted windows. A true gentleman, he even turns away from you while he waits patiently outside.
When you step out in the jeans and blouse he chose, his eyes flicker with pride. Shoving him in annoyance that his outfit looks even better on you than the dress does, you tell yourself you would’ve picked it for tonight if he hadn’t stolen it first.
Jungkook back hugs you while you wait in line to enter the carnival. Your fingers absentmindedly trace the only tattoo on his left arm, mapping the familiar curves of your name. When he recognizes the feeling and realizes what you’re doing, he nuzzles his face in your neck and pecks your exposed shoulder.
Comfort spreads through your chest when you stare at the black ink against his honey-toned skin. The absolute doll of a man attached to your back was hand-picked for you. Chosen by an incomprehensible force long before you would ever meet one another. You wonder how long ago your destiny was set in motion. Have you belonged together since the dawn of time? Your hands squeeze his arms in a feeble attempt to express everything you feel for him with your touch. The feelings are too extraordinary to ever describe with words. There are simply not enough of them in existence to accurately do so.
It’s not merely the way he makes you feel as a soulmate. You’ve grown accustomed to the way your body naturally yearns for him and your heart calls to his. No, it’s the way he makes you feel simply because he’s Jungkook. Because he’s kind, gentle, and warm. Because he looks at you like you’re the only thing that matters and treats you just the same.
You don’t love your soulmate. You love him.
Your silent epiphany shakes the ground beneath your feet. This whole time you’ve been focusing on grieving one relationship and fostering another. Taking the time to learn everything you can about Jungkook. His likes and dislikes, favorite foods, colors, and books. There is an infinitely long list of all the things you want to accomplish as a partner to him. Love, or falling in love, didn’t even cross your mind.
The sensation is the same as waking up and not remembering when you fell asleep. Sure, you remember closing your eyes, but not the exact moment you succumb to slumber. You have no idea when you fell in love with Jungkook, just that you are in love with him.
Your reviere is broken by the sound of the tickets ripping as the teller hands them to Jungkook. He squeezes your hip and leads you into the bustling carnival.
Mutually agreeing to eat first, Jungkook drags you by the hand towards the food stalls. He refuses to let you pay for a single item as he buys you both some actual dinner before giving in to your demands for a sweet treat. Ironically, he’s the one who ends up refusing to share.
After successfully filling your stomachs you decide to conquer the rides one at a time. They’re all relatively small and easy-going, but still plenty of fun. Other than when Jungkook decides to spin the teacup so fast you think you’re going to either fly out or throw up. Probably both.
Jungkook’s competitive streak makes an appearance once you’ve tried all the rides but the ferris wheel. He insists he’s going to win you a big stuffed animal. Says it’s a right of passage and he’s not leaving until he does.
You argue the right of passage is for a guy to try and win his girl a stuffie before utterly failing. Your argument fails to take into account Jungkook being magically perfect at everything.
It only takes a single round of tickets for him to beat the game and win the jackpot. He looks back at you with a shit-eating grin and your eyes practically roll into the back of your head.
“Which one do you want, princess?” He asks as you ponder the options. You gaze at his side profile and chuckle when you find your answer in the familiar curves of his features.
“The bunny,” you say with a proud smile. Jungkook looks at you knowingly before telling the staff member your choice.
“You’re lucky you’re cute, ya know,” he says while holding your big pink bunny under his arm. The blush on his cheeks is completely betraying his words.
Once the sun sets you agree to finish the night with the ferris wheel. At first, you’re not worried since it’s just a small carnival wheel. That quickly changes once you and Jungkook are seated across from each other in the little trolley.
Staring up at the rusted metal hinge that now holds your life in its delicate balance, you feel your throat drying up and your blood running cold.
“Um, Jungkook,” you say through shaky vocal chords. “I kinda forgot to tell you I’m afraid of heights.”
Jungkook looks at you incredulously.
“You didn’t think to tell me that before we got on the ferris wheel?”
“I thought it would be fine, but now that we’re going up I kinda wanna throw up,” you admit.
Jungkook acts immediately, grabbing your hand and pulling you into his lap. The trolley shakes momentarily and you shout in terror before it levels out again. Your hands are clutching onto his shirt so tight you already see the wrinkles forming.
“Is this better?” He asks as he runs his fingers through your hair. You nod ever so slightly as to not disturb the state of the trolley. As your heartbeat starts to return to its normal pace, you rest your head on Jungkook’s shoulder. “Are you happy?”
It’s hard to answer him accurately when the word happy doesn’t feel like nearly enough.
“Of course I am,” you say as you lift your head. You turn his face so he can see your sincerity with his own eyes. “You know, when I first saw your name on my wrist I thought I had the worst luck in the world. That the universe was doing something so unfair and cruel.” Your fingers run along his collarbone. You're nervous to let him see inside your heart. “But I was very wrong. I’m so lucky to have you, Jungkook.”
The trolley shakes again with the force of Jungkook’s kiss. Your shout dies in his mouth as he swallows every noise you make. The kiss is definitely too nasty for the location you’re currently in. His hand is gripping your hair like reins, his mouth chasing after yours like he’ll never let you breathe again. You moan when his tongue slips into your mouth and he growls against your lips when you move your ass across his lap. He travels from your lips to your jaw slowly, one kiss at a time across the bottom of your face. You’re whimpering as soon as you feel him kissing your neck, his lips sucking at your skin before licking over the red blotches he creates.
“Jungkook… Jungkook, baby, we’re in public,” you stall his ministrations as you try to catch your breath. It’s then you notice that you’re already on the opposite side of the wheel, having completely missed when you reached the top. “Oh.”
“Pretty good distraction, huh?”
Jungkook is wiping your lipgloss off his lips with the back of his hand.
“You — hey!” He laughs loudly and buries his face in your neck where his lips were moments ago. You feign annoyance and push him away from you, but you’d go another round on the wheel if it meant he would keep distracting you like that.
Jungkook helps you off the ride by offering you his arm to hold onto. Your legs are a little wobbly when your feet meet the ground again and you’re unsure if it’s from him or the ride.
Before you leave Jungkook finds a spot with the perfect lighting to capture a selfie. You make sure to hold your bunny high enough so it gets in the photo too. Jungkook tongues his cheek when he notices it in the photo on his phone.
Upon your return Jungkook takes you both back to his place across campus. You carefully place your plushie in the backseat along with your dress so you remember to grab them both tomorrow. Jungkook leads you up the stairwell and unlocks the door before stepping aside to let you through first. The door shuts with a click behind him.
The air is thick with an unspoken promise. The heat and tension sparking between you is new but certainly not unwelcome. Jungkook toes off his shoes and offers you something to drink, passing you by with a skim across your back as he heads to the kitchen.
He’s uncharacteristically nervous. You’re unsure why when once upon a time there was a different woman in his bed each night. Has his six months of celibacy made him antsy? You feel guilty that his predicament sends butterflies flying in your stomach. The playboy bunny himself being nervous for your first time sleeping together makes you feel all the more special.
You follow him into the kitchen and wrap your arms around his waist as he stands at the sink drinking a glass of water. He gestures for you to drink some, but you shake your head against his back. You can hear his heartbeat pounding rapidly in his chest.
“Googie.” You grab his shoulder to turn him around. “We don’t have to do this, you know.”
He smiles affectionately, caressing your face.
“It’s not that, princess,” he says. Your brow creases in confusion, so he continues. “I just don’t know how to make you feel even half of what I do when I’m with you. What you said to me on the ferris wheel… I don’t know how to express how much that meant to me. I don't know how to show you that I feel the same.”
“You don’t have to,” you answer like it’s obvious. “I already know.”
He shakes his head at that.
“No, you don’t,” he responds. “There aren’t words.”
“Then don’t use words.”
Your response beckons a silence between you. There’s no sound other than your breathing and the faint hum of utilities.
Jungkook takes a deep breath, the hand still on your face slowly tracing your outline until it reaches your waist.
“Okay,” he whispers assuredly.
He yanks you off the ground and your legs latch around him while your arms tangle behind his head. You kiss him first, using your mouth to coax his lips open. He moans at the same moment his hands press you impossibly closer to him. He pushes stray hairs out of your face and cradles your neck to take control of the kiss. You’re aware of him carrying you away, but you have no semblance of where he’s going because he’s kissing you too deeply to pay attention.
It isn’t until your butt meets the softness of his mattress that you even realize you’re in his bedroom. Jungkook is quick to leave your lips so he can unbutton his shirt, but you swat his hands away before he can successfully undo the first button.
“Nuh uh, my job,” you say as your fingers replace his own. You use the grip on his clothes to pull him so he’s standing between your legs. You kiss the skin that’s revealed as each button is undone, groaning against his skin when you reach the tight abdominal muscles you’ve been longing to get your hands on.
Jungkook is helpless above you, panting deeply while he watches you work. Standing to push the material from his shoulders, you kiss him again. This time you take it slow, moving your lips in a tortuous rhythm while your fingers trace his biceps, nails digging into the muscles. A low growl reaches your ears and all you want to do is make him do it again.
Jungkook finds the hem of your top, letting his hands skirt beneath it to feel your bare skin before peeling it off of you. His eyes sharpen when he gets the first real look at your chest covered by your bra. Fingers tracing ever so gently from your waist, he cups your chest and massages you.
“Oh,” your head tilts back as you moan at the feeling of him traversing your body. He takes advantage of your movement to connect his lips to your neck. Messy, wet kisses are placed all over your throat and collarbones.
He sits you back down on the bed without ever stopping, lying you on your back and climbing over you. You arch so he can unclasp your bra behind you. He stops kissing you for a moment so he can watch while he pulls the straps down your arms.
“Fuck, baby,” he curses at the sight of your bare chest for the first time. “You’ve always been perfect, but damn.”
You can only convey a giggle in response as you gesture for him to come back with your pointer finger. He obliges, kissing you again while caressing one of your breasts. His hands are rough on your sensitive skin, but the feeling is pure bliss. He pinches your nipple to harden it. Once he’s done with one he moves to the other and repeats the process until he can feel it pebble beneath his fingers.
Jungkook is slowly grinding himself against you and you swear you’ll come completely untouched. His cock is hardening with each hump of his hips and it meets your covered pussy perfectly every time.
“Fuck, Jungkook,” you moan.
“I know, I know,” he whispers. “Fuck, I can’t wait to be inside you.” He grabs your hips to grind even harder against you. “You drive me crazy.” The feeling is mutual; you’re aching to touch and feel every inch of his skin. Jungkook begins to grant your wish when he moves away to unbutton your jeans and tug them down your legs. When he’s done, his hands take their time feeling your ankles and calves, inching far slower than you want him to before he reaches your thighs, pulling them apart. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this.”
He throws his head back with a pornographic groan at the sight of your wet underwear. You watch helplessly as his Adam's Apple bobs with the need to taste you. His hands continue their mapping of your thighs, alternating between squeezing and caressing them. And then he’s making himself comfortable, kneeling before his bed and tugging you down so you’re right where he wants you.
“How long?”
“What?”
“Exactly how long have you wanted me?” There’s an answer waiting on the tip of his tongue. “Before or after?”
“After,” he says. You pout. “Hey, need I remind you that you were my best friend’s girlfriend before?”
“Yeah, but you saw me first,” you retort.
He doesn’t answer yet. His lips find purchase on the meat of your thighs, leaving a wet trail behind as takes his time kissing across your supple skin.
“You’ve always been beautiful to me, Y/N,” he finally says, speaking directly into your skin. “But you wanted something I couldn’t offer and Taehyung could.”
Jungkook returns to his prior task except on the other thigh. The feeling of his lips all over you is indescribable, but the knowledge that he’s worshiping you inch by inch is what makes you dizzy. It feels like he’s trying to memorize you so he can recreate it later in his mind. As if this is the last time rather than the first.
“Jungkookie, please,” you beg him. His face is centimeters away from where your pussy is leaking just for him. You think you’ll cry if he doesn’t touch you soon.
He only hums before kissing you through your underwear. Your hips jump and his hand slaps against your stomach to keep you still. He’s slowly making out with your cunt through the lace of your underwear. It’s pure torture, but you can’t bring yourself to complain. His mouth feels so unbelievably good even through the fabric.
“You’re so fucking wet, princess,” he moans against you. The vibration makes you twitch again, and he wraps his arm around your thigh to steady you. “Can drink your cum right through your panties.”
You whine pathetically.
“Please, my love.”
Jungkook’s eyes soften, but you’re too far gone to realize the reason why. He kisses your hip bone with an adoring moan. But when his eyes dance over your figure again, watching your tits rise and fall in time with your shaky breath, they’re sharp and possessive once again.
He sits back only to pull your underwear down your legs and tuck it into his back pocket. You clock the movement instantly, eyebrows raising at him.
“I need something to remember tonight by, don’t I?”
He doesn’t give you the chance to reply before he’s situating your thighs over his shoulders and kissing your clit.
“Oh shit,” you curse.
There is a jolt of electricity that burns across your inner thighs and abdomen before simmering into an unrelenting heat. Whether it’s a soulmate thing or a Jungkook thing, you can’t bring yourself to care. All you know is you need more, more, more.
His tongue is circling your clit before going back and forth, then trailing down to flatten against your slit. His lips come into play as well, kissing your pussy ravenously. He licks into your hole, moving his tongue in and out of it before returning to your clit and doing it all over again. When he laps at your pussy, it feels like he’s trying to drink you dry, tongue curling to bring your essence into his mouth.
He never once stops making noise against you, grunting and groaning at the way you taste. Whispering that “you taste s’good” directly into your cunt. His hand disappears from your thigh and you realize he’s palming himself while he pleasures you. The thought alone is enough to make you cream right then and there.
He returns to your clit to suck it into his mouth, letting his teeth graze it softly. You squirm beneath him but his arm is holding you taut. Without warning you feel two of his fingers circling your hole before pushing in. You cry out, back arching off the bed from the pressure.
Jungkook allows his mouth to take a momentary reprieve, resting his head on your thigh while he slowly pulls his fingers in and out of you. He watches intensely as his fingers come out soaked in your juices before going back in with a squelch.
“So pretty like this, baby,” is the last thing he says before his mouth is on you again. His fingers begin to pump faster, curling inside you and meeting just the right spot to send your mind spinning. His mouth is relentless against your clit, kissing and sucking on it before soothing it with his tongue.
You’re on the precipice of an orgasm and you know Jungkook can feel it. Can feel the way your walls pulse around his fingers, begging for release.
“There you go,” he whispers into your cunt. “Come for me, Y/N.”
And who are you to deny him? Your orgasm hits you like a fucking freight train, a needy cry coming from your throat while you back arcs off the bed. Thighs shaking and practically crushing Jungkook’s head between them. Nevertheless, he continues kissing your clit and fingering you until he hears your breathing even out and your body still.
As soon as his touch is gone, you whimper from the emptiness. Jungkook meets you back at your lips, allowing you to taste yourself on him. Your hands grab his head to keep him there so you can properly thank him for his hard work. He deepens the kiss with his tongue, fighting against yours for dominance. When he inevitably wins, you moan around the wet muscle.
He begins kissing your face all over starting from your cheek and then down your jaw before moving up again to your nose and continuing upward to your forehead and hairline.
“You were so good, baby,” he tells you. “Everything I could’ve ever asked for.”
You hear the sound of a belt coming undone and pants unzipping. Jungkook stands so he can kick off his jeans. The first thing you notice is a wet patch on his boxers. Your head ticks to the side.
“Oh no, that’s all precum, baby,” he answers your silent question. “Nearly did come in my fucking pants, though. Thank you very much.”
“Oh? I'm flattered.” You come up to your elbows to see him better. He shakes his head with a lazy grin on his face before moving towards his dresser. “Where do you think you’re going?”
Jungkook looks at you in confusion, as if the answer is obvious.
“I’m grabbing a condom,” he explains.
You tilt your chin down with a piercing gaze.
“Do you think I want to feel my soulmate through a condom? I’m on birth control,” you say. Jungkook’s mouth drops open in awe and he waits for you to reaffirm what you just said. You mimic his expression and nod slowly so he gets the picture.
“Oh, hell yes!” Jungkook scurries back over to you in a flash. You cover your mouth with your hand to stifle your giggle. He’s so freaking cute even when he’s about to fuck you into his mattress.
He’s climbing back over you now, pushing at your shoulder to lay you back down beneath him. He runs his hands up and down your waist before cupping your breasts. Just when you think he’s going in for a kiss, his head dips to take a nipple in his mouth.
You moan as his tongue flicks over the nub and then circles it. His hand gives attention to your other nipple by rolling it between his fingers. Hands twisting into his dark hair, you tug until he releases and kisses you instead. You pull on his hair, letting your nails scratch his scalp. He grunts and you do it again a little harder to make him repeat the sound.
“Jeon Jungkook,” you speak against his soft, swollen lips. “I need you inside of me.”
Not needing to be told twice, he rises to his knees and hooks his fingers into the waistband of his boxers to pull them down. Only, instead of moving them he merely snaps them back against his hips with a devilish smirk.
You glare at him, reaching up to do it yourself before he smacks your hand away.
“Ask me nicely,” he orders.
You want to laugh and cry at the same time. This man is the biggest tease you’ve ever met and you feel like you’re going to lose your damn mind.
“Jungkook…” you rise to your knees as well, crawling over to him. “Jungkookie…” you let your hands take a stroll across the expanse of his abs and chest until they’re digging into his shoulders. “Googie…” you lean in so you’re speaking directly into his ear. “Will you pretty, pretty please fuck me?”
This man loses his damn marbles. You shout as you’re thrown back onto the bed with a soft bounce. He rolls his boxers down his thighs and kicks them off as you’re trying to catch your breath. It’s no use because the second your soulmate’s cock is in your face you no longer know how to breathe. You fear you will need to be retaught before the night is over.
Your jaw drops and you’re surprised you don’t drool all over yourself at the sight. Jeon Jungkook is pretty all over. His dick looks painfully hard, his precum dripping from the tip just waiting for you to taste it. It’s large, perfectly thick, beautifully veiny, and curves at the perfect angle to hit just the right spot. You think you may die the second you feel it inside of you.
Jungkook is on top of you before you can admire his physique any longer. His tip rubs deliciously against your clit as he coats himself in your wetness. You groan impatiently as he teases you with his cock.
He places one hand next to your head, the other on your hip so he can guide himself into you. You both watch in awe at the space where your bodies connect. Before Jungkook takes the plunge, he kisses you one more time. You smile into it. Unable to resist the physical manifestation of the happiness bubbling in your stomach.
That smile is gone the second his tip pushes past your hole, replaced with an O shape as you gasp at the intrusion. Jungkook takes his time, whether for your sake or because he’s committing this moment to memory, you aren’t sure.
You feel impossibly full as his cock stretches you open. Moaning without end, you hold onto Jungkook’s shoulders to keep yourself afloat. When he finally bottoms out with his hips pressed against yours, you see every star in the galaxy all at once.
