Synopsis: Among the Huntrix fandom, there has always been a discussion of theories and ideas about a strange voice in every song from the girls. Something of which they have avoided in every interview. But the one behind it is so much more than they could possibly think. Unraveling her secrets attracts attention sheβs yearned yet feared for her life.
Genres: Fluff, Angst, Slow Burn (?), Yandere (?)
CW: Slight anxiety/panic attack
Prologue, Part 1
A/N: I want to join the fic craze bc I really love this movie and I NEED that sequel. Also Iβm only describing MCβs hair style and eye details (plot reasons), everything else in your interpretation!
βGirls, there is someone Iβd like you to meet.β
Curiosity fills the newly formed hunters of the current generation as Celine lead the three of them to the garden. Just at the foot of the tree stands an older women who looked the same age as Celina, though she had a messily tied up bun being held up by a hair pin with noticeable greys along dyed caramel streaks.
Just behind the women was another girl who has a more shaggy appearance judging from the strange uneven cuts of hair around her collarbone and messy fringe covering up her eyes.
The women turns around to meet the other girls with a strange gold rim around her brown eyes.
βGirls, this is (M/N). The previous fourth hunter. And behind her is (Y/N), the new fourth hunter.β
As soon as that was announced, the three girls were filled with shock.
βTHERES A FOURTH HUNTER?!β
βFor how long?! How come youβve never trained with us?β Rumi questions. βWeβve had someβ¦ complications trying to meet up. The original plan was for Rumi and (Y/N) to meet when they were younger, but things didnβt go to plan.β (M/N) answers with a polite but cold tone. The gold rimmed eyes donβt help them feel better.
βCome on (Y/N), say hi to them.β
Peaking behind her mother that met with the trio of girls, shivering (f/c) eyes with the same intriguing gold rims around. She dressed much more casual, like she just came from lounging on the couch prior.
βHiβ¦ its nice to meet you guys.β
The anticipated softness of her voice struck an unexpected cord in the girls. Something alluring and melodic.
βWeβve decided that (Y/N) will join Huntrix.β
Once those words left Celineβs mouth, the girls swiftly saw the colour drain from (Y/N)βs face.
Slowly turning her head.
βWAIT! WHAT?! YOU SIGNED ME UP FOR THIS?! NO NO NO NO NO! YOU DID NOT CONSULT ME ON THIS MUM! REMEMBER WHAT HAPPENED LAST TIME I TRIED PERFORMING?!β
Her surprising booming voice made the girls take a step back for a bit. Though the three snapped out of their shock when seeing (Y/N). Sweat glistened on her forehead and her breathing was steadily going ragged. She was shaking her mother like her life depended on it.
βNo no no. NOT performing. We agreed on that. Youβre just taking over my previous position in the Sunlight Sisters, just a backing vocalist.β
(Y/N) froze for a second. Before collapsing onto her mother, looking like she ran a marathon.
βCeline shouldβve mentioned that first. Donβt worry honey.β
Rumi could hear (Y/N) muttering inaudible words of gratitude.
But she looked like she was on the verge of tears.
And yetβ¦
Her slowly calming voice struck a nerve of peace in the three hunters.
Edit: just wanna add that I imagine MCβs singing voice either be Leehi or Seori. Also the idea evolved into a yandere story, but its not that bad I swear.
he has spent four lifetimes repenting for his sins and searching for you. in the fifth, he finally gets it right.
pairing: jinu x fem!reader
tags & warnings: romance, angst, hurt/comfort; reincarnation!au, previously established relationship!au. changes to canon. mentions of death & sins, blood, injuries, past lives, jinu remembers all his lives but learns how to love you in each one, profanity, alcohol consumption, historical inaccuracies, implied sex, etc. inspired by hozierβs would that i.
word count: 8.7k
SEOUL, KOREA.
EARLY WINTER, 1936.
Itβs become a habit now, for Jinu to walk the alley behind Hwaryeohan Cha-jip every morning. He tells himself heβs just passing through, just out for air, but his feet always take the same turnβpast the ink shop, past the frozen rice fields. The snow came early that year, dusting the rooftops of Bukchon in white. Jinu walks until he finds the teahouse, half-tucked between two aging hanoks, with its faded wooden sign and wind chimes made of porcelain spoons.
You work there. He knows this now.
You sweep the floors with your hair tied up in a red ribbon, humming songs no one else seems to know. You boil water in the back room, your sleeves rolled up past your elbows, wrists red from the heat. Sometimes you lean out the window to shake out a cloth, and Jinu watches from across the street, heart in his throat, as if looking at you might somehow unmake the curse.
It doesnβt.
Gwi-Maβs words still echo like older thunder in his ears. One lifetime for every sin, the demon king had said. He doesnβt remember what he did to deserve this; only that it was enough for the king to curse him with memory, and longing, and you.
You, who never remembers him. You, who are always just out of reach.
Still, this life feels different. Heβs not a lonely musician. Heβs just Jinu. Just a man in a wool coat with frayed sleeves and too many lifetimes folded into the lines around his eyes.
Somehow, that compels him to step inside.
The bell above the teahouse door is delicate and cracked, like itβs been broken and glued back together a dozen times. It tinkles faintly as he enters, and you glance up from behind the counter. He orders ginger tea. Itβs too hot, a little bitter. He drinks it anyway.
You donβt say much to him at first, just slide the cup forward with a polite nod, fingers dusted with flour, and return to kneading dough in the back. Jinu sits in the corner, watching steam curl from the rim of his cup, pretending to read a book heβs read a thousand times before.
He returns the next day. And the next.
Sometimes you smile at him now. Sometimes you ask if he wants something sweet with his tea. He always says yes, just to hear your voice again.
βDo you work nearby?β you ask one morning, wiping your hands on your apron.
βNo,β he says. βI walk a lot.β
You tilt your head. βEven in the snow?β
βEspecially then,β he says, and you laugh. The sound cuts through every century heβs lived without you. It makes something ancient in him ache.
You tell him your name one day. He already knows it, of course, but he pretends itβs the first time. He says it softly, rolls it on his tongue like a promise.
He brings small things sometimes: a book of poems; a silk ribbon the same colour as the one you wear; once, a tiny jade rabbit charm that he leaves near the register when youβre not looking. You find it later and keep it in your purse. You never ask if itβs from him, and he never tells you.
Some days, he helps. He carries water from the well; repairs a broken chair leg; teaches you how to fold paper cranes when the shop is slow. You sit across from him at the low table, your hands awkward at first, and he watches you fold the wings silently.
You crease the edge of the paper with your thumbnail, tongue poking out slightly in concentration. Jinu doesnβt laugh, though the sight of you furrowing your brow over something as simple as a paper crane is enough to pull a smile to his mouth. He leans forward and gently adjusts the angle of the folded wing.
βLike this,β he says quietly.
Your fingers brush, briefly, barely. Itβs nothingβbut to him, itβs everything.
After that, you start leaving out an extra cup when you brew tea in the morning, even before he walks in. You stop pretending not to notice the way he always sits in the same corner seat. You learn that he prefers ginger tea with honey, that he likes his bread warm and his jam unsweetened. You listen to him hum under his breath when he reads, even though his eyes donβt always move across the page.
