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.
🩵 pairing. formula one driver!kim mingyu x influencer!reader.
🩵 word count. 21.k.
🩵 genres/includes. romance, fluff, humor. alternate universe: non-idol, alternate universe: formula one. mentions of food, alcohol consumption; profanity. the alex albon-ification of mingyu, down bad/yearner!mingyu, 97z adjacent to 2019 rookies, williams slander (soz).
🩵 notes. this is part of cam&em studio’s lights out collaboration. i had somehow deluded myself that this would not be that long, but combine my two special interests and.. bam 😦 always so humbled to be among caratblr greats. ty for hosting, @camandemstudios!!! let’s go racing!!! ᯓ★
Mingyu likes to think he’s calm. Composed. The kind of driver who takes Monza in stride, doesn’t let the history or the speed or the ridiculous number of Ferrari fans turn his knees into jelly.
That’s the version of himself he would like to believe. The truth is, Monza is the track that raised him. He was fifteen the first time he snuck into the stands with a handful of friends, listening to engines scream like they could shake the sky apart. Now, he’s back as a Williams driver, pretending he’s not vibrating with the same teenage excitement. Pretending the goosebumps under his race suit are just from the morning chill.
“Still staring at the track like it’s your first crush?” Seokmin’s voice drifts over, amused and much too loud for Mingyu’s pride.
He turns to find Lee Seokmin—McLaren orange splashed all over him, lanyard swinging, already grinning as if he knows he’s being insufferable. Which, of course, he does.
Mingyu adjusts his cap with a lopsided grin. “Bold words from the guy who once called Eau Rouge ‘kinda cute.’”
“That was one time,” Seokmin says, mock-offended, “and it is cute. In a terrifying, please-don’t-launch-me-into-the-fence way.”
Xu Minghao appears before Mingyu can volley back. The new arrival is in Mercedes gear, impossibly relaxed, sipping an espresso like he has all the time in the world. Minghao never hurries, never sweats, never looks anything less than editorial-spread perfect, even in a paddock crawling with cameras. It’s infuriating.
“Don’t encourage him,” Minghao says, eyes flicking to Seokmin. Then, to Mingyu: “You’re jittery.”
“I’m not jittery,” Mingyu protests, immediately aware that only jittery people insist they’re not. “I’m focused.”
Minghao takes a long sip, unimpressed. “You’re vibrating like a phone on silent.”
Seokmin nearly chokes on his laugh. “Oh my god, he is,” he cackles. “Someone put him in airplane mode before quali.”
Mingyu glares, but it’s half-hearted. This is how it always goes: Seokmin heckles, Minghao observes, Mingyu suffers. He can’t even complain, because the truth is he likes it. Likes that they’re here, together, even in rival colors. Likes that Monza isn’t just a track, it’s their track. The place where they were kids with bad haircuts and bigger dreams, trying to convince each other they’d all make it here someday.
And look at them now. Williams, McLaren, Mercedes. Not bad for three idiots who once got kicked out of a karting facility for trying to draft a security golf cart.
Seokmin slings an arm around Mingyu’s shoulders, nearly knocking his cap off. “Don’t overthink it, Gyu,” Seokmin says cheerfully. “Just drive like hell. If you don’t win, you’re only letting down half of Italy.”
“Comforting,” Mingyu deadpans.
Minghao’s mouth quirks. “Don’t listen to him. Just remember what we said when we were fifteen.”
Mingyu remembers. He remembers vividly. Sitting on cheap plastic seats, knees knocking together, promising each other they’d one day not just watch, but race. That they’d carry each other through, no matter where the grid scattered them.
“Win or lose,” Mingyu muses, “we always meet back here.”
Seokmin nods, unusually serious for a moment. Minghao just sips his drink, but his eyes soften.
Seokmin ruins it, as expected. “Cool. So when I beat you both, I can expect dinner Il Moro, yeah?”
Mingyu groans. Minghao sighs. Just like that, the moment dissolves back into chaos—the only way it ever really works with the three of them.
Still, as Mingyu turns back toward the track, he feels steadier. Ready. Because Monza isn’t just special. It’s home. This time, he’s not just the kid in the stands; he’s the one behind the wheel.
Qualifying at Monza is always chaos disguised as order, though. The track is so fast, so unforgiving, that one slipstream too many or one lock-up at Variante della Roggia can drop you down five places before you can blink. Mingyu knows this. He’s lived this. Still, it doesn’t stop his pulse from thundering when he’s released from the garage, when Williams sends him out into the blur of red, silver, orange, blue.
Minghao is clinical. His laps are precise, as if he’s painting with a ruler. Every apex kissed, every braking point exact. It’s maddening how effortless he makes it look, as if he’s just taking his Mercedes out for a polite Sunday stroll at 350 km/h.
Seokmin is chaos in motion. The rocketship of a McLaren twitches under him, but he wrangles it with surprising grace. Somehow, it works. He’s fastest through Sector 2, the radio full of his whoops and laughter. By the time Q3 ends, he’s snatched pole, punching the air with that face-splitting grin.
Mingyu? He lands a respectable P7. Solid. Reliable. The kind of position that makes engineers nod approvingly but doesn’t earn headlines. He knows it’s good work. He knows Williams is stronger than it’s been in years, that the upgrades are sticking, that the car beneath him is finally something more than a stubborn mule in corporate livery. But when he hears the crowd roaring for Seokmin’s orange car or sees Minghao’s name perched neatly in P2, it’s hard not to feel like the supporting character in someone else’s movie.
On his cooldown lap, the adrenaline settles into something softer. He loosens his grip on the wheel, lets the Monza trees blur past. It’s hard not to think back. To the hell that was Red Bull, to the brutal climb up the junior ladder, to the endless conversations about potential and promise. He’s spent years carrying Williams through development, pulling every scrap of performance out of machinery that didn’t always want to cooperate. Now he’s here, at the sharp end of a new chapter, finally with a car that might fight.
But still. No podium. Not yet.
He watches Seokmin celebrate over the radio, hears Minghao’s cool acknowledgment of his front-row start. Mingyu smiles, even laughs, but inside he tucks the thought away like a folded note: I’ll get there, too.
Because Monza raised him. Monza taught him how to dream. And tomorrow, maybe, it’ll teach him how to stand where he’s always wanted. Up high, champagne in hand, finally shoulder to shoulder with the friends who’ve always believed he could.
Mingyu finds his way to the decisively unglamorous Williams motorhome. It’s not much compared to the chrome-and-marble lounges that Ferrari or Red Bull roll out every weekend, but it’s comfortable in its own way. Blue accents, warm lighting, coffee machines that don’t sputter half the time anymore. Progress.
Joshua Hong sits at one of the tables, helmet still under his arm like he doesn’t quite trust leaving it anywhere else. Old habits from Ferrari, maybe. Back when every move was photographed, every angle scrutinized. He’s scrolling through data on a tablet, lips pressed into a thin, disappointed line. He’d qualified P13.
Mingyu drops into the seat across from him with all the subtlety of a collapsing deck chair. “You know, staring at telemetry won’t make the car magically faster,” he says delicately.
Joshua looks up, startled, then huffs a laugh. “Worth a shot.”
Mingyu leans back, folding his arms behind his head. “First Monza with Williams. How’s it feel? Culture shock?”
Joshua considers it, then shrugs. “It’s… different,” he settles. “Ferrari had twenty people fussing over every button I touched. Here, I feel like I’m supposed to make my own coffee.”
“You are supposed to make your own coffee,” Mingyu says, grinning. “It’s character building.”
That earns him a real laugh. Joshua shakes his head. “I’m still adjusting, I guess,” he confides. “The car handles fine, but it’s not what I’m used to. You’ve been here longer, and you make it look easier than it is.”
Mingyu tries not to preen at that. Instead, he tips forward, conspiratorial. “Here’s the trick. Don’t fight the car too much. It’s stubborn. Think of it like… a cat. If you force it, it’ll scratch. If you coax it, it’ll cooperate just enough to get the job done.”
“So you’re saying I should… seduce the car?”
“Maybe buy it dinner first.”
They both laugh, and the tension in Joshua’s shoulders loosens by a fraction. He taps a note into the tablet, still smiling. “Honestly, thanks. It’s not easy, but at least I’ve got you.”
Mingyu blinks, surprised by the sincerity tucked under the joke. He clears his throat, pretending to study the ceiling. “Well, don’t make it sound like we’re married. You’ll give the engineers ideas.”
“Relax,” huffs Joshua. “You’re not my type.”
“Rude,” Mingyu says, clutching his chest in mock offense.
But inside, he’s relieved. Relieved that Joshua isn’t bitter, isn’t distant, that the shadow of Ferrari hasn’t made him impossible to reach. Joshua’d made a pretty good case for himself in Maranello red, but then seven-time World Champion Yoon Jeonghan wanted to make a move from Mercedes. It’s the kind of thing you can’t even be mad about, the type of demotion you take with a clenched jaw and a prayer for redemption.
Williams isn’t Ferrari. It never will be. But maybe, with Mingyu and Joshua, it can still be something worth building.
“Come on,” Mingyu says, pushing to his feet. “I’ll show you where they hide the good snacks.”
Joshua follows, grinning now, and for the first time all weekend Mingyu feels like they’re not just two drivers shoved together by circumstance. They’re teammates. Maybe even friends. And at Williams, that might just be the secret weapon.
Unfortunately, their snack run is cut short. Williams has decided it’s ‘content time.’ Which, in practice, means Mingyu and Joshua are herded into a corner of the motorhome that’s been dressed up with two folding chairs, a blue backdrop, and more ring lights than anyone needs outside a K-pop audition.
Joshua takes it in stride. Professional smile, easy banter with the social media coordinator. Mingyu, on the other hand, is already zoning out. He knows the routine: intro clip, thumbs up, some scripted lines about teamwork and strategy, maybe a ‘who’s taller’ joke if the intern behind the camera is feeling spicy. His brain is already skipping ahead to tomorrow. The race. Monza at full tilt, the slipstreams, the strategies, the chaos waiting to happen.
He half-listens as the briefing drones on. Celebrities expected in the paddock tomorrow. So-and-so, actor. Someone else, pop star. And then.
Your name.
It snags his attention for half a second, the way an unexpected chord does in the middle of a song. Vague recognition thrums at the back of his mind. You’re an influencer, he thinks. He follows you, though he doesn’t remember when he clicked the button. Late-night scroll, probably. He remembers flashes: a vlog with neon signs in Tokyo, a clip of you spilling iced coffee and laughing at yourself, a carousel post full of designer clothing.
The memory is fuzzy but oddly warm, like a light left on in another room. Mingyu almost lingers on it. Almost.
Then the coordinator claps their hands and announces, “Okay, Joshua first, then Mingyu. Quickfire questions, then predictions for quali and race.”
And just like that, the thought is shelved. Mingyu sits up, shakes the static from his head, and focuses back on what matters: data, pace, tire strategy. Tomorrow is Monza, and Monza doesn’t leave space for distractions—even ones with familiar names and half-remembered smiles on a glowing phone screen.
Come Sunday, the excitement is at a fever pitch. Race day at Monza is a circus, and Mingyu is one of the trained performers.
The morning starts with the usual noise: fans pressed against barriers, chanting names, waving flags. Reporters circle like seagulls over fries, microphones shoved forward in case anyone slips and says something headline-worthy. The Williams garage is a hive. Mechanics shouting tire pressures, engineers glued to monitors, Joshua humming nervously as he tapes up his gloves. Somewhere in the paddock, Seokmin is almost certainly mugging for a camera. Somewhere else, Minghao is almost certainly pretending the cameras don’t exist.