If you thought your first kiss was euphoric, this is another feeling entirely. Your body is pulsing and hot from the ecstasy, but your soul is floating in the Dead Sea. Above the surface tension of the water as a cool breeze blows.
You know precisely what a soulmate is now. One person split in half and destined to find one another. Because when Jungkook is inside you, connected with you in the most human way possible, you feel complete. It’s mind numbing. His cock is throbbing inside you and it feels like coming home.
Jungkook’s forehead rests on yours as he pants. Your hands slide from his sweaty chest to caress his cheek. He must feel the same, and in fact you’re positive he does. There is no confirmation necessary when his soul is bound to yours.
“You — fuck, baby — you feel amazing,” he tells you.
You can only nod in agreement, too overwhelmed by the sensations to speak. Grinding your hips up against him, he registers it accurately as you telling him to finally move.
When he does, it’s a slow pull away from you, leaving just his tip inside before pushing himself back in just as slowly, but he rolls his hips into you, forcing his cock in so deep you feel him in your stomach.
The moan that rips from your throat is embarrassingly loud, but you are no longer on a plane of existence where you care. Jungkook, on the other hand, doesn’t want a noise complaint. His hand covers your mouth as he shushes you. He leans over so he can speak directly into your ear.
“Be good, baby. I need you to stay quiet for me.” The sound of affirmation is muffled behind his hand but he watches you nod at his demand. Your eyes are peering up at him like they’re awaiting his next instruction. He groans at the gorgeous sight. “God, you’re so sexy.”
He’s still thrusting into you slowly. He watches as his cock comes back out covered in your cum. You moan every time he enters you despite his earlier request.
When you disobey him, he looks at you with a dangerous twinkle in his eye. His hand moves away for only a moment before his two middle fingers push into your mouth. You gasp around them, but he presses down on your tongue with the pads of his fingers. You close your mouth around his digits and suck, moving your tongue around and in between them.
Jungkook is mesmerized by the way his tattoos disappear between your lips. Once he’s satisfied with your makeshift gag, he thrusts hard and then snaps his hips back to do it again at an inhuman pace. If his fingers weren’t in your mouth you’d be screaming bloody murder. Tears of pleasure roll down the sides of your face as he fucks into you relentlessly.
His fingers leave your mouth and grab your chin instead so he can kiss you. His body weight is on you now as he uses his forearm to keep himself up. Feeling his chest against yours as he fucks you is enough to send you into complete madness. Your nipples are hard and sensitive as they brush against his muscular pecs.
“Baby,” you cry. He kisses your jaw and neck without ever slowing his pace. You feel your mind descending into complete chaos. Your fingernails scratch down his back, leaving red welts in their wake. It’s the only thing you can do to hold onto some semblance of your sanity.
“Fuck, do that again,” Jungkook groans into your neck. You oblige him and he growls next to your ear. “You’re so tight, so goddamn perfect for me.”
“You're so big, Googie,” you whine. “Feel so good.”
“Shit, princess,” he says while biting into the flesh between your shoulder and neck. Your gasp turns into a moan as he soothes the area with his searing hot tongue.
Then, he pulls out of you, sitting back on his heels as he tries to catch his breath. You reach for him in confusion, but he just takes your hand and kisses the back of it. Holding it against his heart so you can feel the intense beating.
“Is everything okay?”
Worry creases your brow, but Jungkook just smiles as one of his fingers smooths it away.
“Yeah, I was just about to bust, but I’m not done with you yet,” he answers breathlessly. “So, I had to pause. My apologies.”
You can appreciate a man who strives to make his woman come before him, but he’s also turned you insatiable, so you need to do something.
Sitting up, you travel down the bed until your face is directly in front of his throbbing dick. His eyes follow your every movement, his eyebrows disappearing behind his bangs.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
Allowing him to see the smirk on your lips for only a moment, you open your mouth and flatten your tongue against the underside of his cock. His entire body spasms and you can see his abdominal muscles constrict in front of your eyes. You make eye contact with him in case he has any objections, but when he just stares back at you with his mouth agape, you continue your ministrations.
You lick him again all the way from base to tip before circling his head with your tongue and lapping up the precum that’s formed in a bead there. One hand squeezes his thigh while the other slowly pumps his cock. All you can see above you is his throat. He has his head tilted back as he groans endlessly. The veins in his neck are popping out and it makes you want to lick over every single one of them.
Continuing to tease him with your tongue, you lick gently over just his tip while your hands do the rest of the work. Jungkook’s head snaps towards you when he hears you spit. He watches as the saliva falls onto his head before you use your lips to rub it in.
“Oh, dear god,” Jungkook gasps, seemingly to himself.
Lips finally wrapping around his dick, you suckle on his head before slowly inching down his shaft. Your hand moves to his balls to make room for your mouth. Jungkook’s thighs are shaking beneath your fingertips and he finds purchase in your hair, wrapping the strands around his fingers as if it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.
Once you’ve made a single sweep down his cock, you pull back slowly, allowing your tongue to glide along the underside. You twist the muscle around his head before finally setting a steady pace and sucking him up and down.
You make it messy for him, because he deserves it. Breathing through your nose and keeping your tongue out to lick him as your head bobs. Drool pools in the corners of your mouth before dripping down your chin. When your nose is as close to his pelvis as you can go, you allow it to drip down his balls so you can work them with your hands.
Jungkook looks like he may die, but that you’re the angel who’s going to bring him to heaven. His features are drawn tight, eyebrows almost kissing. His mouth refuses to close, panting out breaths like the sexiest dog you’ve ever seen.
The logical part of your brain knows that sucking him off doesn’t solve the issue at hand, but he tastes too delicious to stop. And when the hand in your hair begins pushing ever so slightly followed by his hips bucking into your mouth, you moan deliriously around him. You gag as Jungkook gently uses your mouth for his own pleasure. Letting him take over, you grip his thighs and just go along for the ride. He grunts from above as he watches his cock disappear over and over again into your mouth.
“You look so sexy like this, princess,” he says over strained vocal chords. “Like your lips were made for taking my cock.”
Your bratty nature wants to correct him and tell him that they are in fact, made for him. You have a tattoo that says so. Instead, you relish in the vibrations of your responsive moan giving him even more pleasure.
The sound of your spit sliding along Jungkook’s shaft and your gags as he fucks into your mouth is so pornographic you worry you’ll get a fine for filming illegal movies on campus. His melodious grunts and moans are music to your ears. You’d let him use you like this everyday if it meant listening to them.
Before you can savor the moment for much longer, Jungkook pulls you away with a growl. You gasp, your hand grabbing at your throat as you cough.
The sweetest man you’ve ever known, even while in the throes of pleasure, leaves the bed to bring you water. You’re still trying to catch your breath when he bends down and tips the bottle against your lips so you can drink.
“Thanks,” you croak. Sore throat be damned, you’d start sucking him again right now if he asked. He pushes your sweaty hair away from your face with both hands, cradling your face like you’re made of porcelain.
“You’re a fucking goddess, you know that?”
A strained laugh comes from you.
“I do, in fact,” you quip. Jungkook kisses you senseless instead of replying. Before he can lay you down again, you push him instead. His back meets the footboard of his bed as you place your legs on either side of his thick thighs. “Are you ready to continue or shall I get myself off?”
Jungkook laughs humorlessly.
“Sit on my cock before I make you.”
If words could make you come…
As filthy as his words are, his hands still help guide over him and massage your skin while you sink down. You moan in unison, your mouth finding the mole on his neck that you’ve been dying to kiss. Hips grinding down against him, you mark him as yours as you kiss and suck on the sensitive skin of his throat.
His hands are spread across your back as you rise up and down on his dick. He’s moaning so beautifully next to your ear that you don’t think you’ll ever stop. You repeat the motion over and over, allowing your clit to grind along his pelvis every time you sink back down. The pace is torturously slow, but it allows you to feel every vein and ridge of his cock as it moves in and out of you.
“I never wanna stop,” you admit. “Don’t ever wanna not have you inside me.”
“I think I can make that happen,” he says over a chuckle.
Your lips meet again and you kiss at the same pace your bodies move. Jungkook’s mouth and tongue explore yours like he hasn’t done it a hundred times already, like every sensation is still new. He bites on your lower lip, pulling it away before letting it go so he can watch it bounce back. He doesn’t waste a second before diving back in for more.
The warmth of Jungkook’s hands leaves your back and reignites on your hips. His grip is bruising as he uses it to bounce you faster against him. Your moans grow in pitch, but you muffle them by biting and kissing along Jungkook’s shoulder. When the pace still doesn’t feel like enough, Jungkook plants his feet on the bed so he can thrust up into you. You scream into his skin, holding onto his back and hair for dear life.
“You close?” He rasps in your ear, licking your earlobe as he does.
“Yes, baby, please,” you cry.
Jungkook goes into overdrive, thrusting up into you at a speed and depth that feels impossible. The tip of his cock is hitting your g-spot over and over again like a magnet. You can feel yourself falling over the edge any second.
His pursuit to bring you pleasure is relentless. The friction of his thick cock inside your walls is creating hot tears of ecstasy that roll down in droves. Your bodies are touching in every possible place they can and it still isn’t enough. You know Jungkook feels the same when he squishes you against him like he’s trying to merge you into one.
Jungkook kisses down the side of your face with wet smooches. Slobbering all over you and getting saliva in your hair. Sweat, spit, cum, you want him to paint you in all of it. Ruin you so endlessly you’ll never be able to look another man in the eye. It’s him, him and only him. Every fiber of your being is filled to the brim with just Jungkook. Jungkook. Jungkook. Jungkook. You fear you’ve forgotten every other word.
“I’m gonna —”
You stop his sentence with a searing kiss, moaning into his mouth as you come undone around him. Your cunt pulses and squeezes around Jungkook so tightly he can barely thrust anymore. Luckily, he doesn’t need to because with a few more pistons of his hips he’s groaning and nestling his cock as deep as it can go as he comes. You feel the warmth of his cum filling your pussy and dripping out around his cock to pool into his lap below. He’s still rolling his hips against you as his orgasm wanes.
Even once the comedown ends, neither of you move. Your head is resting against Jungkook’s chest, his leaning back against the wall. He rubs your back lovingly. You focus on the feeling of his fingertips traveling up and down your spine. Before the repetitive motion can send you to dreamland, he pries your head up so he can see you.
“I don’t know what I did in my past life to deserve any of this,” Jungkook muses. You mull it over for a moment.
“Whatever you did, I’m sure you were amazing at it,” you reply warmly. Jungkook nuzzles his nose against yours.
Jungkook is careful when he finally pulls out, not wanting to hurt you after abusing your pussy in the name of pleasure. You whine at the emptiness, but he kisses your pouty lips before leaving to find something to clean you with.
Sleep overtakes your mind before he returns. You’re in a daze as you watch him clean between your legs with a warm towel. He cleans himself off as well before joining you in the bed. By the time he’s pulling you into his arms your eyes have closed. He wishes you goodnight with a press of his lips to your forehead. You don’t hear the other words he whispers to you.
Jungkook finds it impossible to keep his hands off you after that night. Frankly, you go at it like rabbits on crack. It begins to impede on your day-to-day life and neither of you give a damn. You nearly delete an entire assignment by accident because he’s eating you out under your desk. He risks a suspension from the soccer team by shoving his dick in your mouth in the locker room. You swallow his cum just as people begin to pile in for practice.
Despite your best efforts, you do eventually stop fucking across every corner of campus. School ramps up and Jungkook is promoted to head striker so he’s away at practice more often. Before his first game in the lead position, he gives you his spare jersey to wear.
Your mouth hangs open and you just stare at him because you can’t believe he’s serious. When he nods with the softest smile and stars in his eyes, you squeal like a schoolgirl. He sneaks his hands below your shirt and caresses your waist before pulling it over your head. Once you’ve pulled the jersey on and tucked it into your jeans, you look at him in affirmation.
“What do you think, lucky number 7?”
Jungkook doesn’t answer. At least not verbally. He just pulls you close by the fabric of the jersey and kisses you. The kiss is soft, but undeniably passionate. His lips move against you sensually even though there’s no heat behind it. He kisses the corner of your mouth, your nose, your eyelids, all before returning again. You let him create a map of your visage with his lips.
When he wins that night, the jersey is the only thing left on your body as he makes love to you on the couch.
You begin forming a routine as a couple, but it’s never complacent. There’s still romance in everything you do, even if you’re doing it for the hundredth time. As time moves forward, so do you and the past heartaches don’t weigh on your chest as heavy anymore. Your mind still wanders into painful territory every once in a while, but you’re confident in your ability to lay the past to rest.
It helps your endeavor when the aforementioned past comes to greet you one day.
A tap on your shoulder stirs your from your inner thoughts as you walk the familiar path to the library. Turning towards the source, your feet skid to a stop when you see Taehyung rocking back and forth on his heels.
“Hey,” he says as he kicks at a pebble near his foot.
“Hi,” your tone reveals your confusion.
“Can we talk?” Chewing on your bottom lip, you don’t need much time to decide before you’re nodding. “I just wanted to say that I’m sorry. Looking back, after some time and much needed self reflection, I realize that you got your heartbroken just as bad as mine.”
“You do?”
“Yes,” he affirms. “At the time, it seemed like I was the odd man out. Sure, you and Jungkook would be losing me, but you had each other. And I was left with no one.”
“It didn’t have to be that way, Tae. You chose to walk away from us,” you reply. “From Jungkook, specifically.”
“I know. I see now how big of a mistake that was,” he continues. “I’m going to try and catch him later after practice to apologize to him, too.”
“Good,” you say. “He deserves it even more than I do.”
Taehyung agrees with a nod.
“Are you happy? With… with Jungkook.”
You hate the way his mouth is still turned down and his eyes don’t shine anymore. It’s obvious how sad he still is, and yet he’s here apologizing to you. You appreciate his conviction.
“I am,” you answer. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t miss you. I know it will never be the same, but I’d like to have you in my life if possible.”
“I’d like that, too,” he responds.
You say goodbye shortly after that and there’s a sense of closure that fills you up from the inside after your conversation. For whatever reason, finally turning the page on Taehyung’s chapter in your life makes you want to keep pushing forward even more. Including finally letting a special someone in on the secret you’ve been holding close to your heart.
Jungkook mentions he’s coming over after practice which means you have a couple hours to decide how you want to spill the beans. You could always just say it, but that feels far too anticlimactic.
Sitting in your kitchen, your fingers play an unknown melody against the table as you ponder your options. It’s only when your eyes land on a certain ingredient in your cabinet that you realize exactly how you want to accomplish this.
Your soulmate has his own key now, mostly because you were sick of leaving your bed to let him in. But also because one time you lost your key and he had to jimmy the window lock to get inside. You live on the third floor.
The familiar taps of your fingers meeting the keyboard are the only sound until Jungkook’s voice rings out. He proudly declares that he’s home in a sing-song tone.
“Dinner is in the kitchen,” you inform him. “I’ll meet you there in a second.”
Your nail slips between your teeth as you anxiously await for Jungkook to see your somewhat hidden message. Eyes looking towards the ceiling, you pray to the soulmate gods that he doesn’t dig into his meal before he can read it.
You sense your prayers are answered when you hear a chair scrape across the floor and the sound of his footsteps coming towards you. Swiveling in your chair, you patiently await his arrival.
When he enters the room, his eyes are sparkling and misty. In the good kind of way that makes you mirror his expression. His cheeks are pink with blush and he looks winded from his excitement alone.
“You mean it?” His tone is pitched up. Giddy like a child on the playground. Trying to stop the smile from breaking out across your face is pointless. You allow that to be your answer.
Jungkook only needs two strides before he reaches you, and you stand in anticipation of what you know will come. A mixture between a shout and a laugh comes from your lungs when he lifts you into the air by your knees. You brace your hands on his shoulders as fits of laughter course through you.
“What are you doing? Put me down,” you order him.
“Absolutely not,” he says with a shake of his head. “I want to hear you say it. Say it like you mean it, woman.”
“Wo—woman?” You chuckle. “Is that how you talk to someone who’s in love with you?”
Any joking response dies in Jungkook’s throat when he hears the L word fall from your lips. He sighs deeply, a sound so utterly content. He bends down until your feet are safely on the floor again before his hands cradle your face instead.
“Say it again, please,” he begs.
“I love you, Jungkook,” you state.
His eyes close like you’re the sandman herself. So at peace he could fall into dreamland right where he stands. You can physically feel the tension leaving his body from where you’re holding him by his waist.
“One more time,” he whispers, but his smirk gives him away. Your hand smacks his chest while he laughs. “Okay, okay, I’m sorry.” His eyes open again to stare into yours. You think you could spend forever just looking into the deep chocolate irises in front of you. Thumbs gently swiping across your cheekbones, Jungkook does a once-over of your pretty face. “I love you.”
It doesn’t matter if you knew he was going to say it, it still brings tears to your eyes and a smile that hurts your cheeks.
“Really?”
He nods.
“I am deeply, devastatingly, in love with you, Y/N.” His expression shifts. “But if you ever give me good news by spelling it out with alphabet soup again, I’m leaving you.”
You have to resist the laughter aching in your chest, but when Jungkook is feigning anger with the cutest scowl, you just can’t help it. You laugh loudly before stifling it with your hand. It’s the single most ridiculous thing you’ve ever done and yet you don’t regret it one bit.
Jungkook proceeds to show you the selfie he took with the now infamous bowl of soup. You can barely see his eyes in the photo because he’s smiling so wide. He’s holding up a peace sign next to the bowl of tomato soup with alphabet-shaped noodles that spell out I love you in the center of the broth.
His name is the last you expected to appear on your skin, but it’s now impossible to imagine it being anyone else. As you trace the familiar lines of his name, you whisper your thanks to whatever or whoever is in charge.
Summary: Turns out, Draco Malfoy’s obsession with blood purity isn’t limited to wizards—his disdain extends to your mangy mutt of a cat, too
A/N: I actually don't know what the fuck i was on when i wrote this. draco is so ooc in this im embarrassed to post this
Credits to @/cursed-carmine for the divider
When you were about ten years old, you became the humble recipient of the cat distribution system.
Your parents had always firmly refused to get you a pet. Neither of them were particularly fond of animals—your mother especially couldn’t stand the idea of fur on the furniture, and your father wanted nothing to do with cleaning out a litterbox. They were convinced that at your age, you wouldn’t be able to take care of a cat on your own anyway.
But the universe, in its infinite generosity and chaotic wisdom, had other plans.
One cool summer day, while playing in your backyard, you heard the strangest warbled wailing coming from the direction of the trash cans. Curious and slightly concerned, you went to investigate—and that’s when you saw it.
Peeking into one of the bins, you found a cat with its head stuck in an empty pickle jar.
Maybe the jar was just that small, or the cat was just that big, but somehow it had managed to wedge itself inside and couldn’t get free. You panicked. You were too short to reach in properly, and too scared to hurt it. So, you did the only thing you could: you ran crying to your father.