He learns that you braid your hair when youβre nervous, and that youβre saving up for a trip to Busan, and that you talk to the teapot when you think no oneβs listening.
Sometimes, when it snows harder than usual, you donβt get any customers and the city stays quiet. On those days, you sit across from each other on the heated floorboards, sipping tea and listening to the wind rattle the windows.
Once, you fall asleep like thatβcheek pressed to your folded arms, exhaustion shuttering your eyelids. Jinu doesnβt wake you. He watches the snow gather on the windowsill and thinks about how peaceful your face looks in this life.Β
He wonders if this is enough. If friendship is enough.
You wake, embarrassed, and he just smiles and tells you to rest more. You blink at him, still sleepy but shake your head, so he asks if you want to learn how to fold a lotus next. You do.
PARIS, FRANCE.
SUMMER, 1890.
Itβs your honeymoon. At least, thatβs what the world thinks.
The hotel is charming in the way French hotels are supposed to beβwrought-iron balconies, velvet drapes, and wallpaper the colour of old pearls. The floorboards creak under his feet, and the hallways smell faintly of orange blossoms and candlewax.
Below, the Seine coils through the city, meandering long and slow. Gondoliers shout in lilting voices from the water. The bouquinistes have already opened their green boxes along the banks, selling secondhand poetry and crumbling maps to tourists who still believe Paris belongs to lovers.
The light falls soft on your face where you sit at the vanity, brushing your hair in long, even strokes, the red ribbon that youβd used to tie your hair back wrapped around your wrist. Your nightgown is lace-trimmed and far too sheer for the cool morning. He thinks it must be uncomfortable. But you wear it anyway, spine straight, chin lifted, always composed. You donβt look at him. You havenβt looked at him all morning.
There are two coffee cups on the table. One is untouched. You didnβt like the roast, but you wonβt tell him that. Youβll let it sit there and grow cold because indifference is your sharpest weapon, and you know exactly how to wield it.
The lace shifts again as you move, bare shoulders catching the gold light. Itβs almost enough to make him forget; almost enough to believe this life could be different. Maybe, if he just reached outβif he touched your shoulder, softly, just onceβyouβd remember something. The way your fingers once curled around the fabric of his hanbok, or the way you said his name.
Itβs your honeymoon, and you can barely stand to be in the same room.
TOKYO, JAPAN.
SPRING, ONE WEEK AGO.
Jinu promises to take you to see the cherry blossoms after work.
Youβre half-asleep on the sofa when he tells you, legs tucked beneath you, your blouse rumpled and your slacks creased at the knees. Your fingers are curled around a mug of ginger tea youβve forgotten to sip from, the steam long faded. The apartment glows in the evening lightβlow and golden, brushing everything it touches with warmth. It rests on your cheek, your collarbone, the line of your neck.
The window is cracked open just enough for the air to carry the sound of birds and distant footsteps. Someone laughs downstairsβthe neighbourβs kid, maybe, or a passing couple. In the kitchen, the rice cooker clicks off with a soft chime, and the smell of jasmine rice begins to mingle with the faint perfume of laundry soap and honey.
The sakura have started blooming early this year, soft clouds of pink dusting every street, like the cityβs been dipped in blush and left to dry slowly. He noticed them that morning on his walk to the train: the way petals clung to the sidewalk like confetti, the way one landed on the shoulder of your coat and you didnβt notice.
βDonβt forget,β you mumble without opening your eyes, voice warm and worn out, lips brushing the rim of the mug. Your feet are bare, and you wiggle your toes sleepily when he sits beside you.
βI wonβt,β Jinu says, and he means it.
He never forgets, not in this life.
He reaches over and gently lifts the mug from your hands, careful not to spill it, and sets it on the coffee table beside your phone and a half-finished crossword. Your handwriting is in blue penβcurvy, a little impatient. He glances at it, then turns his attention back to you.
βYou should change out of your work clothes,β he says.
βMβcomfy,β you whisper, not moving an inch.
He laughs softly. βYou say that. Then you complain about the wrinkles in the morning.β
You hum noncommittally, already slipping towards sleep. Your head tilts until it rests against his shoulder. He shifts a little to make it easier. Your hair smells like lemongrass shampoo and the rose spray you use in early spring. Jinu leans his cheek gently against the top of your head.
βAre we going tomorrow or Saturday?β you ask.
βTomorrow,β Jinu says. βI want to go before the crowds come.β
βYou hate crowds,β you agree, nodding.
βYou hate them more.β
You smile. βSmart man.β
Jinu slides his arm behind your back, warm and solid and steady. He closes his eyes and listensβto your breath, to the tick of the clock on the wall.
NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA.
EARLY SUMMER, 1972.
Jinu slings his arm over your bare waist, and thinks that this might be the life.
Maybe Gwi-Ma took pity on him. Maybe this is a loophole, and it comes with jazz and heat and the way your lipstick smeared against his collar an hour ago. Maybe itβs not a trick. Maybe, for once, he gets to stay.
Your breath is steady now, but your skin is still flushed, slick with the last traces of sweat. The cotton sheets stick to your thigh where itβs thrown over his hip, and your fingers twitch against his ribs, still restless in sleep.
He lets his hand drift up the slope of your side, slow and gentle, the way a man touches something he knows will leave him. He watches your lashes flutter, the corner of your mouth twitch as you stir.
βAre you awake?β he asks.
You hum without opening your eyes. βBarely.β
He presses a kiss behind your ear. βShould I stop?β
βIf youβre asking that, you already know the answer.β
So Jinu doesnβt stop. His hand moves, slow and familiar now, tracing the curve of your hip. You shift closer, still half-asleep, until your leg slides between his and your mouth brushes against the underside of his jaw.
Itβs easy like this. Too easy.
Your bodies know each other even if your minds donβt. Thereβs no fumbling anymore, no pretending. Just heat and breath and the memory of your name whispered into the crook of his neck, again and again, like youβre trying to brand yourself into him. Maybe you are.
He holds you afterward, and listens to the rain starting up again outside the windowβsoft at first, then steadier. Jazz spills in from the bar two floors down, muffled by distance and glass, but still there. Like everything in this city, it lingers.
βYouβre staring,β you say eventually, not unkindly.
βI do that,β Jinu says.
βWhy?β
βDo I need a reason?β
You make a soft sound in the back of your throat, somewhere between amusement and disbelief, and burrow deeper into his chest. Your fingers trace a line over his collarbone, idle and absentminded, like youβre not really thinking about what youβre doing.
βYou always act like you know something I donβt,β you mumble. βLike youβve been waiting for me to figure it out.β
Jinu swallows. βFigure out what?β
βWhatever it is you keep hiding behind your eyes,β you say. βYou always look so sad, Jinu.β
His arm tightens around you just slightly.Β
Youβre not wrong. You never are, not in any life. Even without memory, your intuition is as sharp as itβs always been. Youβre like a compass that always swings toward the truth, even when the truth is something you have no idea about.Β
Jinu considers lying, or laughing it off. But you shift again, and your thigh brushes against his. Youβre closeβso close, close enough that he almost lets the truth slip past his teeth. Youβve died in my arms before. Youβve looked at me with your last breath. Iβve been cursed to find you again and again and again.