Mingyu goes through his rituals. Left glove first, always. Then right. A tug on each strap to make sure they’re snug. He taps his helmet twice against his knee before handing it to his mechanic.
Sips water. Sways side to side on his feet like he’s already negotiating Ascari. He jokes when someone asks if he’s nervous. “Nervous? I only panic recreationally.” The laughter helps.
Then comes the walk to the grid. The roar grows louder, a wall of sound built from engines and announcers and tifosi who’d probably sell their souls for a Ferrari win. Mingyu does the usual handshakes, the usual half-hearted smiles for the cameras. His mind is already moving faster than his feet, lap one unfolding in his head like a storyboard.
The moment his helmet clicks into place, the world changes. The chaos of Monza mutes, as if someone turned the volume knob down to zero. The crowd is still there, the cameras still there, Joshua still fiddling with his steering wheel somewhere in the garage. But to Mingyu, it’s silence. Pure, focused silence.
He slides into the cockpit, straps pulled tight across his chest, the car cocooning him. His visor lowers. His breath echoes back at him, steady, rhythmic. The grid fades to shapes, colors, blurred edges at the periphery of vision. All that’s left is the straight ahead—the red lights waiting to tell him when to leap.
Formation lap. Heat in the tires, brakes biting, the car alive under him. He lines up in P7, nose angled toward possibility. The lights blink on, one by one.
Five.
Four.
Three.
Two.
One.
For a second, nothing exists but his heartbeat.
Then the lights vanish, the world snaps back to deafening, and Mingyu launches. The car surges forward like it’s been waiting its whole life for this one second, and Monza opens wide in front of him.
Monza doesn’t give you time to breathe. Not really. Not when you’re thundering into Turn 1 at 300 km/h with six other cars fighting for the same square of asphalt. Mingyu knows this, braces for it, and still winces as two cars brush wheels in front of him. He darts left, gains one position, loses another. Net zero. Typical Williams arithmetic.
The first laps are pure survival. The car is twitchy in the chicanes, eager to understeer as if it has personal beef with his front tires. “Front end’s gone, it’s like driving a shopping cart,” he snaps into the radio.
There’s a pause, then his engineer’s calm voice: “Copy, Mingyu. Balance noted.”
He knows they’re used to it by now. He’s affable in the paddock. Always smiling, quick with a joke, the guy who helps rookies find the good coffee machine. But in the car? On the radio? He’s a menace. His friends tease him about it constantly. Gentle giant until you put him in a helmet, then he’s Gordon Ramsay with downforce.
“Why did we pit that early?!” he barks twenty laps later when he’s spat out into traffic. “I’m boxed in by two Alpines who think this is a fu—damn carpool lane!”
“Understood, Mingyu. Let’s keep pushing.”
He groans, but there’s no time to sulk. Ahead, Seokmin is dancing in clean air at the front, Minghao lurking just behind. Mingyu feels the gap between them and himself like a physical ache. They’re fighting for podiums. He’s fighting his steering wheel just to keep the car pointing straight.
He keeps going. He wrestles the Williams through Ascari, feathering the throttle. He throws it into Parabolica with more hope than grip, muttering prayers to the racing gods and a few curses for good measure. Every lap is a scrap, every sector a negotiation.
The radio crackles. “Good work, Mingyu. Lap time’s improving. Keep this pace.”
He exhales, a humorless laugh catching in his throat. “Tell the car that.”
It’s not glamorous. It’s not heroic. But it’s racing. And when the laps tick down and the flag finally waves, Mingyu drags the car across the line. Bruised ego, tired arms, and all. Not a podium, not a headline. Points, still. Points for Williams after spending years hoping for the bare minimum of a finish.
The checkered flag waves, and Mingyu exhales so hard it fogs the inside of his visor. His arms ache, his neck feels like it’s been wrung out, and the Williams under him is radiating the heat of a dying sun. But the timing screen doesn’t lie: P5. 10 points for Williams. Practically a love letter written in neon.
The radio crackles alive with static. “Mega job, Gyu! That’s P5!”
Mingyu decides he’ll take it. Helmet bobbing against the headrest, he radios back, “Alrighttt, baby!”
“Way to make your girlfriend proud, mate.”
“…Thanks, gu—my what?”
The radio goes suspiciously quiet. No laughter, no explanation, only the faint hiss of white noise. He waits. One beat. Two. Nothing. Mingyu narrows his eyes inside the helmet, muttering, “Yeah, real funny, guys.”
He imagines the garage choking back laughter, everyone pretending to busy themselves with tire blankets and telemetry screens while actually waiting for the inevitable post-race interrogation.
Still, as he slows the car on the cooldown lap, weaving to wave at the fans, he can’t shake the question. Girlfriend? He’d remember if he had one. He thinks. Probably.
Classic Williams. Work him to the bone, then leave him with a riddle to chew on all night. He can already hear Seokmin and Minghao cackling about it over dinner.
But for now, he allows himself the satisfaction: P5 at Monza. A win in its own way.
Mingyu, sweat-streaked but still buzzing from the race, tugs his fireproof top straighter as he slides into the mixed zone. but P5 has him smiling like he’s just won the whole championship, as he walks into the pen. Fluorescent lights, elbowing journalists, and the faint whiff of rubber baked into the asphalt.
“Great drive today, Mingyu,” someone from Sky Sports barks out. “How did it feel out there?”
He leans closer to the mic, conspiratorial. “Like wrestling a bull on roller skates. But hey, we stayed on track, didn’t explode, and crossed the line in one piece. That’s what we call progress.”
A few chuckles ripple out. He answers questions easily: strategy calls, tire management, how much water he thinks he sweated out. (“About three liters, minimum. I’m basically jerky now.”)
Then a reporter tilts her head, squinting at her notes. “And Mingyu, about the broadcast—?”
“What about it?”
“Well, it was one hell of a hard launch, wasn’t it?”
Mingyu’s face contorts into polite confusion, like someone who’s been told the ending of a movie he hasn’t seen yet. He opens his mouth to explain—though what exactly, he’s not sure—but before he can string together a defense, his PR handler materializes at his elbow, all professional smiles and efficient steering. “Thanks so much, we have to move on. Next interview, sorry!”
Mingyu is herded away mid-protest, eyebrows climbing up his forehead. “Wait, broadcast? What broadcast? I didn’t even—” His words are swallowed by the crowd as another mic is shoved in front of him.
It takes hours for Mingyu to finally piece it together. By the time he’s showered, debriefed, and shoved into fresh Williams merch, the adrenaline has faded to something heavy in his bones. Only when he’s slouched in the back of the team van, scrolling his phone, does the mystery crack open.
His notifications are a war zone: Seokmin’s texts in all caps (“LMAOOOOO BRO UR FINISHED”), Minghao’s in his trademark straightforwardness (“bold of you not to hide from us”), and about a dozen unread group chat messages with the kind of creative memes that can only be weaponized by friends who know your weaknesses.
Mingyu squints, thumb hovering over the link Seokmin has sent. A screen recording, clipped from the F1 TV broadcast. He taps it open.
The screen cuts to the Williams garage, right after his near-spin-save, the crowd roaring like it’s a goal at the World Cup. Then the camera finds… you.
Mingyu, against his better judgment, has to admit the broadcast director has taste. The lens loves you. He privately does, too, for about half a second. The easy way you smile, the spark of expression that makes the whole shot hum.
But then his gaze slides to the graphic at the bottom of the screen, and his soul leaves his body. There’s your name, and then the designation.
Social Media Influencer, Partner of Kim Mingyu.
Partner. As in…?
He doesn’t even know you.
He stares at the tag so hard he’s convinced he’ll find a typo hidden inside. Nothing. Just his name, clean as day, tethered to yours. His stomach does a neat little nosedive. He scrolls back, replays it once, twice, three times, like maybe on the fourth it’ll magically change to something less career-ruining. No luck.
Another message pings in from Seokmin: a string of wedding emojis. Minghao simply adds: “congrats.”
Mingyu slumps further into the seat, phone pressed to his forehead.
The video conference feels less like a meeting and more like a trial. Mingyu sits in his apartment with hair still damp from the shower, clutching a mug of coffee like it’s a legal defense. On his screen: Williams PR, looking like they haven’t smiled since the V6 era, and you. An innocent bystander dragged into the mess, appearing far too composed for someone accused of having a secret relationship with him.
God, Mingyu thinks, unfair.
Even pixelated through mediocre Wi-Fi, you look good. Distractingly good. How is it possible to look camera-ready in a Zoom call? He looks like a raccoon caught stealing snacks, and you look like a magazine spread.
“Let’s run this again,” one of the PR managers says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Are you or are you not in a relationship with Kim Mingyu?”
You sigh, hands raised in a calm denial. “We’re not,” you say, and your voice is pitched just a touch differently from whatever tone you use for filming content. It fascinates Mingyu. “We’ve never even spoken before this.”
Mingyu nods enthusiastically. “True. I’d remember if we had.” Then, realizing how that sounds, he backpedals. “Not because you’re forgettable. You’re, uh—very memorable. Obviously. Just—” He clears his throat. “Point is, this is our first conversation.”
Your brows lift, amused despite the situation. “Thanks, I think?”
PR is unamused. “This isn’t a joke,” they insist. “The broadcast explicitly tagged you as Mingyu’s partner. The narrative is running wild. We need clarity.”
Mingyu leans toward the webcam, adopting his most trustworthy expression. Unfortunately, makes him look like he’s about to confess on a reality dating show. “We’re telling the truth,” he retorts. “No secret relationship. No scandal. Just a very confused driver and a very unlucky influencer.”
“And you’re certain?” PR presses.
“Yes,” you say firmly. “Absolutely.”
“Yes,” Mingyu echoes. Then, almost reflexively, “Although—I mean, hypothetically, if there were ever a relationship, we’d probably be, you know, supportive of each other’s careers. That’d be nice. Not that this is that. Because it isn’t.”
PR stares. You try not to laugh. Mingyu wants to sink through the floor but can’t help sneaking another glance at you, wondering if the meeting could possibly end with something besides his professional funeral.
The Zoom call sputters to an end not long after. PR smiling too tight, lawyers muttering about statements, and Mingyu signing off with a half-wave. The second his laptop screen goes black, his brain decides to betray him. Naturally, the first thing he does is type your name into Instagram.
He tells himself it’s just curiosity. Research. Due diligence. Absolutely not stalking. Except, two scrolls in, he’s already leaning back in his chair, eyebrows climbing as your follower count glares at him: 512,000. Half a million, he thinks to himself. That’s… several Monzas full of people. Great.
He knew you did commentary on motorsport—he’s seen your posts, the ones that float onto his Explore page between dog memes and teammate thirst edits—but it turns out you have a whole empire attached. There’s a makeup brand. Campaign shots. Tutorials with numbers in the six digits. Mingyu taps one absentmindedly and is immediately greeted with perfect lighting, perfect editing, and perfect you.
What really makes him grin is when he stumbles across a clip with a familiar face: James Vowles, the Williams team principal, standing awkwardly in front of a camera while you shove a mic toward him. “James, be honest,” you say, “what’s harder, running an F1 team or trying to blend liquid eyeliner in under three minutes?”
James blinks like a deer in headlights. “…The eyeliner?”
“Correct,” you chirp, before turning back to the camera. “That’s why he runs the cars and I run the tutorials.”
The video cuts with James chuckling, clearly defeated, and Mingyu can’t stop the bark of laughter that escapes him.