Together, you both tried your best. Your dad pulled with all his strength, and you sobbed beside him, begging him not to hurt the poor thing. But no matter how hard he tried, the jar wouldn’t budge. In the end, he loaded you—sniffling and red-eyed—and the filthy, desperate cat into the car and drove straight to the vet.
Somehow, the professionals there managed to safely free the cat from its glass prison. The vet gently explained that the cat had a pretty severe skin infection that would need treatment if it was going to survive. Your dad, reasonably, declined—this wasn’t even your cat, after all.
But then you started crying again. Loudly.
You cried and wailed and begged with your whole heart until your father, completely outmatched by your ten-year-old sorrow, gave in.
And that was how he ended up having to explain to your mother why there was a scabby, flea-ridden stray running around her clean house.
To your credit, you meant every promise you’d made to your dad. You took care of that cat. You bathed him with the medicated shampoo the vet gave you, even when he scratched your arms bloody. Your mom was terrified at first—convinced you were going to catch rabies—but you wouldn’t be swayed. You nursed him back to health, dutiful and loving, until his fur grew thick and glossy and he finally looked like a proper cat again.
And he adored you for it. Absolutely, completely adored you. Followed you everywhere. Slept on your bed. Watched TV with you like a tiny judgmental roommate.
You never wanted him to forget where he came from—or how you found each other. So you named your tomcat the only name that made sense.
Pickles.
When you got your Hogwarts letter, it was a given that Pickles would be coming with you.
There was absolutely no way you were leaving him behind for nine whole months. It simply wouldn’t do.
Your poor baby would die of despair if his favorite person in the world—the one he saw every day, the one who scratched behind his ears just right—suddenly up and disappeared for nearly a year. No. That wouldn’t do at all.
Even your parents, who had once sworn up and down they didn’t want a cat but ended up loving the little guy, admitted he might be a good source of comfort once you inevitably started to feel homesick. After all, you had never spent more than a week away from them. And it wasn’t like Pickles was going to miss them.
In fact, you were fairly confident that if your parents dropped dead in front of him, he’d simply fart in their faces and carry on with his day.
So they helped load the two of you onto the Hogwarts Express—Pickles curled up in his clear backpack carrier, peeking out with the quiet judgment of an old man. They promised to send the rest of his “luggage” once they figured out how magical post worked and got a sense of how big your dorm room would be.
His three-story bed, which he hardly used, his scratching posts, and his aggressively chewed squeaky toy would be shipped out soon. For the first week, he’d have to make do with his favorite bed of all time: your arms.
Which suited him just fine.
Now, six years later, Pickles was living the Hogwarts life better than you. He was practically a celebrity in the Gryffindor common room. He and his best friend Crookshanks, slept in the sun, ate like kings, and took long, fat naps in front of the common room fireplace. Every single one of your dormmates spoiled him rotten, feeding him treats at all hours of the day.
He didn’t even get lost in the castle halls like you did. Somehow, Pickles had mastered the moving staircases better than most seventh-years.
And worst of all?
Pickles was doing better than you in your love life.
“(L/N)!” A sharp voice snapped behind you, yanking you out of your thoughts.
You turned just in time to see Draco Malfoy stomping up, looking like someone had just told him the Malfoy vaults were being taxed. His face was twisted into an expression of absolute disgust, and in his arms… were two cats.
He was holding Pickles with one hand—just dangling him under the belly like a sack of potatoes, all four limbs flopping over like spaghetti. His legs were hanging loose, his expression the epitome of “I just woke up and I don’t know where I am but I trust the process.” Thankfully, he hadn’t made the mistake of scruffing him. In his other arm, cradled like precious cargo, was what could only be described as a giant, fluffy dandelion.
“Get your disgusting mutt away from my cat!”
Your brows furrowed as you immediately took Pickles from him, clutching your boy to your chest and gently scratching the top of his head. Unbothered by Draco’s dramatics, Pickles began to purr loudly.
“His name is Pickles,” Tou said coolly, “And you should know better than anyone that cats don’t typically do as they’re told.”
Draco’s lip curled, face souring further, “Perhaps not your mangy animal. Riddled with disease, that one.”
You rolled your eyes. “I know you’re very ‘mudblood this, mudblood that,’ Draco—but these are cats. They don’t care about blood status.”
“Speak for yourself,” he huffed, lifting his cat higher up his chest like royalty. “Belladonna is a rare breed. A show-winning feline with impeccable genetics, perfectly healthy, thick coat, never sheds. She’s been treated like a queen since the moment she was born. She has a pedigree. That thing—” He gestured to Pickles, who chose that exact moment to yawn directly in his face—“was probably found at the bottom of a dumpster.”
Your eyes widened, surprised at how he managed to get it right on the nose, “So what if he was?” You shot back, “He’s scrappy. He knows how to survive. Your little princess over there wouldn’t last a day without her weekly spa treatments!”
You held Pickles closer, your voice rising, “My angel faced death. He stared it down and came back stronger. He wouldn’t want to be with your stuck-up cat anyway! Her face looks like the backend of an ass! And not even a nice one!”
Draco’s jaw dropped like you’d slapped him, “Excuse me?!” he shouted, already launching into a flurry of extremely colorful obscenities.
You didn’t wait to hear them. You spun around with Pickles in your arms—still purring contentedly, eyes half-lidded, perfectly at peace—and stormed off, muttering about “pureblood delusion” and “privileged puffballs.”
Pickles, naturally, had no idea what just happened. But he was warm, fed, and in your arms.
Life was good.
Draco Malfoy did not “own a cat.”
He curated one.
She was a purebred Ragdoll with a coat like white clouds and eyes the color of the clearest summer ocean. Her name was Belladonna, and she was, without question, the most refined creature in the entire wizarding world—present company very much excluded.
He had acquired her from an exclusive breeder in Wiltshire after months of meticulous research, pedigree scrutiny, and a waiting list that included two minor royals and the head of the French Magical Opera House. Belladonna ate hand-prepared meals (which Draco personally oversaw), sat on velvet cushions charmed to maintain the perfect temperature, and had an entire wing of Malfoy Manor designated for her grooming and relaxation.
Even now, at Hogwarts, she was treated like nobility. She had a gold-embroidered travel bed, a crystal water bowl that refilled with glacier water from Switzerland, and a personal grooming appointment every Hogsmeade weekend. Narcissa sent a box of curated organic treats every Thursday without fail. Draco had collars in twelve different colors—each embroidered with her initials—and a seasonal rotation of enchanted accessories to match.
He couldn't imagine loving his own hypothetical child more than he adored Belladonna.
In his eyes, she was his child. His delicate, aristocratic, high-maintenance firstborn.
Belladonna was, in a word, impeccable.
So you can imagine Draco’s absolute horror—his visceral, soul-deep revulsion—when he saw that cat.
That scruffy, gremlin-looking, mongrel of a cat rubbing against Belladonna like some horny, hormone-fueled street rat in heat.
It was unacceptable.
It was criminal.
It was filth mingling with divinity.
And the worst part?
She didn’t seem to mind.
She purred. She leaned into it. She gave that degenerate alley cat the same slow blink she usually reserved for Draco when he fed her roast chicken off a silver fork.
He felt betrayed on a biblical level.
You were minding your own business—lounging on the grass near the Black Lake, sipping pumpkin juice and soaking in the sunshine—when you heard it:
The rapid, purposeful crunch of approaching footsteps.
You looked up just in time to see Draco Malfoy storming toward you like he was about to duel someone to the death.
His robes were perfectly pressed. His hair was a work of art. And his expression?
Murderous.
Once again, both your cats were cradled in his arms.
Ever since the incident, you’d really tried to keep an eye on Pickles. You didn’t want him bothering Belladonna anymore—after all, she was Draco’s cat, and no matter what your personal opinions were, he technically had a right to decide who she spent time with.
But Pickles?
Pickles was a free spirit.
Short of locking him in your dorm room all day (which was impossible, since your dormmates couldn’t open the door without letting him out), there really wasn’t much you could do. Which led you to your current situation.
Draco stopped in front of you, eyes blazing.
“Control. Your. Beast.”
You blinked, took another casual sip of your juice, and replied, “Good afternoon to you too, Malfoy.”
“I’m serious,” He snapped, holding Pickles out like he was radioactive, “Your disease-ridden rat is trying to court my cat.”
Your eyes lit up instantly, a delighted smile spreading across your face as you stepped closer. “Is that right? Are you in love, boy?” You cooed to Pickles, “Are you in love with little Bella here?”
“Her name is Belladonna,” Draco hissed through his teeth, “And he better not be in love, or I swear, my father is going to hear about this.”
You rolled your eyes, “You can’t control love, Malfoy. Besides, Belladonna seems to like him.”
As if to prove your point, Belladonna—regal, graceful, dignified Belladonna—leaned over and licked Pickles’s ear.
You watched in smug satisfaction as Draco’s soul visibly left his body.
“I’m going to exorcise her,” He muttered darkly, “This is demonic possession. This isn’t her.”
“Malfoy,” You said flatly, “she’s grooming his neck.”
He froze.
Belladonna had nestled into Pickles’s scruffy fur and was now purring.
Purring.
Draco felt bile rise in his throat. One hand clutched his robe lapel like a Victorian widow witnessing her daughter marry the village stable boy.
He was definitely writing to his mother about this.
You stood, shouldering your bag with Pickles now sprawled lazily in your arms, looking more satisfied than ever. “Maybe if you stopped judging him and gave him a chance,” You said, “you’d see he’s got a lot to offer.”
Draco scoffed, “Like fleas, I’m sure.”
You sighed, “Draco, I get it—you want to protect Belladonna, and yeah, she’s got amazing pedigree. But at the end of the day… they’re cats. They don’t care who’s above or below them in social status.”
Your voice turned just a bit more smug, “Because to them? We’re all beneath them anyway. And honestly? I think you could learn something from that.”
Draco looked down at Belladonna, who was now curled up in his arms with one paw lazily touching Pickles’s tail, like the scandal meant nothing to her.
And for once, he didn’t have a snarky response.
Only quiet, seething defeat.
The turning point came exactly two weeks after that lakeside confrontation—two weeks of eye-rolls and casual jabs, of Belladonna purring traitorously in Pickles’s presence, of Draco’s poor weak heart nearly giving out every time he saw them nuzzle together like a couple in love.
It happened when Belladonna didn’t come home for dinner.
It was unthinkable.
Belladonna had done plenty of un-Belladonna things lately—grooming a mutt in public, fraternizing with Gryffindors, sharing her window seat—but missing her dinner?
Never.
She was like clockwork.
9:00 PM sharp, every evening since she was six weeks old.
Draco had built his routine around it.
At first, he waited.
She was probably just late. Distracted. Maybe Pickles had lured her into some dark corner to show her how to chew a sock.
But by 9:10, irritation had given way to full-blown dread.
His friends didn’t get it.
“She’s probably napping somewhere,” Blaise said with a shrug. “Cats do that.”
“Have you checked the tower?” Theo yawned.
But Draco knew.
Belladonna didn’t do tardy. She didn’t get stuck.
And she certainly didn’t miss meals.
So instead of explaining himself to people who clearly didn’t grasp the gravity of the situation, he went to the one person who might.
Which was how Draco Malfoy found himself standing stiffly outside the Gryffindor common room, looking like he’d just wandered into enemy territory.
His dark green robes stood out like oil in water. He adjusted his collar, trying to look composed, but the Fat Lady was already glaring down at him from her portrait frame, lips pursed like she smelled something foul.
“Password?” She asked sharply.
Draco blinked, “Oh. Um— I don’t know. Can you just… call out for (Y/N) (L/N)?”
She sniffed, “I’m a portrait, not a messenger owl. Password?”
“Right. Uh…” He hesitated, “Dumbledore?”
“Wrong.”
“Godric?”
“Incorrect.”
“Gryffindor pride?”
She looked personally insulted, “Absolutely not.”
Draco sighed, dragging a hand down his face, “Look, it’s important. I just—can’t you make an exception?”
The Fat Lady squinted at him, “Are you the boy who said my frame needed ‘restoration work’ two years ago?”
“…Possibly.”
She crossed her arms, “Password.”
“Oh for the love of— (L/N)!” Draco shouted, pounding a fist against the portrait like it had personally wronged him. The Fat Lady shrieked at him for being a rude little git, and the two launched into a full shouting match—one that only ended when, after two solid minutes of banging and arguing, the portrait finally swung open from the inside.
You stood there, confused and tired, Pickles draped around your neck like a lazy, judgmental scarf.
You blinked at the sight of him, “…Malfoy?”
He let out a shaky breath, like he hadn’t properly inhaled since dinner, “Belladonna’s missing.”
Your expression shifted immediately, “What?”
“She didn’t come back for dinner,” He said quickly, the words tumbling out in a rush, “She’s never late. Ever. And I know you’ll probably think I’m overreacting, but I’ve looked everywhere—common room, Astronomy Tower, library—nothing.”
Your brows furrowed, “That’s not like her…”
Draco nodded, clearly trying not to spiral, “I thought—maybe—if anyone would know where she is, it’d be that walking dust bunny of yours.”
At his mention, Pickles stretched languidly across your shoulders and let out a slow yawn, looking entirely unbothered.
You glanced down at him, “…Pickles, do you know where your girlfriend is?”
Pickles blinked.
Then, without warning, he wriggled free of your arms, landed with a soft thud on the stone floor, and trotted off down the hallway with alarming purpose—tail high, strut confident.
You stared after him. Then looked back at Draco.
“…After you.”
The castle was quiet at this hour—eerily so.
Lit only by the occasional floating candle and the faint tap-tap of Pickles’s determined paws echoing down the stone halls, the two of you trailed behind him like anxious parents following a toddler on a mission.
You’d just rounded the corner near the Charms corridor when a grating voice sliced through the silence like a rusty blade.
“Oi! You there!”
You froze.
Filch.
He emerged from the shadows like something out of a horror story, lantern swinging in one hand, the other gripping a battered cane like he fully intended to use it. Behind him, Mrs. Norris slinked close to the wall, her yellow eyes glinting as she honed in on Pickles with twitching suspicion.
Draco stiffened beside you, his whole posture bristling with irritation and nerves. You instinctively stepped in front of him.
“Out after curfew?” Filch growled, eyes narrowing, “You think the rules don’t apply to you just ’cause you’re out on a midnight date?”
“Out of bed, out of bounds, out of line!” He hissed, “Detention, both of you—and your mangy little creature!”
Pickles let out an indignant mrrrow, scandalized.
“Are you kidding me?” Draco snapped, turning on him with a snarl, “We’re in the middle of something important, you moldy old—”
You slapped a hand over Draco’s mouth so fast it nearly knocked him off balance.
He made a muffled growl of protest against your palm.
“Mr. Filch,” you said quickly, stepping forward before Draco could verbally self-destruct, “I know it’s past curfew, and I’m really sorry. But we’re not out here for fun. We’re looking for his cat. She hasn’t come home.”
Filch narrowed his eyes, “So you thought you’d go traipsing through the halls like you own the place?”
“No, sir,” you said, softening your voice, “but she means everything to Draco. And she’s never late for meals. She’s been missing for hours. I know you understand—if Mrs. Norris ever didn’t come home, you’d be out here too. Wouldn’t you?”
Filch looked down at his beloved cat, who had now approached Pickles and was sniffing him with wary curiosity. Pickles, unbothered as ever, sniffed her back like a gentleman who had once eaten a sock but still had his dignity.
Mrs. Norris didn’t hiss.
That alone was a miracle.
Filch’s scowl wavered. His eyes flicked to you, then back to the cats.
“…What’s the cat look like?” He muttered.
Draco opened his mouth, but you beat him to it, “White ragdoll. Blue eyes. Very regal. Very spoiled. Answers to Belladonna.”
Filch grumbled under his breath and gave Mrs. Norris a meaningful look. She meowed softly, then slinked off down a side corridor, tail swaying—like she’d accepted the mission.
Filch sighed, “I haven’t seen her. But if you’re lying, and I catch you sneaking about—”
“We’ll go straight back to our dorms,” You said quickly, “Promise.”
Draco still looked like he wanted to hex something, but you grabbed his wrist and tugged him forward before he could blow it.
As you rounded the next corner, Draco finally exhaled.
“You... handled that well.”
You shrugged, “At the end of the day, aren’t we all just crazy cat ladies?”
Draco let out a soft, reluctant laugh, “I suppose we are.”
You didn’t say anything else—but when you glanced down, you noticed Draco’s hand was still gently brushing yours.
And—perhaps more surprising—he didn’t pull away.
Pickles led you down staircases, across courtyards, and finally out through a side passage beyond the castle walls, nose to the ground like a hound on a mission.
The night air was damp and cool, the scent of rain clinging to the stones. The grass was slick underfoot, and mud squelched beneath your shoes as you followed Pickles out into the overgrown field that skirted the castle’s edge.
Draco muttered something about this being absolutely ridiculous, but he didn’t stop walking.
You passed the greenhouses, the Quidditch pitch in the distance, and then—
Pickles halted.
He sat abruptly at the edge of a shallow dip in the land, where a muddy slope descended toward a narrow drainage hole set into the castle’s outer wall. The earth around it was slick with runoff from the recent storm, and a shallow stream of water trickled through the grass, spilling over the edge and down into the hole.
And just inside it—barely visible—was a familiar puff of white fur.
“Belladonna!” Draco gasped, rushing forward and crouching near the entrance.
You moved beside him, dropping to your knees as you peered inside. Belladonna was crouched deep within the narrow crevice, her fur soaked and muddied, one paw half-lifted like she’d tried to climb out and slipped. Water had pooled at the bottom of the slope, turning the ground into a sludgy mess. Her big blue eyes blinked up at you in distress.
“She’s stuck.” You murmured.
Draco’s breath hitched, “She’s going to catch cold—she can’t stay in there, her fur will mat—she’ll get sick—”
“Draco,” You said gently, “She’s okay. But we’ve gotta get her out.”
You looked at the small opening. It was barely wide enough for your arm, and the earth around it was already saturated—slick, heavy, and cold.
Draco stared at it. His face twitched. His hands hovered.
He hesitated.
Years of being taught to avoid mess, to preserve appearance, to never degrade himself with something as undignified as crawling through mud—it all played behind his eyes in a blink.
He didn't get his hands dirty, he paid others to get their hands dirty.
He stomach bottomed out, feeling utter shame at his reluctance to save his most prized girl.
You didn’t wait.
Without hesitation, you dropped to your belly beside the hole and shoved your arm in, shoulder-deep, wincing as cold mud squelched up your sleeve. You began scooping out handfuls of thick earth, making a channel for the water to drain so Belladonna could climb up.
Draco stared, watching the girl he had been barking at for the last month for not being good enough—for not having a cat that was good enough—now getting her uniform, her skin, her everything covered in mud to save his cat.