Instead, he says, βMaybe I just like the way you look when you sleep.β
βPoetic.β
βI try.β
You lift your head to look at him. Thereβs mascara smudged beneath your eyes, and a tiny crease on your cheek where it pressed against the pillow. Your mouth is a little swollen from kissing, and your voice is hoarse in the way that drives him insane.
βYou know this isnβt forever, right?β you say, softly, like youβre offering him a kindness by saying it first.
βI know,β Jinu says.
You nod, like thatβs what you needed to hear. βGood.β
But you donβt move. You donβt pull away. You rest your chin on his chest and look at him like youβre memorising the shape of his nose and the colour of his eyes.
βGod,β you whisper after a while. βThis would be so much easier if you were an asshole.β
Jinu laughs and says, βI can be, if it helps.β
βNo,β you say, shaking your head. βYouβre good. Thatβs the problem.β
He kisses your forehead and tries not to think about the way your voice cracked.
JOSEON, KOREA.
WINTER, 1798.
It is snowing the first time Jinu sees you, and your name forms on his mouth like habit.
Itβs not the name you carry nowβnot the one assigned to you by court records and a royal appointment, or the one embroidered into the hem of your hanbok in gold thread. It is the name youβve had in your previous lifetime. The name heβs whispered into your skin, into your dying hands.
Jinu doesnβt say it aloud. He doesnβt dare.
He watches you from the far side of the courtyard, where the snow has muffled the world and the stone paths disappear beneath white. His breath fogs in the air. A court servant speaks beside himβsomething about a grain levy in Jeollaβbut Jinu isnβt listening. He couldnβt, even if he tried.
You walk gracefully, holding a lacquered tray to your chest, with your back straight. Your hair is pulled into a sleek bun, adorned with a single ornamental binyeo shaped like a plum blossom. It is the sign of a new concubine: favoured and untouched. The wind catches your sleeve and flutters it gently, and his chest clenches at the sight of your wrist. A thousand memories flicker through his mind like reeds in the current.
Yet, your face is unfamiliar in this first life. Younger, and softer. Your eyes donβt carry memory. You donβt look at him with recognition or contempt. You donβt look at him at all.
You pass through the courtyard, and Jinu stands frozen under the shadow of a ginkgo tree, as though time itself has collapsed.
Later, in his private study, he asks about you. He pretends itβs nothingβan idle inquiry wrapped in courtesy, spoken to the right eunuch over warm rice wine.
βThe girl who came last month,β he says, carefully. βThe concubine gifted by the Governor of Gangwon. What do we know of her?β
βThe new Lady?β The eunuch says your new name, the one that doesnβt feel right in Jinuβs mouth. βShe is quiet and well-mannered. Literate, I believe, though she comes from no family of rank. She entered the palace under the northern courtβs petitionβher village suffered a flood, and her people sought mercy. The Governor offered her as tribute.β
βTribute,β Jinu repeats, tasting the word like ash.
βShe was chosen for her beauty,β the eunuch adds. βNothing more.β
PARIS, FRANCE.
SUMMER, 1890.
You married him because you had to.
It was a bargain struck behind closed doors, a compromise made with fathers and fortunes and convenience. He had wealth, and you had a family in debt. It was all very civilised, very French. The papers printed your photograph beside a headline that called it a union of elegance and fortune. They didnβt print the part where you refused to meet his eyes.
At dinner, you speak to him in French, formally, like a woman who doesnβt wish to be misunderstood, and doesnβt care to be known. You order for yourself. You never ask if heβs read the books you quote. You let the silence stretch until it breaks and sip your half-finished wine instead.
Jinu lets you. He nods when appropriate, smiles when it seems polite, swirls his wine, and pretends not to watch the way you cut your food too carefully.
He thinks about how different your voice sounds in this life. How your laughter is a stranger to him. He remembers the you who laughed easily, the you who danced barefoot in the snow, the you who wrote him letters in the margins of books and left pressed flowers between the pages. That version of you isnβt here.
In this lifetime, you wear gloves to dinner and never once let your fingers brush his.
But youβre beautiful. God, youβre beautiful.
It kills him a little, every time.
You look like a painting heβs seen before and canβt quite place; one heβs spent lifetimes trying to find again. Now that youβre hereβflesh and blood, name and ring and contractβyouβre more unreachable than ever.
You donβt sleep in the same bed. The suite has two, and thatβs something you requested specifically. He remembers the clerk glancing at him with a look that hovered between pity and apology.
The bellboy had asked, βMadame, shall I draw the curtains between the beds?β
βYes, thank you,β you had said.
You donβt ask him questions: not about his work, not about his past. Not about the faraway look he sometimes gets when the light hits the Seine just right. He doesnβt ask you, either. The truth is, you are not his, in this life.
He wonders if you dream of him. He wonders if somewhere deep in your chest, beneath the silk and bone and flesh, something stirs when he says your name. He wonders if you ever wake in the middle of the night with a pang in your heart that you donβt understand.
Jinu hopes so, because he has woken up like that every night of this life.
SEOUL, KOREA.
WINTER, 1937.
By the time Seollal passes and the paper lanterns are taken down, the people in the neighbourhood begin to noticeβnot with suspicion or idle gossip, but with a kind of slow, blooming fondness. They donβt whisper behind their hands or snicker when Jinu walks by. Instead, they smile.
The old woman with the parrotβMadam Kwon, who lives above the fermented soybean shopβstarts referring to Jinu as your shadow. Every morning, as she feeds her bird sesame seeds and counts her prayer beads in the sun, she croaks out, βYour shadowβs early today,β when Jinu turns the corner near the tea shop. The parrot repeats her, mangled and gleeful. Sha-dow, sha-dow!
You glance up from the window, smothering a smile.
The boy from across the alley, barely thirteen, who runs errands for the ink shop, has started tipping his cap at Jinu each morning. One day, when he passes, he calls out with the overconfidence of youth, βShe likes persimmons, you know. Bring her some. The kind with the wrinkly skins.β
Jinu hides his amusement behind a polite nod. The next day, a small cloth pouch of dried persimmons appears on the tea shop counter. You donβt say anything, just tuck them into the cupboardβbut you save one, and when Jinu comes in at closing, you place it on a small plate beside his tea without a word.
The grocer, Mr. Baek, an older man with a permanent frown and a weak knee, lets Jinu pick through the fresh vegetables first whenever he sees him on the path to the tea shop.
βYou work too hard, boy,β Mr. Baek grumbles as Jinu hoists a basket of firewood onto one shoulder.
βHeβs not a boy,β Madam Kwon snorts from her usual perch. βHeβs a man, Baek. Canβt you tell?β
βA man, huh?β Mr. Baek eyes Jinuβs hands, callused from helping with the heavy work around the shop. βWell, even a man needs to rest his back before it breaks.β
Jinu only smiles. βIβll rest after Iβve swept the steps for her.β
They all approve of him, though none say it directly. The world is starting to tuck Jinu into your corner of it without him needing to ask.
One afternoon, while the snow still clings to the gutters but the breeze carries a hint of plum blossoms, an elderly couple walks in from out of town. They speak in slow dialect, asking for ginger tea and warmth for their aching bones. Jinu is seated by the window, sketching quietly in his notebook. As you prepare the tea, the woman glances at him, then at you.
βYour husband doesnβt say much,β she remarks.