Mingyu doesn’t mean to fall down the rabbit hole, but that’s exactly what happens. One video turns into five, five turns into twenty, and suddenly he’s a full-blown archeologist digging through the ruins of your Instagram.
There you are with F2 drivers, teasing them mid-interview until they’re blushing like schoolboys. There you are at an IndyCar paddock, chatting with a team principal as if he’s your next-door neighbor borrowing sugar. Mingyu leans closer to the screen with every swipe, eyes darting between your captions and the way you laugh, quick and clever, always a beat faster than whoever’s in front of you. He finds himself grinning at his phone like an idiot.
The hours slip away without him noticing, the digital equivalent of quicksand. His thumb keeps scrolling even though his brain is half-asleep, his body heavy in his bed. Then—there it is. A photo buried deep in your feed, posted more than three years ago. Younger you, hair a little messy, no glam team in sight, standing high in the Monza nosebleeds with a grin that threatens to split your face in two. The caption is nothing but a string of exclamation points and a blurry shot of cars in the distance.
Looks like he isn’t the only one who’d dreamt of Monza.
Mingyu stares at it, soft amusement tugging at his mouth. He barely registers the way his thumb hovers, then double taps. A small heart flashes red before his phone slips in his hand, the screen dimming. The last thing he knows before sleep drags him under is your wide smile from the grandstands. Bright, unpolished, impossible not to look at.
Somewhere in the background, the quiet horror of having just liked a three-year-old photo waits for him in the morning.
The thing is, Mingyu doesn’t notice right away. Why would he? He sleeps like a log, wakes up like one too, and the only thing on his mind is coffee and cardio. So there he is, dutifully jogging on the treadmill, earbuds in, pretending this is about fitness and not an excuse to outrun his anxiety, when TikTok does what TikTok does best: ruin his life.
The video pops up innocently enough. Caption in neon text: “Did Mingyu just soft-launch a girlfriend???” A voiceover kicks in, suspiciously gleeful. “So, Mingyu liked this three-year-old photo of our favorite influencer—yes, three years old, folks—and here’s the proof.”
Cue screenshot. Cue zoom. Cue circle around his username.
Mingyu’s foot falters. His treadmill betrays him. One mistimed step, and suddenly he’s half-tripping, half-flailing, clutching for balance. His earbuds yank out with the violence of divine punishment.
A man of precision on track, publicly defeated by a treadmill and a phantom like. Perfect. Absolutely perfect.
Mingyu swears they’re multiplying—these PR meetings. Same conference room, same slideshow clicker, same headache. This week it’s Baku, and instead of tire strategy or track notes, the PowerPoint behind the comms team might as well be titled How to Manage Your Totally Real, Definitely Not Imaginary Girlfriend.
He sits there, arms crossed, pouting like someone stole his dessert. He’s already said it a hundred times: you’re not dating. Apparently, the Internet has spoken, and the Internet doesn’t exactly care about facts.
“We just need to be clear in messaging,” one PR manager says, pointing at a bullet point that reads Keep It Vague.
“Vague?” Mingyu repeats, voice pitching with incredulity. “What’s vague about ‘I don’t know her’?”
Someone else sighs, like he’s the problem child. “It’s not about accuracy, Mingyu. It’s about optics. If you push too hard, it looks defensive. Defensive looks guilty.”
“So now I’m guilty of… not dating someone?” He leans forward, gesturing wildly. “You hear how that sounds, right?”
The silence that follows suggests yes, they hear it. No, they don’t care.
Mingyu slumps back in his chair. He’s all out of exasperated arguments. The PR team drones on about narratives and fan sentiment graphs, but it washes over him. Water on a duck’s back. Finally, he just sighs, mutters something noncommittal, and waves a hand. Fine. Believe what you want.
By the end of the hour, his pout has calcified into resignation. If the whole world wants him in a relationship he doesn’t have, he’s not going to win the argument today. He gathers his things, ducks out before someone can hand him another bullet-pointed nightmare, and calls it a draw. For now.
Mingyu swears he’s not thinking about you. Not at all. Not when he’s reviewing track notes, not when he’s staring down the tight castle section in Baku. He’s perfectly disciplined, focused, and absolutely not distracted by someone with sharp wit and a suspiciously radiant Zoom camera presence. Nope. Not him.
Until the morning of qualifying, that is.
Instagram stories. A quick scroll, nothing serious, until there you are, framed in blurry orange and papaya. A McLaren paddock pass swinging around your neck like a guillotine blade pointed at Mingyu’s sanity. He stares, brows furrowing with something suspiciously close to betrayal.
Of course it’s McLaren. Of course they’d play the long game. If Williams accidentally branded you his partner, McLaren’s apparently out here auditioning you for the role.
He tells himself to let it go. To focus on the race. To be a professional. Instead, he’s suddenly opening his DMs, staring at your name in the chat box. His thumbs hover. He types. Hi.
Deletes.
Types again. Wow!!!
Deletes harder.
What does one even say? ‘Hey, didn’t know you were in town, hope papaya orange brings out your eyes’? ‘Cool pass, traitor’? ‘Please stop looking this good while I’m trying to not die in a street circuit’? Every attempt looks ridiculous the second it leaves his brain.
With the resignation of a man already defeated, he sets the phone down. He’s done. He’s above this. He’s a professional athlete, not some lovesick fanboy—
He picks the phone back up. One more try. Just one. He thumbs in the lamest reply in human history, something so bare-bones he can feel his ancestors shaking their heads at him: Nice lanyard lol.
He means to delete it. He means to backspace, to retreat into silence, to salvage dignity.
But his thumb betrays him a second time.
Sent.
A beat.
Delivered changes to Seen.
Every vein in Mingyu’s body goes cold-hot-cold. You’ve seen it. The lamest message in the known universe. No time to unsend, no room for excuses. It’s done. He’s doomed.
Baku may be a monster, but nothing terrifies him more than waiting for your reply.
Mingyu stares at his phone like it’s a bomb he accidentally armed. He’s mentally drafting an apology tour when the notification banner pops up.
| yourusername: thanks. it’s from mclaren, though.
Okay. Professional. Polite. Mingyu exhales, shoulders sagging, and immediately thumbs out a reply.
| min6yu_k: Knew that. Was just testing you.
There’s a pause, long enough that he wonders if you’ve muted him forever, but then another bubble appears.
| yourusername: u’re terrible at tests, kim.
He grins despite himself, typing fast.
| min6yu_k: That’s fair. In my defense, I don’t usually text mid–Grand Prix scandal.
| yourusername: a scandal you created by liking a post from 2021?? 🤨
Mingyu winces, caught red-handed. He considers doubling down, then decides self-deprecation is safer.
| min6yu_k: Guilty
| min6yu_k: Sorry about all of it, by the way. I didn’t mean to drag you into weird rumor mill territory.
This time, your response comes quicker. The words are still measured, but there’s a softening he can almost hear.
| yourusername: it’s fine lol. not like you paid f1tv to do it or anything
| yourusername: just wasn’t expecting to wake up with people tagging me as ‘f1 wag of the year’
Mingyu laughs out loud, loud enough that his trainer shoots him a look. He taps back:
| min6yu_k: Honestly, you deserve the award just for surviving that Zoom call.
Your reply takes longer this time, but it’s worth the wait.
| yourusername: don’t get used to it. m not doing another emergency pr summit with u
| min6yu_k: Noted. One PR trauma bonding session only 👍
The typing dots linger for a moment, then vanish. Finally:
| yourusername: anw no promises about seeing u around the paddock
| yourusername: but good luck in quali 🍀
The words land softer than he expects. A pat on the back he didn’t know he needed. Mingyu reads them three times before tucking his phone away.
He qualifies P4. He’s not saying it’s because of you, but he’s also not saying it isn’t.
Qualifying P4 feels like the kind of small miracle that makes you think maybe all the treadmill trips, the PR scoldings, and the humiliating Instagram accidents were worth it. But Sunday has teeth. By lap twenty, Mingyu’s strapped into a seat that might as well be a bull ride with branding. The car is twitchy, the balance gone, and his voice is chewing through radio static.
“Why am I losing power out of turn two?!” he barks.
Pit wall comes back too calm for his liking. “Telemetry shows everything is stable, Mingyu. Keep managing.”
“Stable? Stable?! I’m wrestling a washing machine on rollerblades, how is that stable?”
He gets silence. The kind of silence that says we don’t know either, please don’t crash. By lap forty, his jaw is locked, shoulders aching, and he’s screaming again. “This thing is undriveable! Brakes are gone, rear won’t hold! Do you want me to park it or what?”
“Negative, keep pushing.”
He pushes. All the way down the order until the flag waves and the numbers slap him in the face: P16. From the high of P4 to this. A freefall with no parachute. He sits in the cockpit longer than he should, helmet pressed against the wheel, before finally peeling himself out.
The paddock microphones descend like vultures. One of them doesn’t even start with a question about the car. “Mingyu, fans noticed your girlfriend was seen wearing McLaren colors today. Any comments on that?”
His jaw ticks so hard it could crack. Sweat’s still streaking down his temple when he levels them with a stare sharp enough to cut wire. “Next question.”
Another tries again, reshuffling words but not intent. Mingyu’s answer doesn’t change. This time, colder: “Ask about the race or don’t ask at all.”
There’s always background noise in the paddock. Engines, chatter, cameras clicking. Right now all he hears is the roar of blood in his ears, louder than any crowd. P16, and apparently, he still can’t shake you from the headlines.
Mingyu does what he always does after a race gone sideways: he disappears. Not Houdini-level, but close. Sunglasses, cap pulled low, hoodie large enough to smuggle an entire pit crew under. He walks through the Old City, trying very hard not to look like someone who just drove an F1 car into the ground and then got roasted on live television.
The Old City is perfect for this. Stone walls, narrow alleys, that golden glow of lamplight softening even the sharpest edges of his mood. He likes it here. Always has. There’s something about Baku at night that feels like the world is willing to forgive him, at least for a few blocks.
Which is exactly when he rounds a corner and nearly collides with you.
Of course. Of course.
You blink, step back, and immediately clock the situation. “Right,” you say lightly, hands going up in mock surrender. “I’m guessing you don’t want company right now.”
Mingyu could laugh if it didn’t sting a little. You’re not pitying, and that almost makes it worse. Pity, he can swat away. This gentle assumption that he needs space? That’s harder to argue against. His throat goes tight, but he manages a faint grin from under the brim of his cap.
“Depends,” he says. “Do you count as company or cosmic punishment?”
Your smile tilts, not unkind, and you shake your head. “I’ll take that as my cue. Good night, Mingyu.”
You step past him, and he lets you, every nerve screaming to ask you to stay. To hang around. To just talk about anything that isn’t tire degradation or whether P16 is a character flaw. He swallows it down, watching your figure fade into the lamplight until he’s left alone with his disguise, his hoodie, and the city that always seems to know when he needs to hide.
Mingyu tells himself it’s fine. People bump into each other in crowded old towns all the time. One awkward encounter doesn’t mean anything.
Then he sees you again twenty minutes later, bent over a display of silver bangles at a stall, the shopkeeper coaxing you into trying one on. He’s half tempted to call it a simulation glitch.
By the third run-in—this time at a clothes shop where you’re holding up a linen shirt to the light—Mingyu is actively bargaining with the universe. Once is a coincidence. Twice is… funny. Three times? That’s fate with a capital F. Someone’s writing this, and Mingyu is the unwilling protagonist.
He ducks into a little restaurant tucked against the curve of the city wall, hoping for anonymity, peace, maybe a plate of kebab big enough to eat his feelings. Instead, the hostess leads him straight to a table—and there you are again.