Only for a second, before he was on his knees beside you, shoveling at the mud with both hands, trying to make a larger channel for Belladonna to climb out.
And then Belladonna mewed again—soft and uncertain.
You tilted your head toward her, “C’mon, sweetheart. It’s okay. You’ve got to climb. We made you a way out.”
Draco reached out, dipping his fingers into the hole, wiggling them ever so slightly, “Come on, darling. It’s just mud. You’re going to be fine.”
Belladonna took a trembling step forward. Then another.
The water drained slowly through the channel you dug. Finally, she scrabbled forward—and Draco reached in, arms filthy, eyes wide—and caught her.
He cradled her against his chest like a newborn, mud and all, whispering her name.
You sat back on your heels, breathing heavily, covered in muck.
Draco looked at you. Really looked at you.
“…Thank you.” He said, voice hoarse.
You smiled tiredly, pushing a strand of hair out of your face with your muddy hand, “It was my pleasure. Couldn’t leave my daughter-in-law down there now, could I?”
That was the first time since Pickles and Belladonna had fallen in love that Draco released a deep, boisterous laugh.
The trek back up to the castle was slow and quiet.
Belladonna was tucked safely in Draco’s arms, shivering and damp but breathing steadily. Pickles trotted loyally at your feet like a muddy little sentinel, occasionally brushing up against Draco’s leg as if offering silent support.
By the time you reached the front steps, your teeth were chattering, your robes soaked, and your skin itched with drying mud.
“Come on,” Draco said suddenly, nudging you toward a different hallway, “There’s a place we can use.”
You blinked, “Where are we going?”
He didn’t answer—just took a sharp turn down a marble corridor, Belladonna still cradled carefully in one arm. He drew his wand and tapped on a door inlaid with polished gold and pearl.
“The Prefects’ Bathroom?” You asked, eyebrows raising.
Draco gave you a sideways glance, “Don’t make it weird. She needs to be cleaned.”
He swung the door open, and steam rolled out in a fragrant wave, enveloping you in warmth. The bath was massive—practically a swimming pool—its water bubbling gently, already scented with lavender and bergamot. Dozens of knobs lined the tiled edge, each labeled in elegant script: foaming bubbles, eucalyptus mist, warming steam…
“Wow.” You breathed.
Draco, to his credit, looked more distracted than smug. He set Belladonna gently on a cushioned ledge beside the bath, then stared at her like she might shatter.
She was curled in on herself, still trembling slightly. Her fur—usually immaculate—was a sopping, matted mess.
Draco shifted, visibly uncomfortable, “I’ve… never done this before.”
You tilted your head, “Bathed a cat?”
He nodded once, looking faintly ashamed, “She’s always gone to a groomer. My mother used to hire someone. I don’t know how to—”
“Hey,” You interrupted gently, your expression softening, “It’s okay. I’ll show you.”
You knelt by the bath and adjusted the temperature with a flick of your wand, turning the water warm but gentle. Then, carefully, you reached for Belladonna.
She didn’t protest when you took her—tired, cold, and soggy as she was—and you slowly eased her into the shallow basin you’d prepared, cupping water over her back with both hands.
Draco knelt beside you, watching with wide eyes.
“She’s… letting you.” He murmured, almost in disbelief.
“She better,” You said with a tired laugh, “I have mud under my nail beds and a worm probably somewhere in my sweater right now, all for her.”
He almost smiled.
You worked carefully, your fingers patient and steady as you massaged soap into Belladonna’s sodden fur. She looked pitiful—like a wet, deflated pillow—but her big blue eyes stayed calm, occasionally blinking up at you as if to say I trust you.
You showed Draco how to support her little body, how to stroke behind her ears without getting soap in them, how to use a conjured comb to tease out the worst of the tangles.
And he watched. Closely. Quietly.
Then, without needing prompting, he joined you—his hands a little unsure, but gentle. You guided him with soft instructions, and soon he was rinsing her chest and shoulders like he’d done it a hundred times.
“There you go,” You murmured, “See? You’re a quick learner.”
Once Belladonna was clean, you lifted her carefully from the water and conjured a thick, soft towel, wrapping her up like a newborn. With a flick of your wand, you cast a heating charm just warm enough to soothe her, and she immediately burrowed into the fabric, eyes fluttering shut.
Draco stared at her.
Then he looked at you.
“…Thank you.” He said again, quieter than before.
You met his gaze, muddy and tired but steady, “You already said that.”
“I meant it then. I mean it more now.”
You gave him a small smile, “She’s safe. That’s what matters.”
A beat of silence.
Then—gently, without really thinking—Draco reached out and brushed a streak of dried mud from your cheek with his thumb.
“I think you’re a better person than me.” He murmured, voice low.
You laughed softly, eyes warm, “Then maybe one day you’ll learn to pay it forward.”
You were soaked, your robes stiff with dried mud, your knees scuffed, and your sweater still suspiciously worm-squishy. Draco didn’t look much better—his hair was a mess, his pristine robes stained all the way up to the elbows, and there was a distinct patch of dirt on his jaw from when he’d face-planted trying to widen the drainage path.
You shifted uncomfortably as you glanced down at your clothes, “We’re disgusting.”
Draco huffed a tired laugh, “We really are.”
There was a brief pause. Then, almost too casually, he said, “The showers here are private.”
You blinked, “What?”
He gestured vaguely toward a frosted glass partition on the other side of the bathroom, “The prefects’ showers. There’s a few. Individual stalls. Full doors. Soundproofed. Charms for clean clothes after, too.”
You followed his gaze, taking in the polished brass fixtures and enchanted mist wafting from the far end of the bathroom. The space was massive, marble and quiet and very much still shared.
“Oh.” You said.
You considered your options at first. The baths would definitely not be open at this time, so you'd be reduced to sleeping in your bed caked in mud which was not only unappealing but quite frankly impossible to even think of.
Another beat of silence passed. Belladonna shifted slightly in your arms, letting out a soft sigh.
“You should go first,” Draco said, clearing his throat, “I’ll dry her off a bit more. Make sure she’s fully warm before I head in.”
You nodded, clutching the towel bundle a little tighter before setting her down on a velvet cushion nearby.
“Thanks.” You said, already turning toward the showers, trying to ignore the way your heart suddenly sped up.
It wasn’t like you were showering with him. Obviously. You had your own stall. He’d have his. It was no different than when your entire dorm got ready for the Yule Ball at the same time, right?
It wasn’t like you were showering with him.
Obviously.
You had your own stall. He had his. Solid walls. Separate doors. It wasn’t like you were exchanging shampoo or anything.
It was no different than getting ready with your roommates during Yule Ball season. Right?
…Except it was different.
You weren’t really one to shower when the girls' baths were crowded. You liked your space, your quiet. You’d never been flustered about that kind of thing.
But this?
This was different.
He was a boy. And he was just a few mere feet away from you.
Naked.
You physically shook your head as if that would shake the thought loose.
The hot water hit your skin, washing away grime and mud and the bone-deep cold that had settled into your muscles, and for a moment, it felt like the world exhaled.
You let your head fall back under the stream, breathing in the lavender steam and bergamot oils—but your mind didn’t settle.
Because just across the room—on the other side of a few inches of stone and the faint hum of silencing charms—Draco Malfoy was standing under the exact same stream of water.
Maybe leaning back against the wall, eyes closed. Maybe raking a hand through his hair. Maybe—
You clenched your eyes shut.
Nope.
Absolutely not.
You rinsed faster than you normally would.
When you stepped back into the main space with your hair wrapped in a fluffy conjured towel, dressed in your clothes that you had cleaned with a simple 'scourgify', cheeks flushed from the heat—and something more complicated—Draco was there.
He was sitting on a cushioned bench, freshly cleaned. His hair, normally so perfectly styled, was now damp and curling slightly at the ends, a rogue strand falling into his eyes. He held Belladonna like she was made of glass, her towel gently unwrapped now as he ran his fingers carefully through her drying fur.
He looked up when he heard you. And for a moment, his eyes did that thing—flicking down, then back up. Fast. But unmistakable.
His throat bobbed.
“You alright?” He asked, voice low and hoarse.
You smiled, trying to ignore the way your heart skipped a little. “Regretting not trying harder to be a prefect,” You joked, padding toward him, “Can’t believe I’ve been missing out on these showers.”
His mouth twitched, “You can come back anytime.”
You raised a brow, “That an invitation?”
He hesitated. Just a second. Then looked you straight in the eye. “Yeah,” He said, “I owe you.”
You tried to brush it off with a smile, “You don’t owe me anything. I didn’t do it for you, I did it for her.”
He looked down at Belladonna, who was now snuggled up in his lap like a warm little dumpling. Her purring was soft, steady—proof she was safe and content.
In the weeks following the rescue, Draco was utterly incapable of letting Belladonna out of his sight. The poor cat, traumatized by her muddy ordeal, had adopted a new routine of clinging to the safe confines of her daddy’s room like a tiny, furry shadow.
Which meant that Pickles—her devoted, scruffy little boyfriend—had also become a permanent fixture there.
Which meant you—Pickles’ very concerned owner, who had nearly filed a missing cat report the moment her gluttonous furball missed a meal—were now also a regular guest in Draco Malfoy’s room.
It had been like this for about a week.
Despite Draco’s repeated (and exasperated) assurances that all you had to do was send him an owl and he’d gladly confirm Pickles’ whereabouts, you insisted it was easier to just drop by.
And once you confirmed that your boy was safe and sound, you’d make yourself perfectly at home on Draco’s floor—Pickles immediately climbing into your lap, soon followed by Belladonna, who clearly believed she owned the place. The two of them would curl into each other and purr like synchronized engines, while you absentmindedly stroked their fur.
It had gotten to the point where your presence didn’t even require Draco’s.
So when he returned from class one afternoon to find you sprawled across his bed—Pickles draped over your stomach and Belladonna nestled against your shoulder, both cats sound asleep—he simply sighed, slinging his bag onto the floor with a dramatic thud.
“Have we officially abandoned the concept of common courtesy then?” He drawled.
You didn’t even blink, “She sat on me and fell asleep, Draco. What was I supposed to do—move her?”
He rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. Instead, he crossed to his storage chest and pulled out two porcelain dishes—each filled with what looked like five-star gourmet cuisine—and set them gently on the floor. Like clockwork, both cats stirred, stretched, and padded down to their plates like royalty answering the dinner bell.
Draco muttered under his breath, “I still can’t believe I’m wasting perfectly curated, nutritionally balanced, hand-selected ingredients on that mangy mutt…”
“That mangy mutt is your son-in-law, Malfoy.” You said smugly.
He shook his head but softened. After Pickles rubbed against his leg and meowed up at him with those pleading eyes, Draco—deep down a simple cat lover and now a begrudging admirer of Pickles’ role in rescuing his precious Belladonna—gave in.
The cats were busy eating—Pickles scarfing his food like it might disappear any second, Belladonna delicately nibbling at hers like a Michelin critic—and for once, you and Draco were left without furballs sprawled across your lap.
You’d relocated to the floor by his desk, leaning against the foot of his bed while Draco lounged sideways in the armchair nearby, sleeves rolled up, socks mismatched—looking dangerously like someone approachable.
The silence between you wasn’t awkward anymore. If anything, it felt almost… easy.
“So,” Draco began, casually flicking a stray cat hair off his trousers, “how’s Potions going?”
You groaned, flopping your head against the mattress with dramatic flair, “Don’t get me started. No, seriously. If I have to think about the methodology for the Draught of Living Death one more time, I will actually cry.”
Draco snorted, “It’s not that hard.”
You lifted your head to glare at him, “Right. Well, oh intelligent one, not all of us are big, huge nerds. Honestly, you should’ve been in Ravenclaw.”
He smirked, unfazed, “This big, huge nerd just got an ‘O’ on the latest mock finals.”
You perked up instantly, “Wait, really?”
He didn’t seem to catch the trap in your tone, puffing his chest out proudly, “I did.”
“That’s amazing! So you can help me study!”
“…Excuse me?”
“Yeah! Ugh, Draco, you’re brilliant. This is perfect!”
“I wasn’t—”
“You’re a lifesaver! I’ll meet you here tomorrow during your free period!”
And just like that, before he could get a single word in edgewise, you scooped Pickles into your arms—his mouth still glistening from liver pâté—and dashed for the door.
“Sleep well, study buddy!” You called as you disappeared down the hall.
You slowed to a walk once you reached the common room, exhaling in victory. Pickles looked up at you, his expression blank as ever.
You sighed fondly, “Great job, wingman.”
Pickles blinked.
You fist-bumped his paw.
It was a lazy Saturday in the Slytherin common room.
The fire crackled quietly, casting warm shadows against the stone walls. Blaise sprawled across the velvet couch like a bored cat, Theo sat upside down in an armchair for no reason other than chaos, and Pansy twirled her wand with the kind of elegance that suggested she hadn’t read a single word of Witch Weekly in her lap.
Finally, Pansy broke the silence.
“So. Are you shagging her?”
Draco choked on his tea.
“What?” He coughed, nearly dropping the cup. Pickles, curled beside him on the armrest, hissed at the sudden jolt.
Blaise didn’t look up. “(L/N),” He said evenly, “You know. The Gryffindor who’s basically moved into your room. Owner of the mongrel you supposedly hate. Ringing any bells?”
“I—what—no!” Draco snapped, “Absolutely not! Why would you even ask that?!”
Theo flipped upright with a shit-eating grin, “Because you’ve been unreasonably pleasant lately. Smiling. Not threatening first-years. Suspicious behavior.”
“Almost like you enjoy seeing her kitty.” Blaise added smoothly, glancing down at Pickles who had moved himself to Draco's lap but judging by the smirk on his face it was clear he meant something else.
Draco turned bright red, “That’s not—”
“Mm-hm,” Pansy hummed, eyes glinting, “She was in your room for three hours yesterday.”
“She’s there for the cats,” Draco snapped, “Pickles won’t leave Belladonna’s side, and she won’t leave mine. (Y/N) just checks on him. That’s it. You all know this.”
“Sure,” Blaise drawled, “Just cats. That’s why you panic when she doesn’t show up at her usual time, right?”
“I do not—”
Before he could finish, the door to his dorm creaked open.
You stepped out, hair tousled, jumper slightly off one shoulder, Belladonna draped lazily around your neck like a scarf. You were clearly mid-thought, not yet noticing the audience.
“Draco,” You called, casual as ever, “come back in—someone’s missing their daddy.”
The room went silent.
Draco’s soul visibly left his body.
Theo’s mouth dropped open. Pansy squealed into her sleeve. Blaise grinned like he’d won a bet he hadn’t even made.
Draco groaned into his hands, “She meant the cat.”
“Sure she did.” Theo said, practically vibrating with glee.
It started innocently.
Draco was lying across his bed, legs crossed at the ankle, a Transfiguration textbook open in his lap—though he hadn’t actually turned a page in the last ten minutes. Pickles was curled up contentedly on his stomach, rising and falling with every slow breath. Across from him—well, technically on the bed but lying in the opposite direction—you were stretched out with your head by his feet, your own legs propped against his pillows like you lived there.
Which, to be fair, you kind of did lately.
Belladonna was nestled on your chest, queen of her tiny kingdom, batting half-heartedly at your fingers as you played with her paws, making little punching motions.
“And bam! And pow!” You said dramatically, “You’d never hurt me though, right, Bella? Us girls have to stick together.”
She stared up at you with her wide, imperious blue eyes.
You sighed, your fingers going limp in her fur, “Or maybe you’re not a girls’ girl after all. You got yourself a boyfriend first. Traitor. And now you’re no help either…”
Draco raised a brow, glancing down from his book, “Should I book you a trip to St. Mungo's, (L/N)?"
You ignored him, voice going high and sweet as you lifted one of Belladonna’s delicate paws and made her wave, “Not your fault, is it, darling? Your daddy’s so dense he can’t tell when a girl’s flirting with him to save his life. And you can’t knock some sense into him, can you? You’re just a cat.”
That made Draco freeze.
“Excuse me?” He said, sitting up just slightly, the book nearly sliding off his stomach.
Still, you didn’t look at him. You kept your attention on Belladonna, now rubbing her behind the ear like she was your emotional support therapist.
“Honestly, I’ve tried everything,” You sighed, dramatic and long-suffering, "Casual compliments. Gifts. Repeated close physical proximity. But nooo, nothing. He just sits there like a lemon, being oblivious and stupidly attractive.”
Draco blinked.
“I’m sorry,” He said slowly, “are you talking about me?”
You sighed, giving him a single glance before looking back at Belladonna, "He can't even tell when someone's blatantly talking about him either. Your daddy's a lost cause."
He looked like you’d just told him he was half-kneazle.
“You—you like me?”
You tilted your head, “I’ve been hanging out in your dorm for weeks, Draco. Do you think I do that for fun?”
“Well—yes? I thought you liked Pickles being around Belladonna!”
“Oh, I do,” You grinned, lifting Belladonna so you could sit up, “but I happen to like Belladonna’s daddy a lot more.”
A beat of silence.
Draco’s ears turned red. His entire face went warm. And he stared at you with an expression you couldn’t quite name.
Then—
“…Do you want to go to Hogsmeade with me next weekend?” He asked, voice slightly breathless, “Like—on a date?”
You reached out and laced your fingers with Draco’s, casual and easy like you’d done it a thousand times before.
“I’d love to go.” You said softly.
And from the way Draco looked at you then—wide-eyed, a little dazed, absolutely besotted—you had a feeling this was going to be the start of something very good.
Bonus:
“(Y/N) (L/N)!”
You shot upright, heart lurching at the sound of your boyfriend’s furious voice cutting across the room like a curse.
Draco Malfoy never yelled. He condescended. He complained. He drawled insults like an art form.
But this? This was new.
You stared at him from your perch on the couch, blinking.
He stood in the doorway of his dorm room, chest heaving, face pale with horror—and Belladonna tucked gently in one arm like a fragile glass ornament. His other hand was shaking. Literally shaking.
“…What’s wrong with you?” You asked slowly.
He marched across the room, holding Belladonna aloft like a witness to a crime.
“You said that thing was neutered!” He hissed, venom dripping from every syllable, clutching his cat to his chest like he was protecting her from the lump of orange fluff currently rolling around on the rug, trying to eat his own tail.
You stood slowly, voice tight, “I was told he was neutered.”
“Well, clearly you were lied to!” Draco snapped, setting Belladonna down on a velvet pillow with surgical care and clutching his hair like he was about to pull it out in clumps, “Because my daughter is pregnant.”
You stared at him. Then down at Pickles.
Then back at Belladonna, who had begun daintily licking her paw, looking vaguely smug.
There was a long, long pause.
“I’m gonna be a grandma!” You wailed, hands flying up to your face, “Oh my God, I’m gonna be a grandma!”
Draco gaped at you, “I just found out my baby is having babies and this is how you’re reacting?!”
Pickles burped.
Draco made a strangled sound, “That is the father of my grandchildren.”