You nearly spill the water. βHeβs notβ I mean, weβre notββ
Jinu looks up, and the couple laughs kindly. βAh, forgive us,β the man says. βYou have that look about you.β
βWhat look?β you ask, wary.
βThe look of people whose silence with each other is comfortable.β
You donβt respond, but when you set the tray down in front of them, you notice Jinu watching you closely. After they leave, you go to clear the table. Thereβs an extra coin left on the tray, and the old woman has pressed a paper fortune beside it: βLove that arrives quietly stays the longest.β
You crumple it without thinking.
But later that night, after the shop has closed and the windows are shuttered, Jinu finds it smoothed out on the back counter, your handwriting scribbled in the margins: βDonβt get any ideas.β
He smiles.
NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA.
AUTUMN, 1971.
Jinu finds you by accident, really.Β
Heβs searching for a barβany barβon an unnaturally rainy Friday night, his collar turned up against the warm drizzle, the air thick with the smell of sweet olive trees and fried catfish. The city hums with life even in the storm. Neon flickers on puddles like oil slicks, and brass spills from half-opened windows.
Heβs already passed three places too crowded, one too quiet, and a fourth that reeked of stale beer and cigarette ash, when he turns down a narrow side street he doesnβt remember the name of.
He finds a wooden door, warped with time and painted a moody red. It sits beneath a hanging sign with chipped cursive that reads: The Red Ribbon. A string of paper lanterns hangs overhead, glowing soft through the rain like a trail of fireflies.
Inside, the bar is low-lit and warm, a haven from the storm. The air smells like cinnamon smoke and lemon rinds, and something oldβlike velvet curtains and perfume that clings to skin. Thereβs a quiet hum of conversation, the clink of glass on glass, and music.
Noβnot music. A voice.
Low and rich, not quite singing, not quite speaking. Like honey melting in a warm cup of tea. It curls around the room before he sees you; dips into the cracks between shadows; holds him still.
Youβre on stage, beneath a gold spotlight, wearing a black satin blouse tucked into high-waisted pants, one heel perched on the edge of the stool as you croon into the microphone. Your voice doesnβt beg for attention. It commands it, slow and sultry and effortless. You sing a cover of Iβll Be Seeing You, but itβs yours now, softer, smokier, as if the songβs always belonged to you.
In your hair, tied just above your ear, is a red ribbon.
Jinu stops breathing.
Youβre older in this life. Sharper. Your voice curls like cigarette smoke, and your smile doesnβt reach your eyes. But itβs you. Of course itβs you. He would know you in any century.
You donβt see him. You never do, not at first.
The room fades. Jinuβs heart hammers.
Gwi-Maβs curse, so old now itβs half-forgotten, curls tight in his ribs like a warning. This is the fourth time, he thinks.
The bartender is young, with freckles scattered across his nose. βWhat can I get you?β
βWhatβs her drink?β Jinu asks, nodding toward the stage.
βShe switches it up sometimes. But mostly itβs gin and tonic. Extra lime.β
βThen one of those. And whatever you recommend.β
He carries both your drinks over when you step off the stage, undoing the ribbon in your hair deftly and shaking your head. You wrap the ribbon around your wrist and raise an eyebrow when he stops by your table.Β
βThat for me?β you ask.
Jinu sets the gin and tonic down. βExtra lime.β
βLet me guess,β you drawl. βFirst time here, heard me sing, got curious?β
βSomething like that,β he says.
JOSEON, KOREA.
SPRING, 1799.
It is well past curfew when you slip into the old library pavilion.
The moon is high, its light diffused through the paper lattice windows, casting soft patterns on the wooden floor. The scent of old parchment and ink wafts through the air. Outside, the plum trees stir in the breeze, petals tumbling like tiny, perfumed ghosts.
You shouldnβt be here. No one comes here anymoreβnot since the roof began to rot, not since the scrolls were moved to the new annex.
But you know the door that creaks just slightly less. You know which floorboards to avoid. Most importantly, you know no one will be looking for a concubine in the archive of forgotten histories.
You light a single oil lamp and walk the aisles barefoot, your skirts brushing against shelves of neglected poetry and old Confucian texts. Youβre looking for something. You donβt know what; only that your chest has been heavy lately with something unnamed, and that reading makes it easier to breathe.
Youβre so engrossed in a worn volume of Tang poetry that you donβt hear him until itβs too late.
βWhat are you doing here?β
You whip around, heart slamming in your chest, the book nearly slipping from your fingers.Β
Jinu stands in the doorwayβhalf-lit by moonlight, half-shadowed, like something conjured from the very pages you were reading. Heβs shed his ceremonial robes for the evening, wearing only a dark overcoat tied loosely at the waist. His hair is unbound at the nape, a sign that he, too, thought the night would pass without interruption.
You gasp. βIβI didnβt think anyoneββ
βYouβre not supposed to be here,β he says, though thereβs no bite to it. Just curiosity, and a hint of wariness.
You lift your chin. βNeither are you.β
He arches a brow, and you realise your mistake. Of course heβs allowed anywhere he wishesβheβs one of the Kingβs closest ministers. But instead of correcting you, he steps further inside, eyes never leaving yours.
βWhat are you reading?β
βPoetry,β you say.
βMay I see it?β
You hand him the book with reluctant fingers. He takes it carefully, as though itβs precious. You watch as he scans the open page. His lips move as he reads silently. Then, softly, aloud:
βIn the quiet night,
the moonlight before my bed
perhaps is frost upon the ground.
I raise my head and see the moon,
then lower it and think of home.β
You say nothing.
βYou miss it,β Jinu says quietly. βYour home.β
βYou canβt miss what you barely remember,β you say, shrugging.
βStill, youβre here,β he says, closing the book. βRisking punishment for poetry.β
βI thought this place was empty.β
βIt is. Mostly. Youβve been here before,β he says.
βWill you report me?β you ask, finally meeting his eyes.
He watches you for a long moment, and shakes his head. βNo. But if youβre going to read by lamplight, you shouldnβt sit so close to the paper screens. It casts a shadow.β
TOKYO, JAPAN.
SPRING, ONE MONTH AGO.
On Jinuβs birthday, you surprise him with a picnic beneath the sakura.
Itβs a Tuesday, technically a workday, but you convince his supervisor to let him off early and drag him, half-confused, half-laughing, onto the Marunouchi Line. You refuse to say where youβre going, only grin over the rim of your coffee and tap your knee against his like youβre buzzing with a secret.
He figures it out by the time youβre walking down the path at Shinjuku Gyoen, past couples and families and students with cameras, every tree dripping in soft pink petals. The wind is light, enough to lift your hair and scatter a few blossoms onto his shoulder. You swipe them off with a delicate touch, fingers brushing his collar.
βHere?β he asks, looking around.
You point to a quiet spot beneath a tall cherry tree, where the ground is dappled with sunlight and pink. βHere.β
He watches you set the blanket down and unroll the bento boxes you packed that morning, tied in checkered cloth, still warm. Tamagoyaki, onigiri, simmered daikon, the pickled things he likes. Thereβs even a small chocolate cake hidden in your tote, which you keep sneakily tucked behind your legs like it isnβt obvious.
βYou didnβt have to do all this,β he says, sitting beside you. His voice is warm. He never quite knows what to do with being loved like thisβnot when itβs freely given.