Not at his table, mercifully, but at the one directly across, angled perfectly so the two of you sit like some deranged parody of a date. Mingyu covers his mouth with a hand like he’s trying not to laugh at the world’s dumbest punchline. You catch his eye just long enough to arch a brow, equal parts really? and don’t even start.
Dinner becomes an Olympic-level charade. He stares at the menu too hard. You sip your drink with the exaggerated grace of someone being watched, which, to be fair, you are. Whenever your gazes almost meet, you both snap your attention back to your plates like guilty schoolkids.
Some small joke you must have thought of on your own occurs to you, because you duck your head, shoulders shaking, and laugh into your meal. The sound is warm, unguarded, nothing to do with him. For the first time since the race, Mingyu feels something slip in his chest. His mouth tugs up, almost against his will, into a smile.
Three days. That’s how long Mingyu gets to breathe before the next firestorm.
Barely seventy-two hours of pretending the Internet has moved on, and then PR summons him as if he’s a schoolboy headed for detention. Mingyu slumps into the conference room chair, hood still up from the drive over, and immediately they spin a laptop toward him.
The photo in question: Baku’s Old City, the kind of shot that belongs on a travel brochure. A jewelry stall gleams with silver chains and glassy trinkets. There’s Mingyu—hood pulled up, cap tugged so low it shadows half his face, but his height and frame basically scream yes, it’s him. His posture is a dead giveaway; he has never in his life managed to look inconspicuous. A few steps away, there you are. Not talking. Not even facing each other. Just existing in the same atmospheric frame. The Internet, of course, has already branded it confirmation. Hashtags piling up by the second. Think pieces forming. Fans congratulating themselves on being right all along.
“Really?” Mingyu squints at the screen. “This is the smoking gun? My back?”
“Your recognizable back,” one of the managers corrects, pinching the bridge of their nose like they’re suppressing a migraine. “Do you have any idea how quickly this is spreading?”
“Quicker than my car on Sunday,” Mingyu mutters, because sarcasm is the only weapon left in his arsenal. He’s barely armed, but it’s all he’s got.
The room doesn’t laugh. Of course it doesn’t. He’s talking to people who categorize memes as communication risks. They don’t have the range.
Mingyu tries, weakly, to defend himself. He explains you weren’t together, that you hadn’t even exchanged words, that coincidence is not the same thing as a relationship. He gestures with his hands, sprawling explanations across the table, hoping volume and dramatics might soften the edges of disbelief. It’s pointless. His PR team waves him off. They’re already drafting statements, debating whether to ignore or confront, arguing over hashtags that will inevitably backfire. One of them says ‘brand synergy’ with a straight face.
Mingyu sinks lower in his chair, jaw tight, cap brim nearly touching the table. He knows the drill by now. No matter what he says, the narrative’s already running laps without him. On the outside, he’s exasperated. On the inside, though, he’s quietly grateful.
Because if the vultures had gotten photos of those dinner tables, side by side in the Old City, chairs angled just so, him biting back laughter as you laughed into your meal—then that would’ve been ruined, dissected, cheapened into content. He can already imagine the captions: soft launch confirmed, same restaurant, same night, what more proof do you need?
But they don’t have that. All they have is his back in front of a jewelry stall, a sliver of coincidence blown into mythology. Which means he gets to keep the dinner. He gets to keep the sound of your laugh tugging his mouth into a smile. He gets to keep it as his, that moment. Untouched, unpolished.
Mingyu resolves to keep his head down. Or at least he tries to, though it’s hard to look subtle when you’re six-foot-something and wearing a fireproof suit. The only thing louder than the Internet whispering about him is the uncooperative Williams underneath him.
Singapore: he retires, engine coughing out before he can even call it a night. America: he crosses the line dead last, gritting his teeth while the checkered flag waves like mock applause. PR tells him to keep smiling, but even he can’t fake cheer through the smell of burning rubber and disappointment.
It’s not all bad. Mexico: pit lane start, every commentator politely predicting doom. Mingyu claws his way up, lap after lap, until the scoreboard flashes him into the points. Las Vegas: the lights, the noise, the neon chaos, and the Williams wrestled to P6. For a moment, it almost feels like proof. Proof that he belongs here, proof that the fight is worth it.
He races, races, races. The weeks blur together: flights, hotels, meetings, helmets, grids. Always noise, always expectation.
In the gaps between, when the adrenaline fades and the world is still, he tries not to think of you. Not your giggle across a dinner table in Baku. Not the idea of you lingering at the edges of his story like some subplot he isn’t brave enough to read aloud.
He tells himself it’s better this way. That racing is enough. That winning—even scraps of it—is enough. But sometimes, when the garage finally empties and he’s the last one there, he catches himself staring at the shadows, half-expecting them to laugh the way you did.
The next time he actually sees you, it’s not in an ancient city or the dawn of the paddock. Instead, it’s a charity gala. One that’s not supposed to be a battlefield, but unspools like one anyway. The moment Mingyu spots you across the ballroom, every carefully rehearsed sponsor smile crash lands into nothingness. The chandelier above gleams, champagne flutes clink, and Mingyu’s standing there with a bow tie that suddenly feels three sizes too tight.
“Don’t look now,” Minghao murmurs, which is, of course, the universal sign to definitely look now. Seokmin cranes his neck shamelessly.
“Oh, she’s here,” hums Seokmin. “No wonder he looks like he just saw the light of God.”
“I do not look like that,” Mingyu mutters, but his ears betray him, turning a shade redder than the Ferrari livery he’s sworn to loathe.
Minghao raises his glass. “You’re short-circuiting.”
“Am not.”
Seokmin grins, cruel and delighted. “You’re buffering.”
Mingyu glares at both of them as if sheer willpower can keep his dignity from combusting. He risks one glance back, and there you are, catching his eye. For a beat, the whole room fades. The music, the chatter, the endless speeches. Just you, framed in soft golden light.
On instinct, Mingyu lifts a hand in a wave that feels ridiculously small for someone his size. It’s awkward, a little sheepish, but honest. When you acknowledge him with the faintest smile, a nod in return, it’s enough to reset his entire internal system. He’s still Mingyu—Williams’ exasperated problem child, PR’s recurring nightmare—but in that moment, he’s also just a boy shyly waving across the room.
For the rest of the night, Mingyu tells himself he’s not hovering. He’s not orbiting. He’s not casually re-aligning his path through the gala ballroom so that every champagne refill, every polite handshake, somehow puts him within fifteen meters of you.
No. He’s just… navigating. Strategically. Like he does on track. Except instead of overtaking Boo Seungkwan, he’s dodging billionaires in tuxedos and trying to stay within your view.
Minghao notices first. “You’re circling,” he muses. “Very predator-and-prey of you, Kim.”
Seokmin grins. “More like a golden retriever lost in a sea of penguins.”
Heat creeps up Mingyu’s neck. He ignores his friends, throwing a suppositious glance towards where you are, laughing at something someone’s just said, light catching the edge of your glass. He short circuits all over again.
By the time he finally intercepts your orbit, you beat him to the punch. “You know,” you say, eyebrow raised, “for someone the Internet keeps calling my boyfriend, you’re surprisingly bad at just coming over to talk.”
Mingyu groans, half-burying his face in his hand, but laughter spills through his fingers. “Unbelievable. Even you?”
“Even me,” you confirm, smile tilting into smirk territory.
“Great. Fantastic. Love that my fake relationship is just as good at roasting me as my real friends.”
“Maybe you should work on your approach,” you suggest, tilting your head.
“Oh, because sneaking up on you at a gala is already peak suave?” he shoots back, earning the smallest laugh from you—a sound he pockets instantly.
The two of you slip into small talk, the easy, low-stakes kind. Complaints about the too-fizzy champagne, mutual side-eyes at the overzealous photographers, gentle mockery of the violinist who’s going a little too hard on Vivaldi. Mingyu lets himself just stand there, conversation flowing between you, thinking maybe he doesn’t mind the world’s favorite rumor if it means he gets to hear you laugh again.
One of the photographers is relentless. Mingyu swears the guy has been circling like a shark all night, lens gleaming, waiting for the perfect strike. He and you have already dodged him twice. Once by pretending to be fascinated by the dessert table, another by Mingyu faking a very urgent bathroom trip. Now, cornered by the bar, there’s no escape route except straight through.
“Just one picture,” the man insists, camera half-raised. “For the fans. For the story.”
Mingyu shoots him a look that hopefully communicates: if you say ‘story’ one more time, I’ll actually combust. Out loud, he goes with: “We’re good, thanks.”
You’re already shaking your head, polite but firm. Still, the photographer doesn’t budge. He leans in, coaxing, pressing, eyes flicking between you and Mingyu as if you’re a headline just waiting to be printed. Mingyu sees it. That flicker of unease in your shoulders, the way your hand tightens around your clutch. You’re not pitying him, not annoyed—just uncomfortable. Which, for Mingyu, is more than enough incentive to do something.
He doesn’t think. He just acts. One hand lifts, finds the small of your back, rests there with enough certainty to draw a line in the sand. “We’re trying to stay lowkey tonight,” Mingyu says, tone calm but edged with finality. It’s the kind of voice that isn’t loud but leaves no room for argument.
The photographer hesitates, caught off-guard, before lowering his camera. Mingyu doesn’t wait for him to regroup. With a gentle but decisive pressure of his palm, he steers you away, guiding you back into the flow of the gala crowd.
Only once you’re safely out of range does Mingyu let out a breath and mutter, half-groan, half-laugh, “Can’t believe I’m saying this, but thank god for the world’s slowest string quartet.” He tilts his head toward the musicians in the corner, whose dirge-like tempo is the perfect cover for his quick exit.
You glance up at him, eyebrows raised, lips pursed into a thin line. He shrugs, hand hovering at your back for a beat longer before he reluctantly pulls it away, conspiratorial grin slipping in. “What?” Mingyu says. “Every fake boyfriend has to earn his keep somehow.”
You don’t even need to speak before he feels the lecture coming. “You know you basically poured gasoline on the rumor mill just now, right? You could’ve left it alone, but no. You had to…” You gesture vaguely toward the part of your back where his hand had been seconds earlier. “That.”
Mingyu runs a hand down his face like he can physically wipe away the accusation. “What was I supposed to do? Just stand there? Watch you squirm while some guy shoved a camera in your face?” His voice pitches, equal parts exasperation and self-defense. “Come on, you looked uncomfortable.”
“I would’ve managed,” you say, chin tilting stubbornly.
“Yeah, well, I didn’t want you to ‘manage’,” Mingyu shoots back, his words clumsy but earnest. “I wanted you out of it. So I got you out of it.”
The two of you stand there, simmering in a disagreement that’s half bickering, half something else. Mingyu crosses his arms, jaw tight, but his mind races—conspiratorial, frustrated, and maybe just a little guilty because you’re not entirely wrong. He did fuel the rumors, didn’t he?
You sigh, breaking the stalemate.
“Still.” Your voice softens, reluctant but sincere. “Thank you, I guess.”
That’s all it takes for Mingyu’s defenses to flicker. His shoulders drop a fraction. “You’re welcome,” he says, low. Then, because he can’t resist, he adds, “Next time, I’ll let the paparazzi have you. Just to balance the damn rumors.”
The Qatar desert sun leans heavy against the track, and Mingyu is sweating before he’s even in the car. The second-to-last race of the year, and he’s wound tight as suspension springs, desperate for a podium that keeps dangling out of. He doesn’t know why he feels this bone-deep need to prove himself—maybe to the team, maybe to the sport, maybe to himself. Maybe all three.