You were laughing so hard you wheezed.
And somehow… somehow this entire disaster only made you love him more.
To be added to a taglist, please send me an ask! (I might respond to you in comments but I can’t guarantee that I won’t accidentally miss it)
⟶ Chapter Summary | Some say fate can be a cruel thing. Yet you never knew how true it was until fate played a hand in your bad luck. Merely moments before your happily ever after, you are suddenly sent out to a weird place. A different world. You wonder if this is a test from fate to see if you are truly deserving of your happy ending, or if perhaps fate wants to show you something else. Something that fate wishes you to learn before you can finally move on to take the next step towards your happiness.
⟶ Title | Ever a Never After (adaptation from Enchanted movie)
⟶ Pairings | Jungkook x female reader; Seokjin x female reader
⟶ Genre | Strangers to lovers!au, Fairy tale retelling!au, Rom-com
⟶ Word count | 16,755 words
⟶ Ratings & Warnings | +18 / M for Mature; slow burn, mentions of curses, black magic, misunderstandings, alcohol mention.
⟶ Author’s note | As you may have heard, I had to take a break due to grief, so this took a while to finish editing. Still roughly edited because I couldn’t postpone posting this part a lot longer, but I hope you can still enjoy this.
⟶ Story Masterlist: Ever A Never After | ⤎ previous chapter | next chapter ⇢
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𝔓𝔞𝔯𝔱 2. 𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔚𝔬𝔯𝔩𝔡 𝔚𝔦𝔱𝔥𝔬𝔲𝔱 𝔐𝔞𝔤𝔦𝔠
The first thing you feel when you wake up is the abundance of warmth.
A similar kind of warmth that usually welcomes you each time you embrace the morning.
But something is missing. There is no breeze flowing through the window. Not a sound of birds chirping or leaves rustling with the wind. And there is no sound of your grandmother moving downstairs, humming or muttering to herself as she lists the things she needs to do for the day.
You wish to wake up completely, to see what is wrong. Perhaps the weather is terrible this morning that everything has become so quiet. But your body is weighed down with exhaustion rolling through your body, and your eyes are too heavy for you to open. For the first time, you find no desire to leave your bed, opting to give in to the strong desire to go back to sleep and cuddle deeper into the comforting warmth.
But then the soreness comes. You can feel it all over you—from your ankles, up to your legs, your back—before the pounding in your head starts.
“Ow—” You reach up, touching your temple and pressing at the pulsing pain. By moving, you feel the weight of a blanket covering your body and the tight bodice of your dress pressing on your skin.
You try to stretch, hoping to push away this heavy weariness and force yourself to wake up. Only to find yourself rolling off the bed and falling on the floor with a hard thump.
“Oh, dear!”
With a groan, you push yourself up the floor and blink the sleep out of your eyes. And yet, looking around only makes you feel even more confused.
“Where,” you whisper to yourself as you glance around, “where am I?”
You start to panic. Because this place looks nothing like your bedroom. Pushing away the blanket, you slowly rise to your feet to have a better look around the room. The place that you slept on seems to be the small daybed attached to the window. The curtains are drawn close, but there are still some streaks of sunlight coming through the seams.
Being so close to the window and covered in a blanket would explain why you were woken up feeling so warm. Looking down, you see yourself in your wedding dress. Seeing how the white has changed colours—something in the mix of grey and muddy beige, thanks to all the dirt, dust, and grime you had gotten on yourself the day before—and the tattered hem looking worse under the lights, everything starts coming back to you again.
Oh, that’s right, you muse to yourself as you fall back down on the daybed. This is his house.
Your saviour.
That was what you called him after he caught you from that replica of the castle. The replica which held no magic at all, unlike the castle which held more magic than you have ever encountered throughout your whole life. You doubt there is even any magic here—perhaps except for the metal carriages that you saw driving down the roads without horses and the lights that came from the buildings and towers you saw last night.
You look down and wiggle your toes. The pretty heels that you worn for the wedding had been soiled so badly and your ankles were strained with over-tiredness that it took Ah-ri’s help to get it off your feet. Your cheeks grow warm as you recall how the little girl fussed over them, and then how she nearly cried when she saw how swollen your feet had become, making you feel embarrassed just thinking about it.
Accepting your new reality, you look around once again, taking in the room. There is not much furniture placed here, but the bedroom looks luxurious and cosy, and it makes you feel safe. Aside from the daybed, there is a bed right in front of you—which you have apparently missed when you first came into the room. It seems bigger than the bed that you have at home, covered in fresh sheets in the colour of soft pink. The wooden frame and the bedrest are painted white, unlike your bed at home which is made of oak and left without any paint. Two bedside tables are set on either side of the bed, each one adorned with small lamps that were left unlit. You are curious to see their odd shapes, even more so when you realise that they don’t resemble any of the oil lamps you have normally seen at home.
There are two doors attached to the room. One was the door from which you entered the room, while the other, a much smaller one which is left ajar, shows you the inside of an empty closet. Glancing at the bed, you find a pile of clothes placed on top of it. They are quite strange looking, you realise, as you take a look closer. Not a dress nor a shirt, but two pieces of clothing items that feel soft under the tips of your fingers when you reach out to touch them.
The change of clothes, you wonder with a smile, recalling what your saviour said about providing you with something to change into once you are out of your ruined dress. I suppose I fell asleep last night before changing.
And your saviour had chosen to let you rest. Could it have been your saviour who left the blanket behind? To keep you warm, perhaps?
Imagining the kind man who smiled at you warmly last night when he welcomed you into his home makes your heart flutter. The warmth that you felt when you woke up returns, only it feels softer, growing from inside your chest before expanding all over your body.
Unfolding the clothes, you simply tilt your head, not sure how you are going to change out of this tight dress and into these—confusing-looking pieces of clothing. Thinking about how to get out of the dress only reminds you of the morning when you first had to put it on. You had the help of your grandmother and your little friends to be able to put on this dress properly without ruining the delicate details on the skirt and the trails.
Sighing to yourself, you decide not to wallow in regret or sadness, and choose to embrace your day instead.
After laying out the pieces of clothing—the top, the bottom trousers, and the fluffy towel—on the bed, you return to the window, opening the curtains to allow more sunlight in and get a view of the outside world.
Everything looks different in the morning compared to the night before. The bright, sparkling lights are no longer visible, but there are still colourful ornaments that appear in some places, and you can finally get to see the beach more clearly. Everything aside from the beachside and the ocean looks like nothing more but tiny dots from the distance, but it is such an amazing sight to see, as you don’t normally get to see the widespread ocean and its glowing white sand back home as much as you wanted to.
The sun is bright and warm, with no trace of the rain which had fallen during the toughest time you had to endure.
At least the rain was quite refreshing, you wonder as you recall feeling as if everything that was unsettling you the other day—the fear of not being able to return home, feeling lost and powerless after finding yourself stranded in a strange land—all melted the moment you felt the rain drops falling all over you.
You smile at the thought of breathing in the scents of fresh soil and damp leaves that you often find through the forest or drifting into your bedroom after rainfalls, and you cannot help but think about the comfort that you often find from it.
A spark of idea comes to your mind right away. Maybe if I can just—
Finding the lock on the window, you unlatch it and pry the window open, allowing the morning breeze to come in. You hope that breathing in the fresh air might help you feel more refreshed. But you immediately find that you have made the wrong decision, as taking in a deep breath only causes you to have a coughing fit.
“Oh, my!” you gasp, taking a step back to get away from the foul air. The air you breathed is too dry, filled with dust and smoke and not a single hint of the fresh air that you would normally enjoy in the morning. It takes a while before you get used to it, before you finally smell the ocean breeze that is beginning to drift in.
“Well, I suppose things are a bit—different here,” you muse with a sigh, noticing how sparse the trees are around the house.
Furrowing your brows, you notice how restricted it feels to be in your dress, the fabric has been growing heavier as it has gotten dirty, and your body feels to be covered in grime. The warm breeze isn’t helping either, as it only escalates the discomfort that you are feeling. You feel the desire to strip out of the dress to feel better, yet you doubt that you can get out of the dress on your own.
Once again, your mind wanders to your little friends. Your companions and loyal helpers who would always come to help whenever you are in need.
“Is there someone you can call—?”
You recall what your saviour said last night about calling someone from home. You only realise now that you haven’t even tried calling to see if it would work at all. Trying to be positive despite your circumstances, you look up to the sky and wonder if your voice can reach someone from back home—your animal friends from the forest, perhaps—so they will be able to know where you are.
You have done it once when you sang in the forest one day and birds came to you, answering your call and singing along to your song.
Won’t it happen again now, if you try it?
“Maybe if I sing something loud and sincere enough, then the little birds will be able to hear me. Maybe they will hear my call,” you wonder out loud, reassuring yourself before doubt ever has the chance to sink in. “That’s right. Let’s try it. It won’t hurt to try and call them.”
Taking a deep inhale of breath, avoiding to breathe in the smoke and dust this time, you muster some energy to sing, calling your lovely friends that might be able to help. With your heart beating in your chest, hope blooming, you begin to sing.
“Good morning, friends, it's a brand new day…
With friends beside us, we’ll find our way…”
Wind blows, warmth filters through the window, the faint sound of the waves reaches you, yet there is nothing else returning your song.
“Together we’ll share the morning light…
Hand in hand, everything feels right…”
You refuse to give up, believing that all you ever need is patience. Perhaps if your friends won’t be able to hear you, some new friends would, and they can help you find a way to solve your problems, to help you find the way back home.
“Good morning, good morning, the day’s begun…
Together we’ll shine, our hearts as one…”
The loud sound of a horn from one of those metallic carriages blares through the air, shocking you, sending you falling back to the daybed. Your heart is still racing as you sit there in silence, hearing the faint sound of the carriage driving down the road below. You wait for a moment longer, drowning in silence.
Then another moment passes, and you still hear no answer to your song.
“I knew it. Nobody can hear me calling them from here,” you murmur to yourself, having no choice but to accept reality.
They say magic is so powerful that it can reach anyone no matter the obstacle. But your magic clearly has no power here. Your voice and your song cannot reach anyone—far and near—to give you the answer you need.
You look up at the sky with despair. A day has passed until you encounter a new morning, and you are still stranded in this strange land. Still with no sign or hope that you might be able to return home.
Leaning back in the daybed, you rest against the window as any hope you ever had begins to wither. The breath you exhale is soft. Weary. Lonely.
You miss the sounds of the forest—the birdsongs echoing through the thickets welcoming the rise of mornings, the loud chitters coming from your little forest friends as they greet you at the start of the day, the rustling leaves and swaying branches at the first morning breeze, and the soft humming voice of your grandmother as she paces out into the garden to tend to her flowers and crops.
Here, the sound of waves coming from the fair distance is calming, yet it still feels foreign to your ears. And there are too many other foreign sounds that your mind is having a hard time processing still; the voices from the crowd of people in the streets and the beach not too far away that are too loud this early in the morning; the rumbling sounds of the metal carriages going up and down the cobalt-grey roads, always accompanied by those god-awful sounds of horns blowing through the soiled air.
A wince comes from you when another sound of a horn blows through the morning from somewhere far away, followed by shouts and bellows of laughter. A reminder of how strange this place is. Thinking about it makes you feel so hollow inside.
You miss your forest friends.
You miss your grandmother.
You miss home.
And when you close your eyes, you realise how much you miss seeing the Prince. And it scares you to realise that you are having a hard time remembering the beautiful smile that he gave you the last time you met.
Shaking your head, you refuse to lose hope. There might still be a chance for you to find your way home, slim though it may seem.
Opening your eyes, you look out into the distance, at the ocean that is glowing under the sun. In silence, you promise yourself to hold on to the last sliver of hope that you feel as tightly as you can, refusing to give up so easily.
You promise yourself that you will find a way home. Back home to your family. Back to your Prince.
To your happily ever after.
Downstairs, Ah-ri has been humming her own tune as she is helping her father prepare breakfast. At the sound of your voice, she immediately stops—both the singing, and the little hands that have been working to mix the pancake batter—and looks up with a gasp.
“Did you hear that, Daddy?” She turns to Seokjin, smiling wide. “The Princess is singing.”
Seokjin stops to listen, and sure enough, he can hear the faint sound of someone singing from upstairs. Creasing his brows, Seokjin quickly recognises it as your voice and begins wondering if this is another quirky thing of yours. To be singing about the morning when you had just woken up.
Shaking his head, Seokjin silently chastises himself for bringing this upon himself. He only sighs and forces a smile as he turns away from the coffee machine to look at his daughter. “I hear it. Why don’t you stay here and I’ll go check on our guest to see if she’s ready for breakfast?”
“But I want to see,” Ah-ri complains, pouting. She knows that she can easily melt Seokjin’s heart when she does this, but he forces himself to ignore it for once and shakes his head.
“You can have her sing for you later,” he convinces Ah-ri and strokes her hair when she begins sulking. “Besides, you have some work to do, don’t you?” He points at the mixing bowl in her hands and says, “Keep mixing the batter so we can have the pancake done soon.”
“Fine,” she says, huffing. “But remember, you promised.”
“I promise,” Seokjin says with a chuckle. He playfully ruffles Ah-ri’s hair to tease her before heading up the stairs, following the sound of your voice that is slowly beginning to make him feel warm inside, for reasons he cannot understand.
Soon, the singing stops. He can faintly hear you murmuring to yourself, and he doesn’t have to see you to know that your singing didn’t help you feel ecstatic about the morning.
Standing by the door, Seokjin comes to a halt. He suddenly feels hesitant to knock. It doesn’t even matter if this is his home, and you are simply a guest. He can sense that you are having a moment and he hates having to break it.
But Ah-ri is waiting downstairs, and he knows that she will be hungry soon. And if he wants to hear the full story from you, this will be the right time to pry it out of you. If cannot do it himself, then perhaps Ah-ri would be able to do it later once she sees you. He has noticed how you seem to have a soft spot for his daughter so quickly right after you met her, so he knows that he can put that to his advantage.
Noticing the silence in the room, Seokjin takes a deep breath, counts to three, and then knocks the door gently. “Hello? Is everything okay?”
He hears a faint sigh from the other side of the door before your voice is heard. “Yes, everything is fine.”
Soft, small, and delicate. Seokjin has never heard such a voice, and he never felt such a strong urge to protect and calm someone so badly as he does now upon hearing such a voice. He shakes his head and laughs at himself, wondering how it is possible for him to care for someone so much, when he had just met you.
Clearing his throat, he calls out when you make no move to open the door for him. “Can I come in?”
“Oh,” you sound surprised. He hears shuffling voices from the room, followed by a soft thud, just as you answer, “Yes, of course. Please, come on.”
Seokjin carefully opens the door and finds you sitting—on the floor. The skirt of your dress are outspread around you, making it seem as if you are drowning in the fabric. The flustered look you are showing tells him more than he needs to know.
“Why are you on the floor?” he asks, stiffing a chuckle, picturing how you must have slipped or tripped in your own dress when you tried to open the door for him.
“Oh, nothing,” you nervously laugh, “Just relaxing and enjoying the morning.”
“I see,” he says, nodding. His eyes find the pile of clothes he left on the bed. All stretched out over the still made-up bed. “You’ve found the clothes,” he says as he reaches out, offering his hand to help you back up to your feet. You mutter a soft, “Thank you,” before he asks again, “Do you have a problem changing out of that dress?”
You look startled, and Seokjin cannot resist the smile on his face. “I have a daughter who loves wearing princess dresses every now and then, so I know how hard it is to get out of them. Especially one as intricate as the one you’re wearing.”
You look away with a shy smile but slowly nod. “Yes, I was, but I think I can figure it out somehow.” Looking down at yourself, at your tattered dress, you visibly grimace. “Forgive me for looking unpresentable, I am not quite myself at the moment.”
Seokjin nods. “Would you like to take a bath first? Ah-ri and I are preparing breakfast downstairs. It’s our—we always have breakfast together in the morning and I was going to ask you to join us, but you can take your time to clean up first so you’ll feel more comfortable.”
“Yes, please,” you answer with a relieved sigh. “I can’t even remember the last time I had a proper meal, or have any kind of food at all,” you muse with a chuckle, which only worries Seokjin further. “But I do feel like I must clean up before getting any food. It wouldn’t be proper of me to join you and the little princess if I am in such a mess.”
Seokjin’s lips curl to a smile. “There’s a joint bathroom in this floor, and it’s small, so you’ll be sharing with my daughter. Is that all right with you?”
“That would be lovely.”
Nodding, Seokjin reaches down to help carry your change of clothes for you and guides you out of the bedroom. The bathroom is right across the corridor, lodged between the stairs leading to the upper floor and Ah-ri’s bedroom.
“Here you go,” Seokjin says as he opens the door to the small bathroom, ushering you in.
He stays at the doorway as you step inside the bathroom, eyes wide as you take a look around.
As you stand at the center of the room, the bathroom almost looks like a tight squeeze. Your wedding dress and your entire presence taking up the space in Seokjin’s eyes, something that he finds amusing. He follows your gaze, trying to see the room through your eyes.
The light beige coloured tiles on the center wall used to make this room feel vibrant, a vintage look that made it appear fancy in his less than humble home. Against your white dress—despite it being soiled and slightly losing its perfection—the colour on the wall looks muted and dull.
On your right, stands the narrow shower box. The tainted glass door is fairly new, recently replaced from the old vintage one that came with the house when Seokjin first bought the place. Right next to it is the small, old-fashioned tub, standing on claw feet rising from the floor; the only piece that remained from the place, only because Ah-ri has grown fond of it.
The size is enough to fit the little girl, hopefully until she is a teenager, but not big enough to fit the entire length of his body. Looking at it now, he worries that it might be a bit too tight fit for you should you need to lie in it to relax. Probably just enough for you to sit in with your knees tucked to your chest, which Seokjin cannot imagine it to be comfortable for you.
The sink is on your left, standing from one wall to the other. A white porcelain sink over a wooden cabinet, with jars and bottles of beauty products that Ah-ri has always insisted to keep in stock for unexpected guests. Your gaze rises to the mirror above the sink—the circular fixture with a golden frame, one that Seokjin found in a vintage shop to fill the room with—and a sharp gasp leaves your lips.
“Oh, my,” you cry out, looking pained at the sight of your own reflection.
“Why? What’s wrong?”
“I—oh ,dear.” You start to panic and look away. “Forgive me, Sir. I wasn’t aware that I’ve been looking so improper. This is—oh, heavens, how embarrassing.”
Biting his smile, Seokjin breathes a sigh of relief. He had, for a moment, thought that you may have seen something so awful, or feel pained. It might sound bad to laugh, yet he is thankful that you are simply shocked after looking at what kind of state you have been in.
“It’s fine. Anyone else would’ve been in the same condition if they had experienced what you’ve been through. You said it yourself that it was a long day yesterday,” Seokjin reassures you, until you visible grow more relax. “Take your time to wash up. I’m sure you’ll feel better once you get all those dirt and grime off your skin.”