βI know,β you say. βBut I wanted to.β
Jinu looks at you for a long second. Youβre wearing that soft blue sweater he likes, the one that slides off your shoulder when youβre not paying attention. The sunlight hits your cheekbones and catches in your lashes, and he thinksβlike he always doesβthat youβre the most beautiful thing heβs ever seen.
You open a thermos, pour him tea, and he raises it in mock solemnity.
βTo thirty-three,β he says.
βThirty-two,β you correct.
βAm I?β
βYou always forget,β you say. βYouβve been forgetting since we met.β
He laughs. βFeels like Iβve lived a hundred years already.β
You donβt say anything. Sometimes, when the light hits his face just right or he says something echoes in your mind, you wonder.
Youβve always had strange dreams: places youβve never been, languages youβve never studied, and a man who always looks like him, even when he wears a robe, or a bloodied uniform, or a wool coat in the snow. You never tell him this. Youβre afraid it will break the spell.
Instead, you offer him another onigiri and press a kiss to his cheek.
βHappy birthday,β you whisper. βIβm glad you were born.β
Jinu closes his eyes and laces his fingers with yours, lets you lean your weight into his side; lets the breeze scatter petals in your hair; lets the warmth spread down his spine like heβs standing in the sun after a long, long winter.
MANCHURIA.
WINTER, 1944.
It comes as no surprise, then, that when the war begins, you and Jinu get married and business at the teahouse dwindles with every passing day.
The papers are signed quietly one late afternoon, in the cramped back office of the local administration hall: two names written in black ink, side by side, binding you together not by love but by survival. There is no time for anything else. The world is already falling apart.
The Japanese occupation deepens its grip. All around you, men vanish into forced conscription, women into labour camps, into silence. The air grows tighter with fear. Propaganda posters replace the poetry on the streets. The teahouse shutters for good.
You and Jinu are sent away within the month. He becomes a soldier. You become a nurse.
You are not the only married couple split between posts, but somehow, impossibly, the army places you both near the front. You meet sometimes between camps. Once every few weeks, maybe. Sometimes longer.
Each time, your reunion is brief and practical. You sew up the tears in his uniform. He shares what little rations heβs stashed away for you. He never forgets to hand you a pair of gloves or wrap your scarf tighter, or tie your hair back with that red ribbon with shaking fingers. You always insist he sleep for at least two hours before returning to his unit.
There is no time for affection. There is barely time for sleep.
But sometimes, when you are aloneβwhen the tents are quiet and the snow piles against the canvasβhe touches your face in the dark, and you lean into him without a word. Sometimes you rest your forehead against his shoulder, and Jinu runs his hand up and down your back.
The night you die, it is snowing.
The war has reached a new fever. There are no longer clear lines, no longer rest stations or warning signals or predictable patrols. The world is burning in patches, and no one can remember what day it is.
Jinu is stationed near the ravine when the call comesβmedics down, supplies hit, critical injuries. He runs before they finish speaking.
He doesnβt recognise the wreckage of the medic tent at first, just the shape of it, torn open by gunfire and winter wind, canvas flapping in the air. The snow is tinged red. Bodies are scattered everywhere.
Youβre still alive when he finds you, but barely.
Youβre half-buried beneath another nurse, shielding her even in unconsciousness. Your side is soaked through with blood, spreading dark and fast across your uniform. Your breathing is shallow, more rasp than breath. Jinu drops to his knees beside you.
βHey,β he says, voice breaking. βHeyβlook at me. Itβs me.β
Your eyes flutter open. Focus. Unfocus. Finally, they find him. β...Jinu?β you breathe, your voice thready.
He laughs, because itβs either that or scream. βYeah. Yeah, itβs me. You stubborn woman, what were you doing here? You were supposed to be safe.β
βI stayed.β You cough, wet and small. βOne of the childrenβ¦ the boy with the bad legβ¦β
βI know,β Jinu says. He does know. He always knew youβd stay. He presses his hand to your wound. His other hand cradles the back of your head. Snowflakes melt on your cheeks.
Later, they find him still holding you, long after the snow has buried your boots and the blood has dried stiff on his uniform. He wonβt speak for days, wonβt eat. When he finally returns to his post, he doesnβt say what happened; he only writes your name on the inside of his sleeve in black ink, where no one else can see.
Years later, when the war ends and the country forgets the names of its dead, Jinu does not. He leaves a folded paper crane at every teahouse he passes, and he never remarries.
PARIS, FRANCE.
SUMMER, 1890.
On the third day of your honeymoon, Jinu takes you dancing.
It is a Friday evening, and the city glows with the kind of gold that never quite fades, even as dusk creeps in. From the hotel balcony, the streets below shimmer with laughter, carriage wheels clattering against cobblestones, parasols twirling, violins warming up in salons beyond shuttered windows.
He waits for you in the sitting room, dressed in pressed trousers and a charcoal waistcoat, a pale lavender cravat at his throatβthe one you picked, absentmindedly, on your first day in the city. The silk still smells faintly like you.
You emerge from the bedroom without a word, gloves drawn tight over your wrists, gown cinched neatly at the waist. Youβre beautiful, but distant.
Always, always distant.
βShall we?β he asks, offering his arm.
The carriage ride is quiet. The air smells like summer rain and perfume, and Jinu watches your profile in the glassβthe slope of your nose, the way your eyes follow the shape of the Seine like itβs memory. You havenβt touched him since the day you arrived. Your hand rests lightly on his arm now, like youβre afraid even weight might give too much away.
He wants to ask about the letters.
The ones you receive from a different postbox. The ones you tuck away before he enters the room. Heβs never opened one, but he doesnβt need to. The handwriting is always the same: slanted, and familiar only to you. He doesnβt ask. He never does.
Tonight, he only wants to pretend.
The ballroom is in Montmartre, crowded and warm, lit by chandeliers that make the dust shimmer. The band plays slow waltzes, the kind that linger in your throat even after the music fades.
Jinu places a hand on your waist. You let him.
Your fingers rest against his shoulder, delicate as frost.
He draws you closer, searching for something in your eyes. He finds nothing. Nothing but the practiced smile of a woman doing what is expected.
βYouβre quiet tonight,β he says, voice low.
You look away. βIβm tired.β
βOf dancing?β Of me?
You donβt answer. Jinu guides you in a slow circle. You follow, graceful, perfect. A doll in silk and pearl. Yet, every few beats, your gaze slips towards the doors; towards the windows; towards something far away. Heβs used to it now. Gwi-Maβs curse has hardened him, but just because he is used to it, it does not make it any easier to be the consolation prize in this lifetime that never belonged to him.
βDo you love him?β he asks suddenly, before he can stop himself.
βIt doesnβt matter,β you say.
Youβre right. It doesnβt. Not in this life. Not in this world where your father sold your hand to erase a debt, and his name was the one on the contract. Not in a marriage made of cold sheets and polite lies.
Jinu exhales slowly. βIt does to me.β
You meet his gaze, then, and something flickers in your eyes. Not love, or forgivenessβjust sadness, deep and quiet, like the kind that seeps into your bones and never quite leaves.
βYouβre not a bad man,β you say softly. βYou just arenβt mine.β
He closes his eyes. The music swells. Couples spin around you both like falling leaves.