He tries to focus. He really does. Helmet on, mind narrowing to the thousand moving parts of a race. Brake points. Tire temps. Strategy calls. Don’t think. Don’t drift. Just lock in.
But there’s whispers in the garage, the kind of background chatter he’s learned to ignore. Except this one snags his ear like a hook. Something about you. About you being here. About Williams, of all teams, deciding they’d much rather have you floating in their hospitality suite than pretending they’ve still got control of their season. He’s not even sure it’s true, but the rumor curls through the air, and suddenly it’s in his bloodstream.
Mingyu pretends not to care.
He pretends really, really hard. The flutter in his chest betrays him, tapping against his ribs like it’s got its own engine. He clamps down on it, tells himself it doesn’t matter, tells himself he’s got work to do. He’s here for the car, the laps, the fight. Nothing else.
Except—if you are here, somewhere in the paddock, he can’t help but wonder.
Would you be watching him? Would you be laughing at Williams’ gallows humor, or would you be looking for him on track? He’s not sure which answer makes his heart race faster.
Helmet visor down, lights above flickering red. Mingyu tells himself he’s chasing a podium. Somewhere in the mess of adrenaline and nerves, he knows he’s chasing something else, too.
Mingyu qualifies P7, which is not bad considering the Williams spends half its time threatening to explode. He tells himself a podium is still in reach—if strategy plays nice, if the car behaves, if the gods of motorsport are in a generous mood. He’s clinging to optimism like it’s oxygen, and it almost feels convincing.
Joshua, later, is leaning against the pit wall with arms crossed. The two of them are trading notes on tire wear when Joshua tilts his chin toward the paddock and says, casual as ever, “Your girlfriend’s here.”
Mingyu blinks. “Excuse me?”
Joshua doesn’t even look up from the tablet. “Your girlfriend. Over there. By the garage.”
For a beat, Mingyu thinks it’s a joke, the usual ribbing. But then Joshua’s expression doesn’t change, doesn’t even twitch with irony. He’s dead serious. Which means Joshua doesn’t think he’s teasing. Joshua actually believes it.
Mingyu groans, head tilting back. “Oh my God. Not you too.”
“I—Joshua.” Mingyu levels him with the most exhausted look he can muster. “We’ve talked, like… three times.”
Joshua shrugs, unbothered. “Looks like more than that.”
Mingyu mutters something unprintable under his breath, already feeling the weight of inevitable defeat. If even his own teammate has crossed over into the conspiracy camp, then resistance is futile.
Sighing in the tone of a man trudging toward his own execution, Mingyu straightens his cap and makes his way toward the garage. He catches sight of you just where Joshua said, sunlight catching against your profile. Despite himself—despite the sheer ridiculousness of it all—he feels that stupid flutter in his chest again.
He clears his throat. “Hey.” Pause. “Apparently I’m obligated to greet my… uh, girlfriend.”
The word hangs there, dry as dust, but his goofy grin betrays him.
You’re leaning against the garage railing when he arrives, Williams blue catching the lights just right. It makes your skin look luminous, your eyes brighter, your whole presence impossible to ignore. Your shirt hangs loose but sharp, tucked just so, sleeves rolled like you know exactly what you’re doing. Hair pulled back neat, a few strands escaping like they’re in on some private joke. To Mingyu, you look like the team’s best-kept secret and a fashion campaign rolled into one.
“P7,” you say in greeting. “Impressive. I heard your radio, though—are you sure half of that wasn’t just dramatic improv?”
Mingyu puts a hand to his chest, scandalized. “That was high-quality communication. Shakespearean, almost. I was painting a picture of the car’s suffering.”
“Mm. Sounded like a soap opera,” you reply, amused. “Very moving, though.”
He narrows his eyes at you, but his grin gives him away. “You know what’s really moving? How much better you look in Williams blue. It’s offensive, actually. You’re making the rest of us look underdressed.”
You laugh, batting him away, but the flush in your cheeks is there. Mingyu, pleased with himself, settles beside you. You’re mid-sentence about the car’s performance when the joke in your tone suddenly sharpens into conviction.
“It’s not hopeless, you know,” you say, leaning forward a little, eyes alight. You’re not even looking at him; you’re eyeing the FW47 car. “Williams has the aero figured out in theory. They just need to optimize the mechanical grip and manage tire degradation better. If they get that balance right, you could be fighting solid midfield every weekend. Maybe higher.”
Mingyu stares.
You’re animated, passionate, talking with your hands like you’re sketching blueprints out of air. He catches the curve of your mouth, the fire in your words, the way your voice lingers on possibility. He’s so caught up in the sight that it takes you arching a brow for him to realize his mouth is hanging open.
“What?” you ask. “You’re gaping.”
“Uh—” Mingyu’s brain short-circuits, and before he can stop himself: “You’re hot.”
Silence. His eyes go wide. “Wait, no, I mean—you’re smart. And hot. But also smart. Like, terrifyingly smart—”
Your cheeks are crimson now, but you’re laughing through it, hiding your face in your hand. Mingyu groans into his palms, wanting to melt into the garage floor. Somehow, though, when he risks a glance, you’re still smiling at him.
That evening, his hotel room is blessedly quiet. No engineers running simulations, no PR managers breathing down his neck, no Joshua pestering him with unsolicited advice about hydration. Just him, the glow of his phone, and the exhaustion settling deep in his bones.
He’s halfway through convincing himself to sleep when his screen lights up with a message from Minghao. One link, no explanation. The cryptic efficiency of someone who knows exactly how to ruin his peace.
Mingyu taps it. Regrets it immediately.
A post from paddock photographer Kym Illman. A candid, crisp shot from the garage earlier: you in Williams blue, laughing so hard you’ve gone pink-cheeked. Mingyu is right beside you, caught mid-smile, teeth on full display. The picture is practically weaponized charm, the kind of thing PR dreams of and Mingyu personally dreads.
The caption reads, Mingyu and his partner sharing a light moment in the garage. Williams bringing more than just fresh energy this weekend.
Mingyu groans into his pillow. Partner. Partner! He’s losing the war, one pixel at a time. The entire Internet is now a scrapbook of moments he can’t explain, strung together into a narrative he never signed off on.
He should be annoyed. He should be typing some half-hearted denial to Minghao right now. Instead, his thumb hovers over the image, holding it just long enough for the save option to appear. Because the photo—well. It’s good. And he likes the way you look with laughter spilling out of you, the way he looks like someone worth laughing with.
A part of him hopes it’ll double as a good luck charm. Spoiler alert: Sundays care very little about luck.
Starting at P7 isn’t bad, Mingyu tells himself. In fact, P7 is great. P7 is ‘you can claw your way to the podium if you don’t blink’ territory. He repeats this as he straps in, as he flicks through his steering wheel settings, as he forces his breath steady. Williams isn’t exactly giving him Excalibur here, but he can still fight with a butter knife if he swings hard enough.
For a while, it even looks possible. He’s hanging on, toe-to-toe in the midfield, saving his tires like he’s babysitting toddlers hopped up on sugar. He’s patient, disciplined, calculating. The radio crackles with encouragement: “Nice work, Gyu. Keep this pace, we’ll have options.”
Mingyu believes him—until strategy decides to do the Macarena in traffic.
“Box, box, box,” comes the call, too late for an undercut, too early for an overcut. He emerges behind a train of cars that are slower than dial-up internet, and his entire plan unravels. “
Why did we pit there?” Mingyu demands. “Whose idea was this?! Are we trying to set a Guinness World Record for Most Time Wasted?”
The pit wall gives the vague, corporate answer. Mingyu groans. Fine. Reset. He can still recover.
And then it rains.
Not much, at first. A drizzle, the kind that makes you question your windshield wipers. But here, on slicks, it’s Russian roulette. “Rain on Sector 2,” his engineer says. “Copy?”
“Copy,” Mingyu mutters, then immediately fishtails. “Never mind, un-copy.”
His rear steps out in a slow, cinematic spin. Tokyo Drift but with zero style points. He pirouettes once, twice, kisses the runoff. Somehow, he avoids the wall. “Car’s fine, car’s fine,” he says quickly, like he can ward off damage with words alone.
The problem is, he’s lost chunks of time. The car won’t grip. He’s skidding through corners like a toddler on rollerblades. The radio comes in: “Box for inters?”
Mingyu sighs. “Sure,” he grits out. “Let’s just throw darts at a board at this point.”
The inters don’t save him. The track dries faster than his patience. He’s hemorrhaging positions. Every lap is another cut. “We’re losing pace,” his engineer says wryly.
“Thank you for the breaking news,” Mingyu shoots back. “Next you’ll tell me water is wet.”
The final straw comes when he spins again. This time, a lazy half-turn that stalls him dead. He tries to rejoin, but the gearbox protests, the engine coughs, and the car gives up. A stubborn mule in carbon fiber. Yellow flag. Out.
He rips off his wheel, slams it down. The radio captures the wreckage of his mood, the flare of his temper: “Unbelievable. I swear, this car fucking hates me. Every weekend, it’s like, ‘How do we ruin Mingyu’s life today?’ Well, congrats! You nailed it! Ten out of fucking ten!”
Silence on the other end. Even PR can’t spin this one.
When the marshals push his car away, Mingyu leans back in his seat, helmet hiding his expression. He should be furious. He is furious. But underneath it all, he’s just tired. Tired of chasing podiums that slip like soap through his fingers. Tired of trying to wrestle miracles out of machinery that won’t cooperate.
The post-race gauntlet is merciless. Mingyu peels himself out of the car like a man molting out of regret, and it only gets worse from there. Cameras swarm. Microphones appear. The interviewers all carry the same tone—pity dipped in professionalism—as they circle around the elephant in the paddock.
“Unfortunate race today, Mingyu. Talk us through the spin?”
Talk us through the spin. As if he doesn’t replay it on loop every time he blinks. He pastes on a smile that doesn’t reach anywhere near his eyes and offers up the same canned lines: “Yeah, tough one. Strategy didn’t play out, rain caught us off-guard, car was tricky to handle. Happens in racing.”
He knows he sounds like a Wikipedia page of excuses, but it’s either that or full meltdown live on Sky Sports.
By the time he’s herded into the Williams garage for the debrief, his nerves are frayed down to threads. The engineers argue over telemetry, strategists snipe over rain calls, and Mingyu sits there, nodding, calculating how many laps it would’ve taken to at least limp into points.
The salt in the wound? Minghao and Seokmin, beaming on the podium screens. Another champagne spray. Another trophy kiss. Mingyu tells himself he’s happy for them. He tells himself a lot of things. Deep down, jealousy coils tight, acidic, like he’s been made to clap for someone else’s birthday party when it was supposed to be his.
When the meeting finally dissolves, he slips out, jaw tight, trying not to make eye contact with anyone. That’s when someone steps in his path. He doesn’t even clock who it is before snapping, sharp and venomous: “What now?”
And then he sees.
It’s you.
You blink at him, startled but not retreating, your brows quirking. Mingyu’s stomach plummets. Fantastic. Just brilliant. He’s spent weeks trying to convince you he’s not a complete disaster of a human being, and here he is, barking at you like a cornered dog.
His voice comes out too fast, too eager to undo the damage: “Wait, sorry—God, I didn’t know it was you. I thought—you know what, doesn’t matter. I shouldn’t have snapped at all.”
You don’t make it easy for him. You don’t make it hard, either. You just… take a seat. Mingyu follows suit. Against the garage wall, it’s just you and him on two ancient, folding chairs. There’s no pity in your eyes, no lecture in your tone. He’s so grateful it nearly undoes him.