Your eyes follow him as Seokjin moves to place your change of clothes by the sink, before you turn to look at the bathtub across the room. Seeing that you appear wary, Seokjin feels bad. “The bath is small in here, but you can use my bathroom if you want to use it and soak in, it’s in—”
You cut him with a wave of your hand. “No, that is quite all right. Just as long as I can clean up. I’ve already given you too much trouble, I don’t want to intrude.” Brushing your hands down your skirt, you gently add, “I don’t think it would be proper of me to lie in a bath and soak on my first day, especially when I am to be expected on your breakfast table.”
“It’s fine, really,” Seokjin says with a smile. “But if you insist, then you can use the shower to wash up for now.”
“The shower?” You raise your eyebrows, and it takes Seokjin a moment before realising that you may not have a standing shower where you are from.
“Oh, let me help you,” Seokjin carefully slips inside and opens the shower box. “Here, this is the shower, and you can clean up right here. Let me show you how you can get the water running. I’ve set it up to get the water warm right away, but you can turn it to cold or hot this way,” he says, before he gently explains to you the way to use the shower tap, twisting the tap one way to the other so you can have an idea what to do with it.
He steps back once he is done so you can slip inside. “You can use the products by the sink if you need to. My daughter always reminds me to stack them up in case her aunts or uncles come by.”
You turn to the sink table, looking up at the mirror. Though you are no longer looking at yourself with wide, terrified eyes, there is still a strain in your gaze. A weary look that worries Seokjin further. He wishes to take it away, but he knows that this is all that he can do for you to help.
“This place,” you ask with a soft voice, “This isn’t Andalasia, is it?” Your voice cracks, and Seokjin feels as if there is a crack inside his chest that is forming just as deep as your pain when he hears it. He sees it in your eyes when you look up at him to ask, “What did you call this place again?”
“LA,” Seokjin says, his voice faltering when he sees the light in your eyes growing dim. Dimmer. With more shadows filling your gaze. “Los Angeles”—he clears his throat—”and to answer your question, no, this isn’t Andalasia, and the place that you’re looking for may not have come from anywhere near where we are.”
“I see,” you whisper, and Seokjin can almost see some tears forming at the corner of your eyes. He opens his mouth and takes a step forward, falling prey to the urge to comfort you, to calm you, to heal, anything, when Ah-ri’s voice drifts across the house from the kitchen.
“Daddy! The batter is ready,” she shouts from the kitchen downstairs, “should I heat up the pan? Do you want me to start making the pancakes?”
Seokjin grimaces. You blink, and the shadow of your tears fades when you smile softly at the sound of his little girl. He sighs in relief.
“I should go and check on her before she burns our breakfast,” Seokjin says with a nervous chuckle, stepping outside of the bathroom. But his footsteps feel heavy, almost as if his own body is fighting against him, refusing to leave you be. “I take it you can deal with everything from here? Or should I get Ah-ri up here to help you get out of that?”
You look at him for a moment, confused, as if you have no idea what he is talking about—or perhaps you are still stuck in the sad thought bothering you after accepting that you are far from home—until your hands fall on your skirt. “Oh, that’s right,” you softly gasp, a soft giggle slips out of you as you shyly look up to him. “That’s quite all right, I think I should figure this out myself. I shouldn’t trouble you or the little princess for such a small thing. But thank you for offering, and thank you so much for your help.”
Seokjin nods, lips curling up to a smile, relieved and reassured after hearing the sound of your soft laughter. “Come down the stairs once you’re ready and join us for breakfast.”
“The princess is taking so long.”
Ah-ri has been glancing back at the clock for a while now, ever since Seokjin heard the sound of water running from the bathroom upstairs. The little girl has insisted on waiting for you to come down before diving into her meal, yet Seokjin can tell that she is growing impatient. Pouting, Ah-ri crosses her arms over her chest and glares at her father. “Are you sure you did well showing her around the bathroom?”
Surprised, Seokjin starts laughing, which only makes the girl pout even more. Shaking his head, he finds himself amazed at how the girl always acts as if she is older than her age. He cannot help but find this adorable, but he would never dare say it to her face. Not when she’s acting as if she’s taking control. Like an adult would.
“Of course, I did, sweetheart,” he says, as he crosses his own arms to mimic the little girl, challenging her, “Are you trying to teach your Dad how to treat the guest?”
“You didn’t even want to take her home last night,” Ah-ri complains, scoffing, “if you did a good job hosting the princess, then why is she not coming down yet? The meal is getting cold, and I want to listen to her stories.”
Seokjin lets out a chuckle as he points at Ah-ri’s plate which she prepared herself, filled with pancakes and slices of strawberries and honey on top—her favourite meal. “I told you to start eating if you’re hungry. You didn’t have to wait.”
“But I want to eat with the princess,” the girl whines, and Seokjin has no other choice but to give in.
Seokjin takes another sip of his coffee before rising from his seat, “Why don’t I go up there and see if she’s ready for breakfast?” He picks up an empty plate and hands it over to the girl. “You stay here and plate the food for our special guest, okay?”
“’Kay!”
Soon, the sulking girl is busy setting up a plate of breakfast for you, with a wide grin on her face and soft humming of a tune coming out of her lips. It sounds a bit similar to what you were singing earlier when Seokjin heard you got up, and he wonders if it’s something that you or Ah-ri had heard once from one of those Disney remake movies.
He is halfway up the stairs when the doorbell rings, echoing through his home.
“Damn it,” he groans. Just who in their right mind would come knocking this early in the morning? He wonders. And on the weekends too?
Before he gets to turn back and head towards the door, he hears the quick stomping downstairs as Ah-ri runs across the ground floor while shouting loudly, “It’s okay, Daddy. I’ll get it!”
Seokjin doesn’t respond and continues to walk up the stairs. He notices that the shower has stopped running, but the bathroom door is still closed shut. There is a faint shadow of white mist from the hot shower still slipping out of the bottom of the door, so he knows that you are probably still there.
He gently knocks just as he hears Ah-ri opening the front door. The muted sound of her voice talking to whoever was on the other side of it fades to the background when he hears soft shuffling sounds coming from inside the bathroom.
This seems familiar, he wonders to himself as he recalls this morning incident. “______? Are you still in there? Do you need any help?”
Another shuffling is heard, before your muffled voice calls out. “No, I’m okay. I’ll be right out.”
The next thing he hears is the sound of your footsteps, and for some reason, he begins expecting the sound of a thud, anything that may indicate you falling. Again. Smiling, he steps back from the door just as it opens and you emerge from the bathroom.
The mix of floral scent of the shampoo and the bath soap you used hits him straight in the face that he becomes flustered, barely coherent enough to speak. “Hey, how was the shower?”
Your wide smile appears at the sound of his voice. “Oh, it was marvellous,” you excitedly share as you walk closer to him, “The water felt nice. You have no idea how good it feels to—”
Just as you are rushing towards him, the length of the sweatpants you are now wearing—one that Seokjin realises to late to be too long for you—stretches down, causing you to trip over when the tips of your toes get stuck on the hem. “Oh, goodness!”
Out of instinct, Seokjin immediately rushes to catch you, only for him to fall back. The air is kicked out of his chest as he falls on his back, a deep grunt leaves his mouth when he is hit by your body weight when you fall on top of him.
“I’m so sorry!” you gasp. You try to push yourself up, but Seokjin’s hands find your waist when he feels you falling backward, stopping you before you get hurt. Opening his eyes, he becomes more aware of the situation; how you are now straddling over his stomach, with your legs parted on either side of him; your palms pressing on his chest; your hair falling down, framing your face; his hands resting easily on your waist.
Something about this situation feels compromising, yet his mind is having trouble processing over the shock that his body grows still. The sound of his rapid heartbeat is so loud, drowning the sound of footsteps rushing up the stairs until someone screams across the hallway.
“What the fuck is going on here?”
Seokjin turns his head, and grits his teeth. Standing at the end of the hallway is Kira, his girlfriend who has gone missing for the past 24 hours. Her eyes are glaring, her face growing red with rage, and he knows that he has a lot of explaining to do.
A lot of it.
You close your eyes, trying to shut everything down.
And when it doesn’t work, you try to shut your ears. But the noises are too loud. The wall standing between you and the two people shouting at each other in the other room barely helps drown the noises, and your hands aren’t doing much to help either.
“Princess, are you okay?”
A small voice tries to pierce through your thoughts, through your senses that are working hard to block the noises.
There are so many things in this place—this new world—that are completely new to you. So many, that your mind is struggling to protect you from them. You cannot see what is happening in the other room, but the voice of your kind saviour has suddenly changed. He still sounds calm and gentle, but his voice has grown tight and tense, just like one of those times when Poppy got stuck between small branches while she was up to pluck some apples for you and your grandmother.
Annoyance.
Yes, that was the word that she used to describe it. She said most little animals feel that way when they are in peril, or when a larger animal comes to them bringing danger and instilling fear.
But the lady who came earlier when you tripped and fell—causing your saviour to fall back when he was trying to catch your fall—reminds you of something else. Her voice is loud, enough to hurt your ears, just like those dark-cloaked figures you saw back when you were a little girl, slipping into the crowd with Nana to watch an incident which happened downtown. You remember watching those figures speaking with loud voices, screaming, as they were dragged in by the Queen’s knights into Castle Andalasia to be punished for eternity.
“Bad witches hurt your parents. You best stay away from them.”
A cold shiver runs through your body, just as your mind is shaken by a part of your childhood memory which you had somehow forgotten. You feel like running, only that you have no idea where to run to.
“Is everything okay, Princess?” Ah-ri asks again, and her small voice finally breaks through to you, shutting everything completely.
You blink, and all the bad images fade, replaced with the little girl’s pretty face and her wide eyes. “Oh.” A soft gasp leaves your lips, realising too late that you have made the little princess worried about you. After your fall, Seokjin asked you to wait for him in the dining room with Ah-ri while he tends to his guest, yet you have been feeling too disturbed to be speaking to the girl and acting like good company. It makes you feel guilty, so you quickly muster a smile.
“Yes”—you nervously laugh—”I’m quite all right.”
Ah-ri looks at you without a word. It is quite obvious that the little girl doesn’t believe you. Her eyes are filled with worry, until realisation seems to dawn on her when the noises echoing through the house begin to subside and she finally understands. Looking over her shoulder, Ah-ri lets out a deep sigh. “Daddy is always mad when Kira is here.”
Mad? You look at Ah-ri, unable to understand the word. What does that mean?
But hearing the word only brings up a different memory from when you were little. You can almost hear Nana’s voice from back then, when she apologetically said, “I’m not mad at you, my sweet angel.”
You never understood the expression and what it meant, and you cannot even remember why your grandmother would say something like that. But any thought of the past fades when silence suddenly falls in the house. The air quickly changes when Seokjin and the lady stop talking. It feels peaceful enough to make you feel calmer, allowing you to breathe a sigh of relief.
“Is Kira a friend?”
Ah-ri furrows her brows and shakes her head. “She’s not my friend. Daddy calls her ‘a special friend’ but I know that it means she’s his girlfriend, even if he won’t admit it.”
“A—special friend?”
The little girl nods. “Yes, that’s what—”
The sound of footsteps coming closer to the dining room cuts her off. You turn as Seokjin enters the room, the lady—his guest—walking close behind. She is looking down when she enters, partially hiding her face, yet you can still see the frown on her face—a look that makes you feel uncomfortable—which fades the moment she lifts her face.
“I’m sorry to keep your girls waiting,” Seokjin apologises the moment he arrives. His kind smile remains the same, even when he looks slightly exhausted. “_______, I’m sorry. You must’ve been surprised. This is Kira. She didn’t mean to yell at you earlier.”
The lady who is with him, Kira, throws a quick glance at Seokjin with a sharp look that brings back a cold shiver on your skin. Worrying that it might frighten Seokjin or the little girl, you immediately rise from your seat and offer your hand to her. Something tells you that you should start apologising so you can fix the situation.
“Hello, my name is ______. I’m sorry for all of this. I truly never meant to intrude, but I promise I’m not here to cause any trouble,” you nervously explain. Kira doesn’t show much reaction until you carefully add, “Mr. Seokjin here is only helping until I can find my way home. I promise it won’t be long. I do have a wedding to get back to.”
Kira’s eyes grow wide at the mention of a wedding. She opens her mouth to speak, only to have Ah-ri interrupt her by saying, “_______ is my guest, Aunt Kira.”
The look in Kira’s eyes softens when she looks at Ah-ri, and it remains that way when she looks at you. “Right. That’s fine. Jin explained to me everything and, um—” She turns to Ah-ri. “Ari,” she gently says, with a cooing tone that people normally use to speak to a baby, which draws Ah-ri’s brows to crease deeply. “I’m so sorry I missed your recital yesterday. I came bearing gifts and hoping that maybe I could make it up to you with an ice cream date. What do you say?”
You look down as Kira reaches out, handing out some gifts which you failed to notice earlier; a small bouquet of white flowers; a small box that carries a sweet scent, like chocolate; and a small bundle wrapped in red paper. Ah-ri looks hesitant and glances at her father before finally accepting the gifts.
“Thank you,” she murmurs softly as she takes the small trinkets in her tiny hands. “I think I want to stay home with ________,” she says, her eyes flicking towards you. “But thank you for the flowers.”
Kira looks a bit sad, making you feel even more guilty. Before you can do anything to cheer her up, Seokjin seems to notice and gently rubs Kira’s back. “Why don’t you stay and join us for breakfast?” Seokjin offers her, and for a moment, Kira appears to be considering it.
“That’s okay. I was actually planning to invite you guys for breakfast, and then get ice cream with Ari later,” Kira explains with a smile. “I was also hoping that you can join me and my friends today. They’ll be around for a few days and I offered them a tour—”
“That’s so sudden,” Seokjin quickly says, his voice reminds you of the ‘annoyance’ you felt from him earlier. “You can see that I have a guest and it would be hard to find someone to watch Ari so suddenly. On the weekend, no less. You’re not expecting her to join you and your friends, are you?” Seokjin shakes his head. “You should know no by now that making sudden plans like this doesn’t always work.”
Kira suddenly bursts out laughing. “Don’t hate people for knowing how to have fun,” she teases Seokjin, yet there is something in her voice that makes you tense. It quickly disappears when the lady exhales deeply. “I better go,” she says, turning to Ah-ri. “I’ll see you Monday when I drive you to school?”
“Yeah, okay,” Ah-ri mutters, barely loud enough for everyone to hear, but it doesn’t seem to matter for Kira as she already has her focus on you.
“I guess we’ll see each other again?”
“Oh, yes. Perhaps,” you try to say, only for Kira not to notice as she is already turning on her heels.
“No need to walk me out. I know my way,” she says without looking over her shoulder, and everyone can only look on as she continues making her way to the front door.
Seokjin shakes his head, again, and you wonder why he keeps looking more and more exhausted as time passes. “I’m sorry for showing you such an unpleasant sight so early in the morning.” He gives you a small smile. “Come, let’s have breakfast. I hope you like pancakes and waffles. Those are Ari’s favourites.”
You glance at Ah-ri as she finishes putting away the gifts that she received and setting them up on a cabinet nearby. “I’m up for anything that the little princess helped make.”
Your words seem to cheer the little girl, who immediately takes your hand and starts pulling back to your seat. “Do you like fruit or berries? I asked Daddy to buy some strawberries yesterday, and—”
Seokjin stands in the hall between the dining room and the foyer, feeling like his entire body, mind, and soul are being split into two. Never before had he ever felt this exhausted. Never once had he ever experienced anything that would make him feel like losing his strength and wishing that he could shut everything down at the same time.
Not even the long hours he spent working at the firm, either handling tough clients or delving into difficult cases, has ever made him feel so drained.
He watches Ah-ri pulling you away, back to the dining table. Her cheerful voice as she rambles on about the breakfast that she helped make fills the room, yet his mind keeps replaying the argument he had with Kira just moments ago.
“Are you fucking cheating on me?”
Was it really wrong for Seokjin to laugh the moment he heard such an accusation?
He wanted to remain calm, knowing that there was no point for him to respond with anger. But it was so hard to think clearly when he was still vexed after Kira bailed on them last night.
“Cheating? Me?” he had responded once he pulled Kira away, preventing Ah-ri from hearing her cursing and yelling, something that he already expected Kira would do. And the last thing he wanted was to fight right in front of his little girl and their guest. “That’s rich coming from someone who went missing without any news for the past 24 hours.”
“Why are you turning this on me?”
“Where were you?”
It felt like talking to a wall, or a volcano, he really couldn’t decide which, when his question only led to a more explosive reaction from Kira. It was a miracle that he was able to remain calm through it all. Barely, but at the very least, he was able to keep his voice down. He couldn’t stop the surging anger, however, so his voice remained tense the entire time he kept responding to Kira.
And the explanation she gave him did nothing to alleviate his exasperation. It only made things worse.
“Our office is hosting a group of independent artists from Europe, as you very well know—”
Seokjin didn’t enjoy hearing the mocking tone in her voice. And yes, he very well knew what was going on. He knew that the production house that Kira is working on is currently hosting guests from Europe; stage artists who are performing their work here in LA through the whole season. He knew because Kira wouldn’t stop talking about them ever since they arrived here a month ago. He shouldn’t have been surprised to know that these ‘guests’ of hers would be the reason she was cancelling their plan.
It wouldn’t be the first. But at least she had always remembered to let him know about it before she did instead of ditching on him and ghosting them the way she did yesterday.
“They wanted to watch some shows while they’re on cooldown Friday night, so we took them to watch a musical, then we went to watch a live show at the club—”
Seokjin could already tell where this was going before she even continued, “We went drinking after, and one of the artists said he wanted to see other parts of LA, so when Alex”—she mentioned her co-worker, the one that Seokjin has always felt to be some kind of a nuisance—”mentioned that he has a villa on Catalina Island and offered to take everyone there with his boat. We crashed at Alex’s place after and went first thing in the morning. I guess I passed out during the night after drinking, and—”
Seokjin cannot remember what went through his head at the time other than finding this entire situation ridiculous.
This? She broke her promise and avoided my calls and messages for this?
He let out an incredulous laugh instead of yelling back at her, even when he already felt like he was about to explode himself.
“What? Are you going to accuse me of cheating now? Because if you’re going to—”
He almost screamed then. But he was so angry that he barely reacted at all. There was a moment when he nearly said that the possibility of her cheating didn’t matter to him. He didn’t even care if she did. Because there was only one thing that mattered to him at that moment.
“You broke your promise to Ari.” The moment those words were said, Kira’s ire seemed to cool down. As if she finally remembered where she went wrong.
“At which part during your hosting your guests, getting drunk, agreeing to join them boating and going to the island, and crashing at your friend’s place for the night, did you ever think or remember about the promise you made to me and Ari? By which point did it ever occur to you to call or message us to cancel or at least tell me that you were alive?” Kira said nothing to defend or to explain herself. But at least she had the decency to show a bit of shame. “And you were the one who insisted to try and bond with her before I even agreed to get her involved between us.”