Jinu doesnβt say another word. He just holds you a little tighter, for as long as the song lasts. Because after tonight, youβll drift further away. He can feel it, that tide pulling you towards a life youβll never have and a man he will never be.
But for this danceβjust this oneβhe lets himself imagine youβre his.
The next day, the divorce papers are finalised and the money is settled. You move to Vienna the week after.
NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA.
AUTUMN, 1972.
The bartender tells Jinu you moved to Chicago.
He says it like itβs nothing, like you didnβt leave a hollowed-out space where your voice used to sit on stage at The Red Ribbon, smokey and golden and soft as dusk.
βPacked up two weeks ago,β the freckled boy says, polishing a glass. βDidnβt say much, just left a note for Missy in the back. Said she got an opportunity, somethinβ better. Maybe a record label.β
Jinu doesnβt ask for details. He doesnβt need them.
He nurses his bourbon in silence for a while, and lets the saxophone on the radio spill into the half-empty room. The walls feel thinner without youβless velvet, more echo. The stage is dark now, the piano covered in a wrinkled sheet.
When he asks for your address, the bartender raises an eyebrow. βYou a friend?β
βI was her lover,β Jinu says, and itβs not wrong.
The man shrugs and writes it down on the back of a bar napkin, sliding it over with two fingers. Itβs smudged at the edges, ink bleeding from moisture left behind by someone elseβs glass. But the words are clear.
South Side. Chicago.
Apartment 2B.
β Langford Records.
Jinu stares at it for a long time. He folds it once and pockets it.
That night, in his apartment above the bakery on Dauphine Street, he sits at the kitchen table with a cigarette burning low and a single lamp flickering behind him. Rain taps gently against the window, steady as a metronome.
He finds a sheet of paper, ivory and heavy. He doesnβt plan to write much.
October 12th, 1972
New Orleans
You left without saying goodbye.
Thatβs not a complaint. Justβ¦ an observation.
The bartender said Chicago. He said you packed light, but you always did. I used to wonder how someone could carry so much in them and still leave so little behind. I guess I have my answer now.
I keep thinking about that night on the balcony. You, with your lipstick smudged and your heels kicked off, humming some Ella Fitzgerald song that only you knew all the words to. You asked me if I believed in fate. I said no. You laughed like I was missing the joke.
I think I get it now.
Maybe it wasnβt fate. Maybe it was just timing. Bad, as always.
I donβt know what youβre chasing up thereβmusic, love, a version of yourself you can finally live withβbut I hope you find it. And if you donβt, I hope it finds you anyway.
I wonβt write again. This feels like enough.
But if it ever rains in Chicago, and you think of me, just know I was thinking of you too.
β J.
Jinu folds the letter carefully and slides it into an envelope but doesnβt seal it. He stares at it for a long time. Then he sets it on the counter beside his keys and goes to bed without turning out the lamp.
He never mails it, but every now and then, when the rain hits just right, he reads it again.
JOSEON, KOREA.
LATE SUMMER, 1799.
They charge you with treason.
No matter how many times Jinu kneels before the King, no matter how many sleepless nights he spends rewriting every record, begging the court historian to leave your name out of the final script, no one listens.
It is easier to silence a concubine than to question a minister, easier to blame a woman for sin than to hold a man accountable for love.
So, on the last evening of your life, they dress you in white: a shade meant for funerals; for forgetting.
Your hair, once combed and oiled and pinned with mother-of-pearl, hangs unbound down your back now. The servants didnβt bother with ceremony. They gave you water, and left you in a corner of the gardens, as if you were already half-gone. You sit on the edge of the low stone wall, staring at the lotus pond, legs tucked neatly beneath you and wrists bound.
The ropes around your wrists bite into tender skinβtight, too tightβbut you wonβt ask them to be loosened. The guards know better than to keep an eye on you. Youβre not dangerous, just inconvenient.
You know heβll come.
You donβt look surprised when Jinu appears between the carved columns, breathless, his topknot hastily tied and robes disheveled. His boots make no sound against the wooden floor as he drops to his knees before you.
βPlease,β he says, his voice shredded down to the bone. βPlease tell me youβll hate me for this.β
You blink slowly. Your lashes are damp with the humidity. βWould that make it easier?β
βNo.β Jinu shakes his head. βBut I want you to have something.β
Thereβs no moon yet, but the light from the lantern by the steps is enough to see him properly. His lips are chapped. Thereβs ink on his sleeves, on the soft crease where his palm meets his thumb. He hasnβt stopped writing letters, then. Petitions. Pleas.
βYou should go,β you say quietly. βIf they see youββ
βI donβt care.β
βTheyβll strip you of your title.β
βI donβt care.β
His hands are trembling when they reach for yours. He cups your bound wrists with reverence. His touch is a contradictionβsoft, but desperate. His thumbs brush over your bruises. You donβt flinch.
Between his palms, you feel something cool press against your skin, smooth and weightless. Your fingers twitch, instinctively curling around it.
A jade rabbit.Β
The kind children carry for luck. The kind lovers carve when words arenβt enough.
You remember once, weeks ago, a charm just like it left behind on the counter behind the Queen Dowagerβs quartersβno note, no name. Youβd tucked it into the folds of your robes and told yourself it didnβt mean anything. Now, you understand. You clutch it tighter.
βYou said once,β Jinu whispers, βthat you didnβt believe in reincarnation.β
You manage a faint smile, remembering his stories of the demon king and the curse of love and memory because of sins past. βI still donβt.β
βWell.β His eyes close briefly, lashes dark against his cheek. βIβll believe for both of us, then.β
The cicadas outside scream like they know how little time is left.
βItβs just a story,β you say. βNo one remembers their past lives.β
βI do,β he says, and something deep in you twists, aching. βAnd I will. Iβll find you again.β
βI donβt want to be remembered like this,β you whisper.
βI wonβt remember the ropes,β Jinu says. βIβll remember the way you fold paper cranes, and recite poetry, and the sound of your laugh when you think no oneβs listening.β
Your throat tightens. Thereβs a sob there, buried deep, but it wonβt surface. Youβre too tired for crying. βDonβtββ
βIβll remember,β he says. βAnd one day, somewhereβwhen you are free and unafraidβIβll press this rabbit into your palm again, and youβll know.β
βJinuββ
He leans forward slowly, and presses his forehead to your bound hands. The lanternβs light glows between you. The cicadas hush. Far in the distance, a temple bell rings the hour. Itβs almost time.
TOKYO, JAPAN.
PRESENT DAY.
These days, you find it harder to sleep. The dreams are worse now, beguiling and long and sad. They stretch like old film reels behind your eyes, full of half-familiar cities and names that slip away when you wake. They end with Jinu, always Jinuβbut not Jinu at the same time. He wears different clothes, speaks in languages you donβt remember learning.
You shift in bed, sheets tangled around your legs, one arm heavy and warm across your waist.
This version of Jinu sleeps with his mouth slightly open, his breathing even, steady. His chest rises and falls against your back, his palm curled gently beneath your navel. The windowβs been left ajar, and the scent of sakura drifts in on the night air. You press your hand over his absentmindedly. His fingers twitch in his sleep and close tighter around you.
You sigh. Your forehead presses into the pillow. Itβs too early or too late to be awake, and youβre tiredβso tiredβbut your body doesnβt know how to rest anymore. Not when your mind insists on wandering. Not when you wake up crying into a manβs arms and canβt tell him why.