Silence stretches, the kind that crackles like static. He braces for something clinical—strategy notes, soft condolences. Instead, you tilt your head and ask, entirely out of nowhere: “What’s your favorite color?”
Mingyu blinks. Of all the questions—“My… favorite color?”
He sounds like you just asked for his PIN number. “Uh. Red. No—blue. No—wait, not like Williams blue, more like… the sky when it’s just about to storm. That kind of blue.” He hears himself ramble, and it horrifies him for a beat. You’ve gone and messed it up, boy.
You only hum, thoughtful. And then you don’t say anything else. The silence settles again, which is somehow worse. After about a full minute of silence, you smirk. “You know, customarily,” you say, “when someone asks you a question like that, you’re supposed to return the favor.”
He jolts, eyes widening. “Oh. Right. Yeah. Uh—what’s your favorite…” His brain does a lottery spin of topics—movie? food? pet names?—and somehow lands on, “Circuit. Yeah. What’s your favorite circuit?”
That gets you to light up, as if you’ve been waiting all day for someone to ask. You launch into a passionate spiel about technical corners and elevation changes, about how Suzuka is poetry in geometry. Mingyu listens, trying not to gape like a tourist at the Louvre, but he’s certain his mouth does fall open somewhere between ‘cornering’ and ‘apex.’
He stares at you for a second longer than he should, caught between admiration and amusement. Then he almost-smiles. “See, I was expecting like… Monaco. Because pretty. But no, you’re out here giving me a TED Talk.”
“Sorry for having taste,” you say, mock-prim. “Alright, your turn again. Favorite meal?”
“Easy. Ramen. Any kind. Preferably the kind I don’t cook myself.”
You laugh. “Convenient. Okay—favorite childhood cartoon?”
He groans like this is torture. “Do you realize this could define how you see me forever? Fine. Pokémon. Basic, I know, but Growlithe was my guy.”
“Predictable. I would’ve pegged you for a Dragon Ball kid.”
“Oh, I was,” he says, pointing at you. “But you only said one. See? I have integrity.”
The back-and-forth continues, questions traded like contraband in a classroom: least favorite subject in school, dream vacation spot, worst haircut. With each answer, the weight on Mingyu’s shoulders eases. Somewhere between your exaggerated gasp at his confession of once owning frosted tips and his genuine interest in your love of late-night beach walks, he realizes he’s smiling without forcing it.
For once, post-race, he isn’t counting what he’s lost. He’s cataloguing these tiny answers instead, tucking them away for when they might someday matter. If that day were to ever come at all.
Eventually, the night winds down, and reality starts tugging you back toward your own obligations. Mingyu catches the shift in your body language before you even say it. You stand, brushing invisible lint off your outfit, and tell him you should go.
“Already?” he asks, trying to sound casual, like this doesn’t gut him just a little. “No dramatic farewell speech?”
You laugh and lean down to give him a quick hug, perfunctory at best. It barely counts. It’s more like a polite tap of shoulders than anything else. Mingyu blinks. Stares. Then, with a blooming grin that’s both incredulous and shameless, he says, “You know, for someone who’s supposedly my girlfriend, you’re really underselling it.”
Your eyes sparkle, the corner of your mouth quirking upward. “Oh? You want a better one?”
Mingyu opens his mouth to reply, but it doesn’t matter. Suddenly, you’re wrapping your arms around him properly. Fully. No half-measures, no polite shoulder-tap. Warmth, pressed close enough to fry every neuron in his brain. He goes statue-still, breath caught somewhere between his lungs and his throat. For a terrifying second, he thinks he might actually forget how to function.
Instinct finally kicks in, and he hugs you back. Tentative at first, then firmer, anchoring himself like you’re the only stable point in a world that keeps tilting sideways. He could get used to this. Too easily.
You shift, about to pull away, but his voice escapes before he can stop it. Softer than he means to, vulnerable in a way he almost never allows himself: “Five more minutes.”
You freeze, then settle. He feels you smile against his shoulder.
“Five minutes,” you echo, teasing but warm, and Mingyu prays for time to go slower.
For once, everything actually goes Mingyu’s way.
It’s not perfect—he doesn’t leap onto the podium in a blaze of champagne glory—but it’s close. Close enough that he can taste it. Strategy is sharp. The car holds steady. He dices through midfield battles with a mix of sharp elbows and prayer, and when the checkered flag falls in Abu Dhabi, he’s crossing the line in P4. Four. Just shy of the podium. The kind of finish that makes your stomach twist with both pride and irritation, because how dare happiness arrive dressed as almost?
The radio crackles to life before he’s even cooled the car down. “P4, Mingyu! Amazing job. That’s points secured and top eight in the championship. What a season.” The voice from Williams is beaming, practically hugging him through the static.
He leans back in the cockpit, sweat stinging his eyes, and laughs. Half in disbelief, half in exhaustion. Top nine. He’s in the top ten of the driver standings. Something he wouldn’t have dared to scribble in the corner of his notebook a few years ago. Something that felt galaxies away when he first climbed into a car that could barely finish races without a prayer and duct tape.
“Thanks, guys,” he says into the mic, voice a little rough. “Really. Couldn’t have done it without you. Let’s keep building. I’ll be back next season stronger than ever.”
There’s a cheer on the other end of the radio. He closes his eyes for a second, the lights of Yas Marina still blazing around him, and lets himself feel it. Not a podium. Not yet. But damn close. Close enough to know he’s not dreaming anymore.
Mingyu is still humming with adrenaline, his race suit damp with sweat, when the microphones swarm again. Only this time, the air feels different—lighter, buoyed by the fact he’s just hauled a Williams across the line in P4.
The first interviewer grins. “Mingyu, incredible finish today. You must be thrilled.”
Thrilled doesn’t even cover it. He rattles off something about the car being strong, the team executing perfectly, about how every pit stop felt like choreography, and the words actually sound like him, not a hostage video. He can feel himself grinning in a way that won’t peel off his face for days.
Then, inevitably, the pivot: “And we have to ask… there’s been a lot of talk about the support you’ve had this season, especially from someone seen often by your side. Care to comment?”
The universe clearly has a sense of humor. Mingyu knows who they mean. Of course he knows. He’d be blind not to. When he scans the garage edge, you’re not there. No quick eye roll, no sly smile, no subtle cue to help him dodge or play along. Just an empty space where you should be, and suddenly his chest aches more than his arms did wrestling the car through Turn 9.
He could dodge, like always. Crack a joke, laugh it off, turn the question into smoke. That’s the script. But he’s loose with joy, too full of something he can’t swallow back down. So, instead, he leans into the mic and says, “Honestly? I couldn’t have done it without her support. Through the highs, the lows, the complete disasters—she’s been there. So… yeah. I’m grateful. More than I can say.”
The crowd of reporters buzzes, hungry for more, but Mingyu only smiles, sharp and secretive. It feels good to give a bit, to let the truth slip through the cracks. It feels good to say your name and have it be associated with his.
His PR team gives up for the season. After a week of frantic emails, ‘damage control’ meetings, and increasingly desperate drafts of public statements, they stop chasing him down hallways with their iPads. Mingyu stops pretending he’s going to answer them, too. At some point, it just isn’t worth the effort. The world seems to have decided what it wants to believe, and honestly? He’s too tired, too giddy from Abu Dhabi, to keep trying to redirect the narrative.
It’ll blow over, he tells himself. You’ll ignore it. Ghost the rumors into silence the way you do everything else you don’t want to dignify. He’s almost convinced himself when, the next day, he scrolls through Instagram and sees it.
Your story.
It’s grainy phone footage, taken by someone else in some sports bar miles and miles away from where he is. The audio is terrible, bass thumping, people yelling over each other. But there you are, unmistakably you, at the center of the chaos. Jumping up from your barstool when Mingyu’s Williams crosses the line P4, screaming like you’ve just witnessed a miracle. You clap your hands to your mouth, eyes bright, and laugh into your drink, glowing with secondhand victory.
Mingyu stares at his phone. Then he laughs. Loud, ridiculous, unguarded laughter that startles the poor Williams junior engineer walking past his hotel room door.
Without even thinking, he hits the reshare button. Adds a caption that’s half joke, half confession: Best cheerleader I could ask for. Even from across the world. 🩵
Two doors down, his PR person heaves out an exhausted sigh when she gets the Story notification.
The break kicks off the way all bad ideas start: with Minghao declaring, “What’s the point of being young, rich, and stupid if we don’t at least borrow Toto’s yacht?” and Seokmin immediately agreeing. Mingyu, who’s usually the voice of reason, somehow becomes the designated captain within the hour.
Now here they are, bobbing off the Sardinian coast like three very expensive criminals. The sun is ridiculous, the sea too blue to be taken seriously, and Mingyu is already rehearsing how he’ll explain this in court. (“Your honor, it was peer pressure. Also, Minghao had the keys.”)
They sprawl on deck chairs with sunglasses and cocktails that Minghao insists are ‘balanced,’ though Mingyu suspects they’re about 80% rum. Seokmin kicks his feet up and points his glass at Mingyu. “So. You and her.”
Mingyu groans. “No. Not this again.”
“Yes, this again,” Minghao says, far too pleased. “You’ve been dodging since Singapore. It’s getting embarrassing.”
“It’s not like that,” Mingyu insists, though even he doesn’t buy the dryness in his own tone. He sips his drink to hide it, though the concoction mostly just makes him cough.
Seokmin grins like a man who’s spotted blood in the water. “Bro, you reshared her Instagram story with a caption. A caption! That’s couple behavior.”
“Friends can write captions,” Mingyu says weakly.
“Not sweet ones,” Minghao counters, leaning back with all the serenity of a Bond villain on vacation. “You basically confessed.”
Mingyu tries to wave them off, to redirect, to point out the literal stolen yacht situation that seems way more pressing than his alleged love life. But they don’t budge. The teasing circles him like seagulls, relentless, pecking at every excuse.
Finally, he just throws his hands up. “Believe what you want. I’m not explaining myself anymore.”
Seokmin and Minghao exchange a look that says everything. The case is closed, the verdict unanimous. Mingyu is dating you. Mingyu does not get a say.
He stretches out on the deck, lets the sun burn his cheeks, and tells himself it’s easier this way. Besides, he thinks, half-smiling into his glass, there are worse people to be your alleged significant other.
The yacht feels different once Minghao and Seokmin’s girlfriends arrive. Before, it was three idiots pretending they knew how to work a boat. Now, it’s candlelit dinners, more bottles of wine, laughter that rings across the water. It’s picturesque. Romantic. A setting from a movie poster.
Which is fine, really. Good for them. Great, even. But somewhere between the second glass of wine and Seokmin serenading his girlfriend with a Bruno Mars impression, Mingyu realizes he has become… the fifth wheel. The extra chair at a table for four. The stray sock in a neatly folded pair.
He tries to roll with it. He raises toasts, he laughs too loudly at Minghao’s jokes, he even helps refill glasses with all the grace of a man auditioning for ‘world’s most eligible bachelor.’ The longer the night goes, the clearer it becomes—this is Couple Island, and he’s accidentally booked himself a ticket.
Sometime after midnight, drunk and fed up, he makes his escape. Slips away from the warm glow of fairy lights and clinking cutlery, out onto the quieter deck where the sea hushes against the hull. His phone feels heavy in his pocket, reckless and inevitable. He doesn’t think twice. He just hits call.
The screen lights up, and after a few rings, your face appears. Half lit, eyes squinting, hair mussed from sleep. “Mingyu?” you murmur, voice low and scratchy. “Do you know what time it is here?”