Just as he was seeing the fight leaving Kira the moment she heard his questions, his own fight declined.
Thinking about it now, Seokjin realises why he feels so drained.
Kira has always been more free-spirited than he ever was, and that was what had drawn him to her in the first place. Where Seokjin was meticulous and strict, Kira has always been more spontaneous. She always had new ideas to try, finding new things to do and jump into. Before, Seokjin would always envy her for being able to be so free, when he constantly felt like he was living under a restraint that kept him from enjoying the world. When his reality kept him from enjoying life.
Being with Kira had taught him how to let loose once in a while, to have fun, to experience something new. And he loved having her in his life for that reason.
Now, however, her spontaneous acts have become the source of his frustration. This wouldn’t be the first time for her to disappear without news because she decided to go someplace or do something completely unplanned, or for her to change her mind after making a decision, and it has been getting hard for Seokjin to keep up.
It is beginning to feel as if they are going at a different pace, heading towards different paths, that he is bound to remain at one place while she would go all over the place.
This was what came across his mind during the fight, when he suddenly realised that things hadn’t been the same between both of them. It hadn’t been for a while, but he was just too stubborn to see it.
“I didn’t—” Seokjin remembers her muttering those words. Only those words. “I’m sorry.”
“Daddy, your coffee is getting cold, you know.”
Ah-ri’s voice snaps him out of it. As if he is doused by cool water, the bleakness of the situation is lifted, his mind is cleared, and all he sees is his little girl. To see her smile and laughter, and her wide, glowing eyes as she excitedly explains to you about the food that she prepared for you. She looks proud of herself the moment you praise her for helping in the kitchen, which only pushes her to brag even more.
Seeing this thaws everything inside him; his cold rage, his weariness, and the dreadful conversation which he still needs to have with his wayward partner.
Chuckling softly, Seokjin shakes everything away, putting the fight, Kira, and the questions he still has about his relationship to the back burner as he joins his little girl and her mysterious princess at the breakfast table before they can start the day.
Meanwhile, back in Andalasia…
Sir Noah feels uneasy. He hadn’t been truly pleased about this whole conundrum. Hating to be at the center of it, shackled with the secrets that he is required to keep, Sir Noah feels like his entire world is slowly slipping out of his control.
He debates with his own conscious as he watches Prince Jungkook walking back and forth in the war room. With a gaze so distant, his brows furrowed, and his lips curled to a frown, Prince Jungkook shows him an emotion that is rare for someone like him to display. An emotion much alike to the Queen’s when she is displeased.
But Sir Noah knows exactly why the Prince is acting in such a way, so he cannot fault him for doing so.
Prince Jungkook is worrying about the maiden who disappeared.
All morning, the Prince fusses over not having done everything ‘right’ by the maiden, and has been wondering what may have gotten wrong or if there was a possibility that the maiden has been kidnapped.
Merely a day has passed since the failed wedding. Yesterday, the Prince had waited for hours at the wedding venue for the maiden, and Sir Noah had to do all he could not to make a slip and reveal the truth. Not even when the Prince had waited until nightfall came and the maiden was still absent from her own wedding.
“Y-your Highness,” Sir Noah carefully calls out to the Prince. “Please, my Prince. You need to rest.”
“Rest? How could I possibly rest? My bride has gone missing!”
Sir Noah winces. The Prince has never once raised his voice at his aides and knights, no matter how frustrated he feels. But now he seems stiff, his voice sounds strained and desperate. It would be lying if Sir Noah try to claim that the guilt isn’t eating him up from the inside.
He thought the Prince would easily move on. After all, had they not only met each other the day before? Had they not agree to marry only because of the myth, the stories, the tale that was told about princes and damsels and the true love’s kiss?
The prince could have gotten with anyone he wanted. A princess from the southern island who had once led her tribe to find miracles, for example. Or the ice princess who was known to defeat her own curse up north and fought for her family. Anyone other than the damsel that the Queen had—for some unknown reason—the most disdain towards.
But Prince Jungkook has only been troubled ever since the maiden disappeared. He has been restless. So much so that the prince is skipping meals and missing his sword fighting practices. Sir Noah isn’t sure if the prince has had the chance to sleep at all ever since the maiden’s sudden disappearance, as many of the guards reported seeing Prince Jungkook walking back and forth between the main castle and the now vacant wedding venue in the gardens.
Prince Jungkook suddenly comes to a halt. His eyes fall on the map of Andalasia that has been set up on the table standing at the center of the room. For one second, the prince makes no move. He makes no sound, yet his gaze sharpens as if he is thinking deeply, and then something inside him snaps.
Without a word, Jungkook turns away from the table and marches towards the door.
“Your Highness, wait! Where are you going?” Sir Noah calls for him as his prince walks out of the war room in quick, long strides. The old royal aide tries to catch up, quickly losing his breath as they reach the corridor on the side of the castle leading towards the courtyard.
“I need to find her. I must search for her until I find her,” Jungkook insists as he continues walking. Sir Noah has no clue where the prince is heading to, yet the steady footsteps of the prince echoes through the walls with no sign of stopping.
“Where would you go to look for her? How? You can’t possibly spend the night looking for her out there. The Queen is also expecting you for dinner, and—”
Jungkook stops and makes a sharp turn to face Sir Noah. “I will search through the entire realm, if I must! And yes, I will not stop even if the sun only comes the next week.” The deep inhale of breath that the prince takes after he speaks feels heavy, and his voice trembles when he speaks again, “What kind of groom or husband would I be if I am not out there looking for my betrothed?”
The guilt that Sir Noah has felt for the whole day seems to be piercing deeper in his chest. He feels powerless against it, but he knows that he cannot give in and allow the prince to leave the castle. Not if the aide wants to keep his head on his shoulders. “Forgive me for overstepping, Your Highness. But we have sent knights to search through the castle properties, the land, even through the forest to find the maiden, so—”
Jungkook throws his arms in frustration. “Then do tell, Sir Noah. Where is she now? Why have they not find her yet if they have been searching thoroughly as you said they have?”
“But my Prince, it has only been a day.”
Jungkook cuts him off with a scoff. “A day too long. She could be out there, lost, scared. She could be harmed.” Jungkook exhales a deep breath, trying to calm down so he can think. But his mind refuses to think. Too filled with worry about his missing bride. “We don’t even know if she’s been kidnapped. What if she had fallen prey to the wrong kinds of people?”
“Your Highness, I can assure you—”
“What? What will you do to assure me?” Jungkook’s voice softens. Though not because he is calmer, only because he is exhausted. “I will not be reassured until I have my bride back.”
“What if—” Sir Noah tries to speak, hesitant at first, but his need to stop the prince from leaving the castle—from defying the Queen—pushes him to speak his thoughts. “What if the maiden had chosen to run away? Perhaps she had a change of mind. Not even her guests, families, or her little friends ever came to the wedding, so what’s to say that she hadn’t told everyone that she was reconsidering about marrying the Prince—”
Jungkook marches back to Sir Noah as he hears all this. Then he shows Sir Noah a part of him that he had never once shown before. A side of the prince that had never existed, now unleashed at the accusation thrown against his bride as he reaches out and grabs Sir Noah’s collar and pulls roughly at him.
“If you claim to know me at all, you would do well not to say such atrocity right at my face, Sir Noah,” he threatens the royal aide, who is now shaking in fear in Jungkook’s hands. “I know that she will never leave without any notice. Not without news. Not like this.”
“Uh, I—” Sir Noah gasps in his shock, “Y-Your Highness—”
Realising what he has done, Jungkook quickly releases Sir Noah. The older man stumbles backwards, his legs failing to hold his weight. Prince Jungkook glares at Sir Noah with his jaw clenched, stealing the royal aide’s voice when the sight leaves him completely speechless, overtaken by fear.
With a deep exhale of breath, Jungkook turns away, dismissing the royal aide without looking over his shoulder. “I need some fresh air. Leave me be. Tell my mother that I won’t be joining her for dinner tonight.”
“B-but, Your Highness—” Sir Noah tries to stop Prince Jungkook, only to fail, as the prince has already stepped out of the corridor and is now heading towards the courtyard. Sir Noah has no other choice but to give up. “Understood.”
Sir Noah stays in the side corridor for a moment longer, watching Prince Jungkook walk across the courtyard until he disappears between the tall hedges leading towards the royal garden. Once the prince is out of sight, instead of feeling relieved, the weight of his conscience refuses to go away.
Shaking his head, Sir Noah turns to make his way to the Queen’s chamber. He needs to report to the Queen about the prince’s reaction and inquire what needs to be done.
Just as he steps away from the ledge, a tree growing nearby begins to sway. The sound of rustling leaves breaks the silence before falling to the ground.
Sir Noah looks up to see if there is an animal passing by, disrupting the trees and making the branches shake, only to see the swaying of leaves coming to halt. He can still hear leaves rustling from some other trees nearby and the lower bushes just as the cold breeze of the evening flows around him, making him shiver.
Hmmm, seems like autumn is coming early this time of year, he simply muses, ignoring the sudden disruption.
As he continues his journey into the main castle, the little shadow that has been hiding behind the swaying leaves begins to move again. The sound of tiny paws scattering across the castle wall can be faintly heard under the sound of the flowing breeze as the shadow begins to race across the garden, chasing the sulking prince.
The evening breeze welcomes Jungkook as he walks across the courtyard.
The temperature has dropped significantly the moment the sun is gone, yet Jungkook doesn’t mind it. With his coat hanging somewhere in the war room, he welcomes the cold touching his skin.
It helps only little to distract himself from the thoughts running through his mind. From the guilt and sorrow that keep clawing at him, and from continuously questioning himself what he could have done differently to prevent this tragedy from happening.
He has no idea what prompted him to walk out into the dark courtyard.
Jungkook had only wanted to get away. He needed to clear his thoughts, and—just like the excuse he used to get away from Sir Noah—a breath of fresh air. Perhaps then, he would be able to find some peace of mind and figure out what he needs to do to get his bride back.
And yet, the storm inside his head refuses to settle.
In fact, it only seems to be escalating. The accusation that Sir Noah has thrown at him is beginning to take root, even if the bigger part of himself is in denial.
Because the maiden, his bride, his princess, would never have run away. He believes so in his heart, as he knows well enough just how much you were looking forward to the big day. Just as much as he was.
No, she couldn’t have run away. Something foul must have happened.
This is the thought that has been running through Jungkook’s mind ever since you failed to show up at the wedding venue. No matter how long he waited, and waited, without any sign of you coming through the pathway decorated in scattered white petals and blooming daisies, he still believes that you wouldn’t have left him without any explanation, without news nor a reason.
Lost in his thoughts and wonderings, Jungkook finds himself walking towards the Annex building right across the courtyard. The building that was supposed to house you and your little friends during the wedding preparation. The building where the palace maids spent hours waiting, hoping to help prepare you for the ceremony, only for you to never arrive.
Jungkook walks toward the small patch of garden at the side of the building, finding a wooden bench where he can rest. From here, he raises his head, looking over the balcony on the upper floor, where your preparation room is situated. The room is now left unattended and unoccupied, as the only person who was supposed to be using it on the morning of the wedding never came.
But the bitter thought of your absence isn’t the reason why his chest feels tight as he looks up on the empty balcony. The reason for his pain is his memory, as it takes him back to the night before, to make him think of another balcony that he was looking at before everything fell apart.
The balcony in front of him looks nothing like the small balcony right outside of your bedroom. As he looks up to the vacant area above his head, the only thing he sees is the modest and quaint balcony at the heart of the Amaranth Forest, with you standing against the bannister as you sang to him a song to celebrate your coming nuptial.
The cold weather bit into his skin as Jungkook raced through the night, leading his horse through the Amaranth Forest until he finally reached your humble abode.
Jungkook already knew by then that the castle must have sent news to you and your family about the Queen’s blessing, yet he was still eager to bring the news directly to you. He wanted to share his joy and happiness, the excitement of being able to marry the woman of his dreams, and for the magic of the true love’s kiss that he was about to share with you the next day.
By the time the prince got to your home, the place was quiet. The only light he could see was coming from your window, where he could hear the soft humming sound of a tune reverberating through the night.
She is still awake, he pleasantly wondered.
Jumping off his magnificent horse, Jungkook bent down to pick up a handful of small gravels as a means to grab your attention without unnecessarily alerting anyone else around or mistakenly disturbing someone—namely your grandmother—from slumber. He contemplated for a moment before he began tossing them against your window. One at a time. Until he finally caught your attention.
“It’s me, Princess,” he called out to you then with a whisper, once he noticed some movements happening from beyond the drawn curtains.
He saw you peeking from between the curtains, gasping at the sight of him, before the window was unlatched and out you went to the balcony to see him.
“My Prince,” you greeted him with a gasp, your eyes filled with joy that Jungkook felt the urge to celebrate.
“I’ve come to see you, Princess,” Jungkook nearly shouted, to which you quickly hushed him to quiet.
“I know, Your Highness,” you whispered to him then. “But please, keep it down. My grandmother has fallen asleep just moments ago.”
Jungkook nodded and immediately lowered his voice. “Are you busy preparing for tomorrow?”
Your smile widened, and Jungkook could tell how genuinely happy you were when you said, “Yes, I am.”
“So the news have come to you about the Queen’s blessing.”
“That the Queen has approved of our marriage? Yes, it has,” you let him know with a grateful smile. “A royal knight came to us in the afternoon, bringing news of the Queen’s approval and the wedding that has been set to happen tomorrow before noon.” He heard a sigh coming out of your lips. The sound was filled with wonder and disbelief, and it touched him deeply in the chest. “It feels so soon. Even my grandmother was in complete shock.”
“And how about your grandmother?” Jungkook asked you when he recalled meeting your grandmother earlier that day to ask for her blessing. While your grandmother was surprised to hear his intention of marrying you, she was definitely not expecting to hear the wedding to happen so suddenly. “She hasn’t changed her mind about giving her blessing for us, has she?”
You quickly began shaking your head, much to his pleasure. “No, she hasn’t. But seeing the royal knight and hearing the good news from Her Majesty the Queen has reassured her. Nana even helped me with the dress until a moment ago when I sent her back to her chambers.”
Jungkook couldn’t help but smile, feeling the excitement and joy of seeing you in a wedding dress so soon. “I cannot wait to see you in your dress.”
You made a humming sound that Jungkook perceived as a giggle, only that it had a tune to it, as if you were humming a delightful song. “And I cannot wait to wear it for you tomorrow.”
Silence fell between you as you both relished the moment of joy.
“This is so romantic. For the prince himself to come and visit me late at night,” you had murmured then with a sigh, and right at that moment, Jungkook had promised himself to never forget the emotions rushing through his chest; the pride and gratitude he felt for being the reason you were smiling; and the excitement he felt for tomorrow.
“To hear you say such a thing will only pressure me into making sure that tomorrow will be perfect.”
The soft sound of your laughter made everything brighter for Jungkook. “I know you will make it perfect.”
“You have such high faith in me, Princess,” Jungkook said, shaking his head. When he looked up, he saw you leaning against the bannister, your chin propped on top of your hands. Tilting your head, you seemed to be deep in thoughts, even when your gaze remained on him. “What are you thinking about?”
“I’m thinking about”—a dreamy sigh came out of your lips—”our true love’s kiss.”
“Really, now?”
“Yes! It’s making me happy that I just want to”—you started clapping your hands—”I just want to sing!”
Seeing your excitement put a smile on Jungkook’s face. “Then sing, Princess. Let me listen to your voice so I can sleep well tonight.” Jungkook laughed as you started dancing on your small balcony, humming softly to a tune and singing joyfully about your true love’s kiss.
“In the still of the night, when the stars softly shine,
A spell whispers secrets to hearts like mine.”
Your voice was like magic. It touched a deep part of Jungkook which caused him to hum along with your tune as if he knew every rhythm, every beat, every word.
“Through forests enchanted, where wild roses grow,
You searched for my heart, though the path was unknown.”
As you continued, the forest began to sway. Every rustle of leaves became a rhythm to accompany your song. A music, a tune, to which you kept swaying along as the breeze began flowing around you and Jungkook.
“Now our worlds collide, in this moment of grace,
One kiss will erase every trace of the maze.
So kiss me, my love, let the story begin.”
Lured by your enchanting voice, Jungkook joined you and began to sing along.
“True love's kiss, like a spark from the skies,
It awakens the soul, with a tender surprise.
One touch of your lips, and the darkness will part,
For your kiss is the key that unlocks my heart.
True love's kiss, in this moment divine,
Is the magic that says you'll forever be mine.”
Jungkook closes his eyes, drowning the lovely tune that he sang together with you that night before it could lead him into feeling even more despair. Still, he cannot help but hum the tune as he reminisces that wonderful moment he spent with you before he had to race back to the castle and allow you a moment to rest.
Besides, he had also feared that the magic of your voice would break away his restraint, causing him to leap over to the balcony and give you the kiss that he desperately wanted. One that he dreamed of. When he saw the look in your eyes once the song ended, he knew then that he wouldn’t be able to resist.
There was a glow in your eyes which caught his attention that night.
It reminded him of the moonlight, of its magnificent beauty that he had often seen shining through the warm nights of summer. There was a wonderful spark rising in his chest when he saw it in your gaze; the blissful happiness that seemed to be reaching out into his heart and soul. At that moment, Jungkook had imagined seeing the same glow the next day, when he was supposed to take your hand and recite his vows before sharing the true love’s kiss with you.
He never expected what was supposed to be the happiest day in his life—and yours—would fall apart the way it did.
All the years he spent training to fight against evil and sharpening his swordsmanship skills seem fruitless now. For years, he had done all he could to make himself worthy of his title as the Crown Prince. From fighting monsters and demons, encountering evil witches and dark mages to prevent them from entering the land and exploiting the people, to winning fights and protecting the people of the kingdom with his sword. But never before had he ever felt so helpless, so powerless, all because he failed to protect the one person who matters to him the most.
Jungkook is still overcome with regret for not picking you up himself on the morning of the wedding day like he had intended to. If only he hadn’t been so strict in following the old tradition of not seeing the bride before the wedding, he would’ve been able to make sure that you would arrive safely at the castle.
But when Queen Mother had made him promise not to break tradition for the sake of the ceremony, Jungkook never thought to refuse and simply followed everything she taught him to do. He never thought that having faith in the servants and the knights would cause him to lose a bride.
There has to be a way, he wonders to himself, trying to work his brain into thinking of a solution. There must be some kind of magic that would—
With a jolt, Jungkook rises from the bench when he suddenly realises. Magic is one of the sources of power that exists here in Andalasia. So why hasn’t he thought about using it to find you?
Jungkook starts pulling at his hair as he thinks this through, realising soon the reason why magic had never been a possibility for him to even consider.
Jungkook had never been so adept with magic. Not since he was a child.