You almost speak, but he stirs before you can.
βMmh,β he mumbles, lips brushing the curve of your shoulder. βYou okay?β
βIβ¦ had that dream again,β you tell him.
Jinu lifts his head. Heβs groggy, eyes swollen with sleep, but heβs already frowning. Already reaching up to tuck your hair behind your ear.
βThe one with the snow?β he asks.
You nod. βAnd the red ribbon. And a jazz bar.β
He doesnβt laugh, though youβd expect anyone else to. Instead, he kisses your shoulder. βCome closer.β
βIβm already close.β
βCloser,β he says again, like the space between you could ever be enough to stop the ache. Like if he holds you tight enough, he can keep the dreams at bay.
You turn to face him, legs brushing his under the blanket. He touches your cheek with the backs of his fingers.
βDo I do something wrong in the dream?β he asks.
βNo,β you say. βBut youβre sad. Likeβ¦ you know something I donβt.β
His throat works. His thumb runs along the apple of your cheek, just once. βMaybe Iβm dreaming it too.β
You stare at him. Itβs too dark to read his expression clearly, but something in you catches at the thought. Maybe heβs dreaming it, too: the same ink-stained hands, the same gardens, the same unfinished goodbyes.
βYou think so?β you whisper.
He nods. βRemind me,β he says. βI found this antique rabbit made out of jade yesterday at the market. It reminded me of you. Remind me to give it to you.β
βOkay,β you say, and bury your face against his chest and let him wrap both arms around you. You press your palm over his heart.Β
βYou talk in your sleep, too, sometimes, you know,β you murmur into the dark. βWhoβs Gwi-Ma?βΒ
Youβre teasing, mostlyβhalf-asleep, your words loose around the edgesβbut thereβs a small, curious lilt to your voice that makes Jinu still for a fraction of a second. Barely perceptible, just long enough for you to notice.
You continue, lightly, unaware. βShould I be worried?β
He shouldβve prepared for this. Heβs had five lifetimes to come up with a better answer. Five lifetimes of choices and mistakes and prayers spoken into temples and alleyways and bomb shelters. Five lifetimes of watching you slip through his fingers, of losing you just when he thought he might have a chance.
He shouldβve been ready.
Jinu exhales slowly, lets his palm slide a little higher on your stomach, grounding himself in the warmth of your skin. Your breathing is calm now. You trust him.
He leans in and kisses your shoulder again, and says, βNo one.β
You shift a little in his arms, not entirely convinced. βSounds like a someone.β
He smiles against your skin, but it doesnβt reach his eyes. βJust a strange dream. One of those names that sticks for no reason. You know how it is.β
βWeβre weird,β you mumble. βI meanβ¦ you and me.β
βI know,β Jinu says, and he means it more than youβll ever understand.
You donβt see the way his gaze always rests on you in the dark after you drift off. You donβt feel how tight his arms become, how he pulls you closer like heβs afraid youβll vanish in your sleep.
You donβt know that he remembers everything.
The snow in Bukchon. The teahouse. The library in the palace. The battlefield and your name on the inside of his sleeve. Paris and silence. New Orleans and the ribbon in your hair. The prison courtyard and the jade rabbit you clutched until the rope took you. All of it.
He remembers the taste of your ginger tea; the colour of your blood on his hands; the sound of your voice in French; the way you looked at him in a jazz bar in 1972 and said, βDonβt fall in love with me.β
Too late, heβd wanted to say. Too many lives too late.
Now, in this quiet Tokyo apartment, with your fingers unconsciously curled into the fabric of his shirt, he knows Gwi-Ma has finally allowed him to keep you. The king has grown tired of watching him suffer. That was the promise, that in this fifth and final life, he can keep you safe and warm, tucked into his side, where the only real concerns are whether heβs put the laundry to dry, or what to cook for dinner.
Jinu watches the sky begin to pale through the window, watches your lashes flutter in sleep. He watches your mouth part like youβre about to say his name, even here, even now. He thinks about the red ribbon he keeps tucked inside his coat pockets, and worn-out letter in his dresser, and the jade rabbit he keeps underneath his pillow, and he smiles into your hair.
a/n: hi! thank you so much for reading :) i watched kpop demon hunters on sunday and i could not stop thinking about how little we know about jinuβs past and about how rumiβs mother met and fell in love with a demon. that little thought about jinuβs past turned into a full-blown fic that i wrote imagining that jinuβs past sin was abandoning his family (except i obviously tweaked it) & that gwi-ma is more like hades in terms of punishment as opposed to like. a demon king. the poem that jinu reads out aloud is a translated version of quiet night thought by li bai. have a wonderful day!
Can you do like a fanfic about kang haneul? Iβve been thinking about a college au, maybe?
Thankssss so muchππ
Here you go, @greenbumbumpeaxch !! Thank you so much for being my first official request since coming back π₯Ί I really hope you enjoy this, and I would love to know what you think π
Genre: College!AU, Library!AU, Fluff
Pairing: Kang Ha Neul x You (Female!Reader)
Warnings: None
Part 1 | Words: 2,105
It had all started with a very simple question on Ha Neul's first day working at the campus library. The question was really nothing out of the ordinary -- a question any competent retail employee would ask a customer, especially when books were involved: Can I help you find something?
But the answer (a somewhat weary "I can't find what I'm looking for" from an unknown face that has no bearing on this story whatsoever) eventually led Ha Neul to recommend a somewhat obscure historical fiction novel to the exhausted student in need of an escape from their studies.
Not even three days later, the same student returned, their eyes brighter and more eager, asking for another recommendation.
As the weeks passed, more and more students began seeking Ha Neul out to ask for book recommendations, and before the end of the semester, he had gained a reputation as the Library Cupid.
He had applied for an assistant position at the library in the first place because he was an avid reader. When he wasn't doing homework and studying for his Psychology major classes, he was reading any and every book that caught his interest. Being around books both relaxed him and brought him immense joy, so working in the library on campus was the perfect fit.
And, as it turns out, his penchant for reading anything with a compelling story regardless of genre meant that he was keenly adept at recommending a book for pretty much anyone who asked.
It made Ha Neul incredibly happy.
It also made you fall for him, but we're getting ahead of ourselves!
The first year or so of playing Library Cupid was just your average "If you're looking for this specific genre/trope/writing style, you might like this book" situation. A student came in asking for something to read, and Ha Neul would recommend a book. A simple transaction. Tale as old as time, really!
But then things started to get a bit more interesting.
One day, as Ha Neul was reshelving some English Literature resource books, he noticed a young lady standing a little farther down the aisle. Instead of perusing the shelf in front of her or paging through one of the several books stacked in her arms, though, it looked like she was peering through a space left between two textbooks.
Ha Neul didn't say anything out loud, but the scene definitely piqued his curiosity.
So, with as much stealth as he could manage, he left the aisle and began a survey of the nearby areas.
The most obvious thing to catch his eye was another person -- seemingly another young lady -- in the next aisle over. She was standing in just about the same spot, so it would've been easy for the first person to see her through the hole in the shelves.
Now, this could mean one of three things:
Young Lady One has a crush on Young Lady Two.
Young Lady One is stalking Young Lady Two.