“It’s morning, right? Perfect timing,” Mingyu grins, though it’s crooked and hazy. “You’re my breakfast call.”
You blink at him, unimpressed but too tired to argue. “You drunk?”
“Drunk on friendship,” he says, then groans, flopping onto a deck chair. “Okay, maybe also wine. But mostly on friendship. Terrible, terrible friendship.”
Your brows lift. “What happened?”
Mingyu presses the heel of his hand to his forehead as if he’s the world’s most tragic hero. “They brought their girlfriends. Minghao and Seokmin. Both of them,” he whines. “I’m the fifth wheel. Do you know what that’s like? To be the odd one out on a yacht? It’s humiliating. I’m like a decorative throw pillow. Nobody needs me, but I’m here.”
You laugh softly, trying to smother it in your sleeve, but he catches it. He narrows his eyes at the screen. “You’re laughing at me.”
“I’m not,” you say, still smiling. “I’m sympathizing.”
“You’re doing it very poorly.”
“Go back inside, Gyu. You’ll forget all about this in the morning.”
He sighs, dramatic as ever, tipping his head back to look at the stars. “Maybe. But right now, it feels like the saddest movie in the world. Mingyu: The Fifth Wheel. Nobody would buy a ticket.”
“I’d buy a ticket,” you say quietly, already slipping back toward sleep.
Mingyu is three drinks past good judgment. Sardinia is wasted on him; the stars are blurred, the sea hums like a lullaby, and yet the only thing he cares about is the faint glow of his phone screen. Specifically, the sleepy face blinking back at him from thousands of miles away.
“Do you know,” he keeps on going, slurring through it, “future scholars are going to study this moment.”
You voice is muffled by your pillow. “Scholars?”
“Yeah. Exhibit A: Minghao and Seokmin being disgustingly in love. Exhibit B: me. Alone. Tragic. Very Greek mythology of me.”
You huff something like a laugh, eyes already drooping again. He should stop. He should absolutely stop. But Mingyu’s mouth keeps going like it has its own steering wheel. “Also,” he says suddenly, as if it’s just occurred to him, “you look so pretty right now.”
There’s a pause. A beat too long. Then you’re fully burying half your face into the pillow, muffling something incoherent. Mingyu’s heart is tap-dancing in his chest. Smooth, genius. Real smooth.
He panics forward, babbling, “No, I mean, not just now. Like—always. But right now too. Like, imagine—imagine waking up next to you. First thing in the morning. And you’d be all—” He waves a hand, searching for words, “—soft and annoyed because I’m talking too much, and I’d bring you coffee, but probably spill it, and you’d forgive me because I’d look very apologetic while shirtless—”
“Stoppp,” you groan, but your voice is soft, too soft. He can see the pink creeping over your cheeks even with your phone’s dim light.
Mingyu hides his own face in his elbow, groaning like he can rewind the last thirty seconds of existence. “Oh my God, kill me. Forget I said any of that. I’m—this is—illegal content.”
You don’t answer. You’ve gone quiet, your breathing evening out, the screen wobbling as you sink deeper into your pillow. A small smile tugs at his mouth. He wants to keep going, to ramble until the sun comes up, but the night air is cool, the deck is comfortable, and his words finally slow into nonsense.
At some point, the phone slips to his chest. His eyes close. On your end, you’re already gone, dreaming. Two time zones apart, you fall asleep on the same call, the line still open, the quiet static of connection buzzing like a heartbeat.
Like an actual couple.
The day after, Mingyu wakes to the kind of heat that makes him wonder if he accidentally slept in the mouth of a volcano. His face is tight, his arms stinging, and when he tries to move, every muscle protests. He sits up on the yacht’s deck with a groan, phone dead beside him like a corpse at the scene of his bad decisions.
It takes a few hours—painkillers, aloe, two bottles of water, and locating a charger that isn’t claimed by Seokmin’s girlfriend—before his phone finally buzzes back to life. Mingyu stares at the black screen reflecting his fried expression, trying to remember how many regrettable things he said last night. He’s about 70% sure he called you pretty. He’s 100% sure he meant it.
His thumbs hover over the keyboard. He starts and deletes three drafts before settling on cowardly honesty:
| min6yu_k: Hey
| min6yu_k: Sorry about last night. And this morning. Also sorry in advance for every other time I’ve ever been alive.
| min6yu_k: I know we’re not really friends. So I won’t bother you anymore
| min6yu_k: 🥺🥺🥺
It’s dramatic. It’s pitiful. It’s very him. He sighs, hits send, and tosses the phone aside, prepared to spend the rest of summer nursing his wounds, physical and otherwise.
Except three dots appear. Then a reply.
| yourusername: you can bother me whenever you want :)
Mingyu blinks. Reads it twice. Three times. He grins so wide his sunburn protests, but he doesn’t care. Maybe he lost a layer of skin to the Sardinian sun, but he’s gained something else. Something a little reckless, a little ridiculous, and very possibly the best part of his summer.
At first, Mingyu hovers over the message bar like it’s a detonator. He’s sober this time, which makes everything worse. No wine haze to blame, no excuses. Just him, his phone, and the awareness that if he presses send, there’s no rewinding.
When he finally does send a message, it’s a selfie of his sunburnt face. The caption:
| min6yu_k: Survived Sardinia. Barely. RIP skin.
You take three hours to reply—plenty of time for him to spiral, convince himself he’s made a career-ending mistake, and contemplate moving to the wilderness. Then your response lands: a blurry photo of your breakfast, and a jab at his own suffering.
| yourusername: sardinia? how original
| yourusername: fork found in kitchen 🍽️
He laughs—out loud, alone in his kitchen—and that’s all it takes. The door cracks open. From then on, the rhythm builds. At first, hesitation lingers. Messages sent with too much caution, replies delayed on purpose so he doesn’t look overeager.
Somewhere along the way, the choreography slips. He responds within minutes now, sometimes seconds, shamelessly glued to his phone like a teenager. He sends you photos: his ridiculous tan lines, the monstrosity of a protein shake he attempts, a cat he sees on the street that looks like it’s plotting global domination. You send back TikToks that make no sense at 3 a.m. but have him howling with laughter under his covers.
And then come the barbs, sharp but playful. You roast his selfies (“Your arm looks like it belongs to another species”), and he retaliates by mocking your taste in music. It should be embarrassing, how quickly it becomes a habit. This thread of chatter threading through his days, as constant as hydration reminders and training sessions.
But Mingyu’s not embarrassed. Not anymore. He just thinks, conspiratorially, that if this is what bothering each other looks like, he’s never been happier to be a nuisance.
This is where it gets him:
Mingyu has known many flavors of doom in his life. Punctured tires, last-lap lock-ups, missed braking points. All of them humbling in their own way. None compare to this: two photos flashing across his phone, your face out of view, your body framed in mirror selfies, each dress daring him to choose.
| yourusername: help me pick?
It’s harmless, obviously. Mingyu stares for so long he forgets how to blink. His brain stutters, sputters, tries to buffer like a bad WiFi signal. He considers tossing the phone into the sea. Monaco’s harbor is right there. It’d be so easy.
Instead, he does the next worst thing: he runs. Actually runs. Down the promenade, past tourists with gelato and locals pretending not to be tourists. He jogs the length of Monaco like cardiovascular exercise will sweat the problem out of him, like he can outpace the way his pulse goes haywire at the thought of choosing which dress you’ll wear.
By the time he circles back to his apartment, lungs on fire, shirt damp, he forces himself to type something vaguely neutral: Red. Classic. Can’t go wrong. He even throws in an emoji, something safe, a thumbs up. Detached. Cool. The digital equivalent of sunglasses indoors.
Your reply comes minutes later.
| yourusername: perfect
| yourusername: that’s what i was leaning towards. thanks, gyu ♥️
Casual. Effortless. Like you’ve just asked him for help carrying a grocery bag, not ripped open his ribcage and left his heart in the chat. And you’ve started calling him Gyu now, too?
That’s the moment. The horrifying, crystalline moment where Mingyu realizes with the clarity of a man struck by lightning that he wants you. Not in the abstract, not as a punchline to his friends’ teasing, but in the messy, all-consuming, terrifying way that has him jogging laps around Monaco to keep from combusting.
But how is Mingyu supposed to want somebody he already supposedly has?
He doesn’t even notice it happening at first—days swallowed by preseason meetings, simulator hours, sponsor shoots where he smiles so hard his cheeks twitch. He figures if he stays busy enough, the static in his chest will quiet down. If he puts a little space between himself and you, maybe the wanting will dull into something manageable. He tells himself it’s strategic distance.
Except it isn’t, and it doesn’t help. He finds himself unlocking his phone mid-briefing, half-expecting a message that isn’t there. He laughs too loudly at jokes that aren’t funny, just to prove to himself he’s fine. He convinces himself that this is what focus looks like.
Then one day, it happens. A ping. A message. You. Mingyu doesn’t brace himself, doesn’t think. He opens it on instinct and immediately gets sucker punched in the gut.
| yourusername: hi! you’re probably busy with training haha i hope u’re doing well
| yourusername: (kinda miss u tbh 😮💨 is that stupid?)
His brain bluescreens. Full system failure. He actually forgets how to breathe, like someone’s yanked the air out of the room. He’s not even sure what expression he’s making until he hears the sound of a door creak. Joshua, who had been mid-sentence about something sponsor-related, freezes in the doorway. His eyes widen, then narrow, then flick to the glowing phone in Mingyu’s hand.
“Uh-huh,” Joshua says slowly. Then—mercifully, wisely—he backs out of the room without another word.
Mingyu sinks into his chair, phone clutched to his chest. Strategic distance, he realizes, doesn’t stand a chance. He types out the fastest response he’s sent in days.
| min6yu_k: Hiii yes sorry training’s been a bitch but i’m doing ok how are you???????
| min6yu_k: We’d have to be stupid together then
| min6yu_k: Because I miss you too
The first race of the new season should not feel like this. Mingyu knows nerves—he’s lived on them since he was old enough to lace his own karting gloves—but this is different. This is not a pre-race tremor, not the usual itch of adrenaline waiting to be unspooled down a straight. This is worse. This is him, phone in hand, thumb hovering, debating whether calling you is the bravest or dumbest decision of his week.
He calls anyway.
The line rings once, twice, and then you pick up. “Hey, Gyu. What’s up?”
“Hey.” He clears his throat, already regretting everything. “So, uh… Albert Park.” Brilliant start. Shakespearean. “First race of the season.”
“Right,” you say slowly. “I’m aware. It’s in all the headlines.”
“Exactly.” He paces his hotel room, wearing a groove into the carpet. “And, um. I was thinking… maybe you could come. Not, like, as a Williams guest or whatever, because, y’know, branding and politics and boring stuff. I mean as my guest.” He emphasizes it in case you missed it. “Like—my guest. We could… go into the paddock together. Maybe grab a bite. Walk around.”
There’s a silence on your end, the kind that feels longer than it actually is. Mingyu stares at his reflection in the blackout window, mouthing the word idiot at himself just in case.
Finally, you say, skeptical, “You’re inviting me to the Australian Grand Prix as your date?”
He chokes. “Not—date! I mean—it could—if you—no. Just, y’know. Companionship. Human interaction. Totally platonic. Unless—” He squeezes his eyes shut. “You know what, I’ll stop talking now.”
You laugh softly, and he feels his chest loosen a fraction. “You’re ridiculous,” you say, letting the pause twist the knife for half a second before conceding, “I’ll come.”