Ever since he was a young boy, Jungkook has always been more interested in learning how to fight, how to wield a sword, and to follow the footsteps of the princes written in tale books who protected their princesses and queens with their swords instead of spells. And now, he regrets all the years he could have used to learn magic from the Queen.
Yes, that’s it, he wonders with a newfound hope. Perhaps Mother will be able to use her magic to help find her.
With this thought giving him a new sliver of hope, Jungkook starts to make his way back to the main castle and requests a moment with the Queen, to ask her for a favour in finding his missing maiden. Until he hears rough rustling sounds of leaves, causing him to halt.
This sound has been occupying the garden for a while now, he realises, yet he paid no mind to it, thinking it to be the evening breeze shaking the trees and bushes around him.
But as he looks on towards the nearest rosebush growing alongside the pathway, he notices that the breeze may not be the reason behind these sounds. He takes a step closer, just as the leaves before him are parted, and a small face peeks through the opening.
“Your Highness?” A small voice speaks, and it takes Jungkook a moment to realise that the face—and the voice—belongs to a squirrel.
A familiar-looking squirrel.
“You!” He exclaims when he recognises her. He bends down to his knees, greeting the little thing with a smile. “It’s you! The squirrel who accompanied _______ in the forest. What are you doing here in the dark?”
The squirrel starts waving her paws frantically. Panic is written on her face as she glances around her. “Sshh—please not so loud, my Prince,” she cautiously begs the prince. “You cannot tell anyone that I am here.”
“What? But why?” Jungkook asks, “Why are you here?”
The poor thing looks hesitant for a moment. “My name is Poppy, and yes, I am friends with ______ and we met in Amaranth Forest.” Jungkook still remembers the day quite well and nods as he listens.
“It’s ______, my Prince. I heard what the other man, that Sir Whatshisname, said”—she says with a growl—”about my dear friend, and you must know that he was undoubtedly mistaken.” The more she speaks, the more the squirrel appears angry. Unwilling to accept the accusations being thrown by Sir Noah about her friend.
It doesn’t take long before Jungkook realises the reason why. “Blossom never ran away, my Prince, and I am quite concerned that she might have gotten hurt.”
Jungkook’s eyes grow wide. “What do you mean?”
A breeze passes through the bushes, rustling leaves and swaying branches cause the squirrel to jump, surprised, until she takes one quick glance around the area and realises that there is no danger coming. But the same cannot be said about your fate. Wherever you might be.
“She might be in danger as we speak, so we must hurry.”
Furrowing his brows, Jungkook leans closer to be able to listen more. “What do you know? Tell me everything.”
Poppy’s eyes burn with tears, overcome with relief. She didn’t expect that Prince Jungkook would be willing to listen to her. But she feels glad that she took the chance.
After what happened on the day of the wedding, when she and the others were tricked by the vile and queer-looking Sir Whatshisname, Poppy has been wary about trusting anyone from the castle. She was so enraged that she truly believed that the entire royal family and its squires had set up a trap when they first took you into the castle.
However, in her mission to find out what actually happened and who might have been responsible, Poppy had spent the entire afternoon watching the prince from a distance, and she can now see that his distress upon his failure of finding you seems genuine.
Surely, the man who seems to have spent his day and night searching for you—and is looking as if he is in dire need of sleep for thinking about you—wouldn’t be the one responsible of your disappearance.
Looking at the ground around her, Poppy settles on a small fallen branch as a tool to help her describe everything that had happened. Because words from a tiny creature like herself wouldn’t be enough.
Using the branch, Poppy begins to carve the ground, sketching out images as she relays to the prince all the events she witnessed leading to your disappearance.
Poppy draws their arrival; with you in your wedding dress arriving in the carriage and your little friends accompanying you; Sir Noah welcoming you at the gate. Then she tells him about Sir Noah separating you from the others, promising to have knights and servants coming to help you prepare, before sending Poppy and the others to the wrong side of the property and kicking everyone out of the castle.
She hears Jungkook’s breath hitching at this part, a crease forming between his brows, yet Poppy continues.
When Poppy tells him about the part where she managed to climb up the castle walls to see you standing in front of a fountain, Jungkook’s entire body tenses. “She was at the old fountain?”
Poppy cocks her heard. “So you know about the fountain, my Prince?”
Jungkook quickly shakes his head. “Surely, I would. The magic fountain had been there for as long as I lived. The water comes out from the massive rock hidden behind the grove of trees growing against the castle walls, it used to cause massive flooding on that part of the castle, yet the water wouldn’t stop flowing. Once it was found that the spring contained magic, the Queen built a fountain around the spring to contain the water,” the prince explains, “But the place is restricted. Only those who are permitted or given the spell to enter through the restriction can find it.”
Poppy is confused. “Well, Blossom didn’t go there alone. I saw someone with her.”
“Who was it?”
Poppy begins to draw the old hag who was there with you. Unfortunately, she only witnessed everything from the distance, so all she can give the prince is the vague description of the old, mysterious hag; with her slightly hunched back, a dirty worn-out cloak that covered her entire body, and the curly strands of silver hair framing her face.
Poppy also adds the hag’s slightly disfigured face, with her sharp nose and curved lips, and pointed cheeks, yet she cannot recall the eyes, except that they were dark and slightly wicked that they still give her the chills thinking about it now.
“This is all I can give you, my Prince. I was too far away, so I cannot be sure if I was seeing things right. When I finally reached the fountain, your bride was gone and there was no trace of the old hag anywhere.”
“How odd,” he muses, almost to himself as he is lost in thoughts.
“Your Highness? Is there something—”
Poppy’s words are cut off when she hears footsteps coming down the pathway. Prince Jungkook doesn’t notice it yet, but her body is frozen, and the urge to flee the place is clawing at her from within.
The incident from before, when she was tricked by the prince’s trusted man—Sir Unfriendlylooking—and then kicked out of the castle flashes through her mind that she immediately begins to tremble.
The prince starts to speak, only to be interrupted by the deep voices of their intruders.
“Your Highness, are you there?”
“Prince Jungkook, is everything all right?”
Poppy’s fear is lifted when she realises that neither of those voices comes from the scary royal aide from before. Yet her body is still tense, and her mind simply goes into a survival mode as she begins to plan out ways to run away.
As Prince Jungkook recognises the voices of his knights, he rises to his feet to answer them. Immediately, Poppy jumps to grab the hem of his trousers to stop him. “Wait, Your Highness!”
“What’s wrong? They’re my knights. Are you afraid of them?”
“I—” She stammers as she clutches the small branch to her chest. “I should probably go. I can’t be seen here by anyone. I had to struggle to find my way into the castle, so they’ll kick me out if they see me, for sure. Please, Your Highness, promise me you’ll look for ________ and bring her home to us.”
Poppy isn’t sure that the prince is going to let her leave, when he doesn’t say anything. He merely gives her an odd look, as if suddenly feeling suspicious with the way the squirrel is acting. Maybe she shouldn’t worry too much, seeing that whoever is standing on the other side of these bushes may not be connected to the old man that frightens her so. Yet she still cannot risk it. She wouldn’t.
Thankfully, Prince Jungkook seems to notice her need to flee and think nothing more of it.
“I still need some more information, and I might need your help,” he simply says to her. “Find me here in the morning. We’ll do well to work together to find your friend Blossom, my bride, but if you must go, then you should go for now and rest. I’ll handle the rest from here.”
Poppy feels hopeful, but it doesn’t stop her from worrying about the risk that she will have to take for coming back to the castle again. “But, Prince—”
“Go, I’ll wait for you here. I promise.”
Something in the prince’s gaze makes her want to believe him. So she does. With a nod, Poppy promises both to herself and the prince that she will come back the moment the sun rises so they could work together to start searching for you.
Right as the footsteps keep drawing nearer, Poppy slips away between the bushes and back into the night, making her way back home so she can report back to her friends and your grandmother who are waiting for news.
Jungkook watches the squirrel make her escape through the bushes, and he continues to watch until he sees her faint shadow disappearing up the trees growing near the outer wall of the castle.
As he watches her go, Jungkook begins to wonder why the squirrel would be so jumpy and tense, only because of the knights coming. He thinks back about her words, but nothing seems to make sense. His eyes find the rough sketches on the ground, and he takes the time to memorise each one of them the best he can.
He doesn’t want to believe that one of the wedding guests has done something foul to harm you and cause you to disappear on the wedding day. He also cannot think of any reason why someone would try to sabotage the royal wedding.
Prince Jungkook remains silent for a moment as he studies the rough sketch of the person that Poppy claims to have been there with you to look at the fountain. He wonders what might have happened to you next. Surely, if you had simply drowned in the fountain, the knights would have found you when Jungkook ordered them to search through every corner of the castle, leaving not an inch of the property overlooked.
Unless something else has stopped the knights from getting close to the fountain, or that whoever took you had done their best to hide any clues or trails.
But why must they lure you to the fountain, risking the possibility of them getting caught, being so close to the wedding venue?
What could have happened after?
While Jungkook tries to think of any possible scenario that you may have encountered, the knights emerge through the pathway, coming to a sudden halt as they see their prince standing in the dark, all by himself.
“Forgive us for interrupting your private time, Your Highness. We were sent by the Queen’s advisor to find you,” one of the knights greets him with a bow.
“That’s quite all right. I am on my way to see the Queen, after all.”
The knights’ eyes grow wide. “I am afraid the Queen is—” The knights look at each other, looking unsure, which only makes Jungkook believe that there is something more about this whole situation that seems uncanny. That perhaps the squirrel—Poppy—had some real reason why she feared getting caught that she trembled simply for hearing some knights coming to them.
“Her Majesty has locked herself in her chambers after dinnertime. The Queen’s advisor is currently with Her Majesty for a private discussion about some issues regarding the kingdom, but he had specifically requested that we bring you back before the night grows too late, just to make sure that you are safe.”
Don’t you mean to make sure that I have not—and will not—escaped from the castle unnoticed?
Jungkook can only wonder about this with disdain, though he has no way of sharing his thoughts out loud. No way of confirming that Sir Noah has probably ordered to keep the prince hostage in his own castle.
“Is that so?” he asks. Feeling bitter and uneasy, Jungkook takes one last look at the sketch of the possible suspect behind your disappearance, before turning to the knights. “Well then, why don’t you walk me back and inform Sir Noah to send the servants for my dinner.”
The knights appear to be relieved, as if grateful that the prince agrees to go with them willingly. “Very well, Your Highness.”
“After you,” Jungkook instructs the guards to walk ahead. As he makes his way to follow the guards, Jungkook steals a glance over his shoulder to make sure that his new little accomplice has managed to escape, completely unnoticed by the guards. Having someone on his side gives him a new hope, reassuring him to try all he might to be able to find you and bring you back home.
Unlike the garden, where the air is fresh and chilly and the breeze is flowing nicely between the swaying trees, the air in the Queen’s sitting chamber feels hot and stifling. Invisible tension seems to have risen, causing the air in the room to feel dense, so much so that Sir Noah feels as if he is suffocating.
His royal suit—which he has always felt to be one of the most comfortable suits that he has ever owned—suddenly feels too tight on his skin. He fights the urge to loosen up the tie wrapping around his collar or to open the suit jacket to let some coolness in. He barely has any courage to move at all, when the Queen is in deep concentration as she is working on her magic.
Standing still in front of the small, black fountain placed at the heart of the chamber—the Queen’s talisman, which instils fear in Sir Noah’s person each time he feels its magic manifesting—Queen Rosalyne chants a few lines of cryptic spells, rousing the surface of the water to bubble and ripple. This remains only for a short moment, until the spell ends. Green mist is formed once the water calms down.
Immediately, the tension in the air is lifted, and Sir Noah can finally breathe normally again.
Only the relief doesn’t last. As the Queen finishes with her spell, casting magic across the land for the purpose of the kingdom, she takes a seat on her high-back chair and turns her attention to Sir Noah.
“What is your business here?” she asks, as she reaches out to pick a decanter and pours an amber liquid drink into her glass.
“Pardon this humble servant for disturbing you in”—he looks over to the calming fountain, not completely sure what the Queen was actually doing with her magic—”your, um—royal business, my Queen. But it’s Prince Jungkook that I am worried about. The Prince—” He stops to take a deep breath, preparing himself to take a blow as he continues, “His Highness wants to, has been planning and is about to initiate, the search for the maiden. His bride.”
Queen Rosalyne’s hand comes to a halt, her fingers tightening around the crystal decanter when she hisses, “The Prince wants to do—what?”
“He, um—Forgive me, Your Majesty, but—” Sir Noah swallows hard to calm his nerves. ”His Highness is planning to look for the maiden. He insists on it.”
The Queen’s jaw clenches, right before she swings her hand down, the decanter hitting the table with a loud thud, causing Sir Noah to jump on his feet. “And where exactly is he planning to look for her?”
“We, uh—we don’t know yet, but His Highness has been searching through the castle for hints.” Sir Noah speaks while wringing his hands together. “He, uh—he has also been spending the entire afternoon to dusk in the war room, trying to figure out a way to track down his bride.”
Her eyes widening, Queen Rosalyne rises from her seat and turns back to the fountain. She casts a different spell, causing the fading green mist to thicken over the water. But the movement seems too slow, and the Queen grows impatient that she quickly waves her hand over the fountain, cancelling the spell.
“The spell is too small,” she complains. “This won’t do.”
She immediately turns, the back of her robe billowing behind her as she rushes out of her chamber. Sir Noah has no idea what to do. His feet don’t seem to want to move, frozen at the sight of the Queen’s anger, until Queen Rosalyne’s voice snaps him out of it when she yells, “What are you doing standing there? Come!”
Sir Noah quickly follows the Queen, shadowing her close by as she walks out of the castle through the small hidden door right behind the chamber and into the pathway leading to the royal garden. The royal aide continues to look around as he walks right behind the Queen. Seeing nothing but stillness in the garden, he is relieved that he had at least thought of sending out the guards to retrieve the prince when he rushed to see the Queen.
He can only hope for the guards to make it in time to bring the prince back into the castle so he won’t see them rushing into the garden, nor for him to see where they are heading.
Just as he expected, Queen Rosalyne makes her way towards the old, magic fountain at the far end of the royal garden. The crystal-like water that never seems to stop falling appears to glow under the moonlight, sparkling like diamond and ice, enthralling to look at, but too dangerous to touch. Under the waterfall, the surface of the pool is calm and steady. The water is so clear that it almost serves as a mirror, reflecting perfectly the night sky, the stars sparkling above his head appear in the water like tiny diamonds scattering all over the dark background.
Just yesterday, Sir Noah stood here with the Queen. Green mist covered the ground as Queen Rosalyne cast off the spell disguising her looks, and there were ripples spreading through the surface of the water, right where you went under.
Once again, the Queen begins to chant her spell, drawing more ripples and bubbles on the calm water, rousing her magic until a faint white mist rises from the fountain.
As the water once again turns calm, the white mist spreads to the corner of the pool, and the Queen’s voice fades to quiet at the end of her spell, Sir Noah knows that the magic has manifested in the fountain.
Sir Noah takes a hard look at the Queen in her silence. He takes in the grey strands threading her darker hair, the permanent furrow between her brows that seems to have gotten deeper the more she looks on through the fountain. He has no idea what kind of vision the Queen could possibly be seeing from the water spell.
He wishes that he could see it, but the Queen has gestured for him to stand at a fair distance where he wouldn’t be able to get a clear sight of the divination that the Queen’s spell has summoned.
Whatever it is, Sir Noah can sense that it will only bring trouble. A part of him wishes that the maiden will be safe, no matter where she has ended up, but there is a bigger part of him that wishes to remain loyal to the Queen. To protect her with all his might and do whatever the Queen needs him to.
Just the way he has spent many years serving her with everything he has.
That is why, the moment the Queen speaks, he feels nothing more but pure disappointment when she says, “Leave.”
Hiding his sullen heart, Sir Noah bows his farewell to the Queen. “Your Majesty.”
The spell that Queen Rosalyne had cast on this magic fountain was meant to send you away. Far away to the alter-world where you would be lost without any way to return home.
The alter-world. A world without magic. Sending you away to the alter-world was meant to keep you away from Jungkook. It meant to put you in a place where no magic spells could work to help you find your way home.
The Queen had hoped that sending you off to the land with no magic would weaken you. That it would leave you with no hope, feeling lost and defeated, as you are confined in the other world. For you to be left with no other choice but to carry on with despair, while you are soon forgotten by everyone in Andalasia.
Forgotten by her son, the Crown Prince.
Separated by infinite space, the time in the alter-world works differently from how time progresses in Andalasia. It might take time for the prince to forget about you, but surely, with how much faster time progresses in the alter-world, you should have grown weak and miserable. The loss of hope should have broken your soul into pieces, that by the time the prince—if he ever gets to it, and it looks like the prince is already beginning to—manages to find his way to the alter-world to find you, there should be no chance for the two of you to reconcile.
But why—
“Why does she look happy?” Queen Rosalyne seethes as she continues to watch the vision unfold from one scene to the next. She sees you struggling in the dark for a short time, only for everything to rapidly change, your fate turning around just as your soul only begins crumbling.
The Queen moves her hand over the pool to get a clearer look at your life in the alter-world, everything that has happened so far after your fall. But the more she sees, the more she feels rage.
“She’s supposed to be miserable and lost, not having a good time,” she snarls as she watches you sitting at the dinner table instead of stranded at a deserted road or abandoned hill, singing and laughing with a child—a little girl—who is hanging to every word you are saying, and a man sitting on the other end of the table.
“Has she found another love?”
The Queen had failed to predict such possibilities to happen; either for the prince to be so adamant in finding a way to get to you or the chances that you may have found a replacement for the prince within the timeline that you are gone.
This cannot happen, the Queen curses and wonders to herself as she paces back and forth around the fountain, thinking deeply about what she must do to change this. I will not allow it.
If only the circumstances had been different, the Queen would have been elated to think that you have moved on rather quickly from the Crown Prince. That the curse she has cast to send you away has prevented you from sharing your true love’s kiss with Jungkook.
But the truth is, it wouldn’t matter whether or not Jungkook will be the one sharing your true love’s kiss.
As told by many tales, the true love’s kiss can break any kind of curse.
Jungkook can have his kiss with anyone in the kingdom and the Queen will have no problem about it happening. As long as it is not with you. Because your happiness will be the end of everything.
Your true love’s kiss will break the curse.
The curse that has been placed ever since a long, long time ago by the evil Queen, and it will change everything should it be broken. Queen Rosalyne will lose everything that she holds dear should that ever happen. She will lose her throne, her kingdom, and everything that she has built for so long. Everything that she has put her heart and soul into, with many sacrifices made along the way.
“I must stop it,” the Queen vows to herself, knowing what needs to be done. “I must stop her from finding her happily ever after. Before it would be too late.”
⟶ Author’s Note | Originally commissioned by @pinkbtsarmy | Thank you for reading!