Young Lady Two is bullying or harassing Young Lady One, and Young Lady One is keeping watch and waiting for a chance to leave without Young Lady Two seeing her.
Honestly, Ha Neul had learned it was best to never assume anything, so he quietly tiptoed back to his original spot and shuffled up to Young Lady One.
"Hi," he whispered. "Can I help you with something?"
The young lady jumped a little, but when she turned to face him, her eyes widened. "Oh," she whispered back. "Are... are you the Library Cupid?"
Ha Neul's lips curved into a somewhat bashful grin. Knowing that he had a campus-wide reputation like this was both thrilling and mind-boggling at the same time. "Yes," he confirmed with a small nod.
The girl then fumbled around with the stack of books she was holding, precariously sliding one out and handing it to him.
"Women in Love, D.H. Lawrence?" Ha Neul mumbled as he haltingly took the book from her. "What --"
"Can you," she interrupted, lowering her voice even more. "Give this to the girl in the next aisle over?"
Ha Neul looked back up at her and began to say 'Oh, I'm not that kind of Cupid.'
But the look on her face -- so hopeful and eager -- stopped him.
It was now clear that situation number one was in play here, and Young Lady One was requesting that he actually play Cupid.
...You know what, hell yeah!
The task was easy enough, and it was his job to assist people in the library, wasn't it? Technically, he was assisting this person in the library.
So, he nodded in agreement before pressing his index finger to his lips to signal his promise to keep it hush-hush.
Three weeks after he effortlessly recommended and handed Women in Love to Young Lady Two, both young ladies strolled into the library hand-in-hand.
Success!
And, from there, things just kind of snowballed. Ha Neul continued to make book recommendations to whoever asked, and he also did some matchmaking on the side.
But Ha Naul harbored a secret throughout all of this.
While he had a pretty good track record when it came to matchmaking via books, he had never actually been in love himself.
He'd had crushes here and there, but his academics had always kept him plenty busy -- and now that his job at the library took up much of his free time, it had become even more difficult to fit in any sort of relationship.
Plus... he just hadn't found The One yet.
And not even The One in a soulmate way. Just 'The One' he could potentially fall in love with. Someone to be his first love.
Sometimes it bothered him and made him sad, but most of the time, he was too busy to think about it. He was also surrounded by books most days of the week, and how can someone really be sad with so much to read, right?
Actually, that's exactly how you felt, as well.
You didn't want to say that you'd had a lonely childhood, but... Your parents had both worked in the medical field (they still did to this day), and you were an only child. The moments the three of you spent together as a family were few and far between.
So, you'd had to become independent pretty quickly and learn to fend for yourself.
From a very early age, you'd figured out that fictional characters were almost guaranteed to be there for you when real humans couldn't be.
It had started with television, back before you'd learned to read. You'd watch children's shows, of course, but one evening after your babysitter had fallen asleep on the couch, you'd accidentally changed the channel to a well-known serialized crime show.
Something about it had sucked you in almost immediately, and you had refused to watch anything else for years.
Later on down the road, during one of your class's library days at school, you'd discovered a novel based on that very same television show -- the same characters and everything! When you'd skimmed the summary on the back (skipping over some words you didn't know), you'd realized it was basically just a written version of an episode.
It was a few grade levels too difficult for you, but you'd checked it out immediately.
And so began your obsession with reading. Specifically, reading mystery and crime novels.
And, honestly, your obsession with libraries, too.
Your parents didn't have time to take you to the public library very often, but whenever you finished an assignment early or had a free period in school, there was only one place to find you.
The school librarians in elementary, middle, and high school had gotten to know you well; in fact, you very quickly discovered that librarians were one of the few real (meaning non-fictional) people you could count on to always be there for you.
Since you spent so much time reading and in libraries, one would think that when it came time for you to go to college and choose a major to study, you would've picked something like literature or library sciences or even creative writing.
You had contemplated those for a bit, but ultimately, your heart had pulled you to your other love: forensic science with a minor in criminal justice.
But, of course, you continued on your tradition of visiting the school library as soon as you moved to campus.
The only problem was that the campus library wasn't incredibly well-stocked with mystery and crime novels. At least, not ones you hadn't read yet.
Don't get me wrong! You had no qualms whatsoever with re-reading books. In fact, you'd done it countless times! And you'd watched the whole series of your favorite show -- all 28 seasons of it -- about three times over at this point! If you were particularly fond of an episode, you'd definitely watched it at least ten times.
But still.
It was nice to get some variety every once in a while.
Today was not one of those days for variety, though. You had just searched the Mystery/Crime shelves and come up empty-handed -- as far as new books went, that is. You had checked out two novels you'd already read several years ago.
You let out a soft sigh as you walked through the front door of your campus apartment, jumping a little when your roommate walked right by you.
"What's with the sigh?" she asked as she headed to the kitchen with a pile of her dirty dishes.
"Oh," you murmured. "Nothing, really. Just nothing new at the library."
After she set her dishes into the sink but before she turned the faucet on to begin washing them, she said, "Hey, why don't you ask Library Cupid?"
Her words made you furrow your brow with confusion. "Ask who?"
"Y'know, that guy who gives book recommendations," she clarified.
Oh, right. That guy. Did people really call him Library Cupid?
"I... think I'm good," you nodded. "I know what I want to read, it's just that the library doesn't have much of it."
As she reached for the faucet handle, she paused and tilted her head slightly. "I mean, he does work at the library. Maybe you could ask him to put in a request for more mysteries."
...Now, why hadn't you thought of that?
"That's... a great idea," you replied, nodding slowly. "Thanks!"
Your roommate started on her dishes after that, though she did look entirely too pleased with herself.
Since you were the kind of person to think relentlessly about a task until you actually completed it, you decided to head back to the library after finishing your homework for the day. The assistant your roommate had talked about -- the Library Cupid -- seemed to be there whenever you visited in the evening, so it was most likely that his schedule matched yours: classes in the morning and afternoon, work in the evening (although your work was purely academic at this point).
Not that you'd been keeping track of his schedule, of course. You were just observant, as any forensic scientist-to-be worth their salt should be.
Thankfully, when you stepped through the door into the main lobby of the library, the place seemed fairly empty. From what you could tell, this guy was pretty popular; the last thing you wanted was to wait in line for something as simple as requesting a book. It would be worth it, of course, but...
Before you could even continue your thought, you saw the very person for whom you were looking: Library Cupid himself.
...Yeah, you still weren't sure about that name. You would make sure to catch a glimpse of his name tag before you left.
He had arrived at the front desk with an empty book cart, so he had most likely just finished shelving the latest returns. You were experienced enough in a library to know it was a perfect time to interrupt and ask a question -- mainly because you wouldn't really be interrupting at all!
As you walked toward the desk, you began to script out your interaction in your head. If you didn't figure out exactly what you were going to say before you said it, your words always came out in an embarrassing jumbled mess, especially when you were talking to a stranger for the first time. You'd lived through too many mortifying exchanges where your muddled sentences had kept you up at night!
Little did you know that, while the conversation you were about to have wouldn't keep you up at night, it would change your life.
Thank you so much!! π₯Ήπ₯° I'm so happy to hear you enjoyed this silly little fic, it was so much fun to write! Thank you for reading and sharing π