Mingyu exhales so hard he nearly drops the phone. “Cool. Great. No pressure, obviously. Uhm, remember to wear sunscreen, okay? Albert Park sun is brutal. I’d know. I’m practically a walking cautionary tale.”
Another laugh. “I’ll keep that in mind, Gyu,” you say, almost shy, and Mingyu soundlessly fist pumps to himself.
The nerves don’t go away, but they shift. No longer sharp and skittish; instead electric, buzzing. The kind that says he’s about to race for something more than points.
Mingyu tries to tell himself it’s just another Saturday. Just another quali. Just another morning of stretching out his nerves and trying not to combust before getting into the car. Except this time, he’s driving a very different kind of car. A rented SUV with tinted windows and three passengers, one of whom happens to be you.
He picks you up from your hotel, the street still teeming with Grand Prix weekend energy. You slip into the backseat, wedging yourself between his trainer and manager without complaint, like being sandwiched between two six-foot blocks of professionalism is the most natural thing in the world. Mingyu swears the interior shrinks the second you get in.
Your outfit. God help him, your outfit. Casual but sharp, put-together in a way that makes the Melbourne sun look underdressed. He risks a glance in the mirror and nearly rear-ends a taxi. Smooth.
A pause. The kind of pause that echoes. His trainer coughs into his fist. His manager looks out the window a little too intently.
You blink, mercifully amused, lips quirking. “Event appropriate, huh?”
“Yeah,” Mingyu insists, doubling down like a fucking idiot. “Like, if there was a… podium for outfits, you’d be P1. Easily. Dominant performance.”
That earns a snort from the trainer, barely smothered, and a muffled laugh from his manager. Mingyu resists the urge to eject himself from the driver’s seat mid-traffic. He grips the wheel tighter, muttering, “Ignore them. They’re not funny.”
You, gracious as ever, lean back against the seat, still smiling. “Thanks, Gyu. That’s sweet.”
Sweet. He’ll take sweet. Sweet is a win. Sweet is a miracle. Sweet is better than event appropriate.
Albert Park looks different when you’re seeing it through tinted windows and the flash of camera lenses bouncing off the glass. Mingyu knows the drill—he’s been doing this for years—but today the sight of the waiting crowd makes his pulse spike harder than any formation lap. Fans, media, the blur of microphones and glossy posters, all of it pressing in like a tide.
He tries to give you a heads-up, fumbling for some kind of warning. “Hey, so, outside’s gonna be… intense. Cameras. People yelling. Think, like, a K-pop concert but everyone’s taller.”
You just slide your sunglasses on with an ease that makes him question who’s supposed to be protecting whom. “Relax, Gyu. I’m an influencer,” you remind him delicately. “I’ve had strangers yell my username at me across a mall. I’ll survive.”
The car doors open, and it’s go time. His trainer gets out first, then his manager, then him. The noise surges instantly, like someone unmuted the world. Phones thrust forward, lenses clicking, fans screaming his name. He pastes on the practiced smile, the one that says approachable but not available, and starts the slow walk forward.
He’s half-hoping, half-dreading that you’ll be swallowed by the chaos. But no—you emerge behind him, cool as anything, taking two polite steps of distance. Sunglasses hiding your eyes, shoulders relaxed, expression unbothered. To the outside world, you look like any other VIP guest tagging along, but Mingyu knows better. He knows you’re choosing to walk in the slipstream, close enough to follow, distant enough not to feed the wolves.
He can’t help himself. Every few strides, he glances back over his shoulder. Quick checks, like he’s making sure his phone hasn’t fallen out of his pocket. Just to confirm you’re there. That you haven’t peeled away, decided it’s too much, vanished back into the car.
He slows down just enough to let you catch up, then gestures vaguely at your sunglasses. “Good choice,” he says, just low enough so that no one else can overhear. “Sun’s brutal.”
“I figured.” You tilt your head toward the clear Australian sky, unimpressed. “It’s literally daylight. Revolutionary concept.”
“Yeah, but Melbourne daylight is different,” Mingyu insists, as if he’s the leading authority on weather patterns. “Sneaky UV levels. They don’t warn you about it in the travel brochures.”
You give him a look over your shades. “Are you actually worried about me getting sunburnt at a racetrack?”
“Someone has to be,” he mutters, tugging you a half-step closer to the shade of a Williams banner. “Trust me, the cameras will make a whole slideshow if you’re peeling tomorrow.”
You laugh under your breath, which he pretends not to notice. Instead, he points toward the accreditation zone. “Security will scan your pass. Don’t let go of it, or they’ll treat you like you’re trying to break into Fort Knox.”
“Gyu,” you say patiently, “I’ll be fine. Really.” You gesture to the phone already in your hand, camera app open. “Worst case, I film content and go viral for being denied entry. Great engagement.”
“Please don’t make my paddock debut about you getting tackled by security.”
“Relax,” you say again, softer this time. “I’ve survived worse than this. Go focus on your actual job.”
The reminder lands sharper than it should. His job. Right. Quali, telemetry, strategy. He’s supposed to be thinking about apexes and braking zones, not sunscreen and lanyards.
At the edge of the hospitality suite, he hesitates. You’ve already slipped into your influencer default. Phone angled, voice lilting into that effortless rhythm of someone who knows exactly how many seconds of banter an audience will tolerate. He should leave. He should. Instead, he hovers, trying to decide whether fussing one last time will make him look protective or pathetic.
You solve it for him by lowering your phone and arching a brow. “Don’t you have somewhere to be, superstar?”
Caught. He scratches the back of his neck, sheepish. “Yeah. I just… wanted to say, uh. I’ll see you later.”
And then he’s hugging you. Sort of. An awkward, halfway squeeze that’s more bump than embrace—one arm slung around you before he thinks better of it. It’s brief, barely long enough to register, but when he pulls back his ears are hot, and he hopes nobody got that on camera.
You don’t tease him for it. You smile like you’re in on the joke. “Good luck, Gyu,” you say.
He nods, turns, walks away before he can second-guess the whole thing. He qualifies P12, and rolls up on Sunday with a note to himself that you’re somewhere, out there, watching.
The thing about starting P12 is that expectations are mercifully low. You don’t need to be a miracle worker; you just need to keep the car in one piece, dodge midfield chaos, and maybe luck into a points finish if the racing gods are feeling charitable.
Mingyu knows this. He tells himself this as he rolls up to the grid, helmet heavy on his head, the whole world buzzing around him. P12. Respectable, manageable. Just stay out of trouble.
Naturally, trouble finds him by Turn 3.
There’s a tangle of cars ahead, two midfielders locking wheels like stubborn toddlers, and suddenly he’s threading through carbon fiber confetti, heart in his throat. One car spins, another skates across the runoff, and Mingyu darts left, then right, then somehow pops out the other side like a magician’s rabbit. P9.
“Nice job, Gyu,” his engineer crackles in his ear. “Keep it steady.”
Steady, sure. Except the field ahead is snarled in its own mess. Dirty air stacking cars like rush-hour traffic, everyone fighting over the same square foot of asphalt. Mingyu bides his time, lurking, waiting. He knows Williams didn’t give him a rocket ship, but it gave him something better today: clean air, if he can just grab it.
And then it happens. A bold dive here, a DRS overtake there, another spin he manages to skirt by a hair’s breadth. Suddenly, impossibly, he’s free.
No traffic. No turbulence. No rear wing to stare at.
Just open track.
Mingyu blinks at the empty stretch ahead like he’s hallucinating. “Uh,” he says into the radio, voice cracking in a way he prays the broadcast doesn’t catch, “is anyone gonna tell me why I’m… leading?”
“Confirmed,” his engineer replies, calm as if they haven’t just witnessed an exorcism of Williams’ last decade of pain. “You’re P1. Repeat, P1. Head down, focus.”
P1. He’s never heard those syllables in that order attached to his name. Not in Formula One. Not in a Williams. The last time this team led a lap, he was still in high school, scrolling highlights on a cracked phone screen. 2015.
Now it’s him. Now it’s real.
The crowd’s roar swells as he flies past a grandstand, a wall of sound rattling his chest even through layers of fireproof and carbon fiber. He doesn’t dare glance, doesn’t dare blink, but he feels it. The weight of history, the disbelief in the air, the cameras that will replay this moment a thousand times over. Kim Mingyu, leading a lap in a fucking Williams.
“P1, Gyu,” his engineer repeats, and this time it sounds a little less clinical, a little more awed. “You’re leading the race.”
Mingyu exhales through a laugh he can’t contain, giddy and sharp. “Yeah,” he says, conspiratorial even with the whole world listening, “no pressure or anything.”
He keeps driving.
For ten glorious laps, Mingyu lives in a universe where the Williams is the fastest thing on track. Ten laps of clean air, ten laps of watching the timing screens update with his number at the very top, ten laps of telling himself not to think about the fact that he’s leading a Formula One race.
Of course, reality has mirrors. And in those mirrors, Minghao and Seokmin are getting larger. Orange and silver machines, jaws open, hungry. Friends off track, rivals on it.
“Maintain pace, Gyu,” his engineer says evenly, which is code for: try not to get eaten alive.
“I’d love to,” Mingyu replies, voice dry, “but I think they skipped breakfast.”
Still, he holds them. A lap, then another, then another. He can practically feel the disbelief radiating through the paddock. Williams leading. Him leading. A miracle stretched into double digits.
But miracles are greedy with fuel and merciless with tires. On lap 11, the call comes. “Box, Gyu. Box this lap.”
He doesn’t argue. He peels into the pitlane, heart pounding, knowing exactly what it means. The stop is slick. Sub-three seconds, one of Williams’ best in years. For a heartbeat, hope flares. Maybe, just maybe.
And then he’s back out, slotted into traffic, mirrors full, lead gone.
The world resumes its natural order.
By the time the checkered flag waves, Mingyu’s in P6. Respectable. Points on the board. Nothing headline-shattering. It feels like champagne anyway.
He unclips his belts, chest still buzzing. P6, and he’s grinning inside his helmet like a maniac. He knows what just happened. He knows what it felt like, ten laps in the sun after a decade of drought.
When the radio crackles with the engineer’s closing words—“P6, Gyu. Great job out there.”—he answers without thinking, giddy and conspiratorial, “Yeah. But did you see those ten laps?”
Because he did. And he’s not forgetting them anytime soon.
Helmet off, sweat dripping, heart still sprinting laps long after the checkered flag, Mingyu climbs out of the car in a haze of adrenaline. He waves at the crew, at the fans, at the blur of Williams blue around him, but none of it sticks. His gaze finds you instantly, like his eyes have been preprogrammed for it.
And before he can think, before he can second-guess, he’s moving.
You barely have time to set your phone aside before he’s got you in his arms. An adrenaline-fueled, lift-you-clear-off-the-ground hug. The world tilts with it, the paddock noise muffling under the rush of his heartbeat in his ears. You laugh into his shoulder, muffled, protesting just enough to save face, “Gyu, people are watching—”
As if the snap of cameras doesn’t remind him. As if the universe doesn’t immediately hand him a reality check in the form of fifty lenses clicking at once.
Right. His place. His job. His image. He puts you back down quickly, ears burning hot, and attempts a recovery maneuver as subtle as a spin into gravel. He offers his hand, plastering on a grin. “High five?”
You just stare at him for a beat, long enough for him to realize how stupid it sounds. Then you roll your eyes, the fond kind of exasperation that says you know exactly what he’s doing. One hand comes up, cupping his cheek with a gentleness that cuts through all the noise. You lean in and press a kiss to his cheek, right there, in full view of the paddock, the cameras, the world.
“Congratulations, Gyu,” you say softly, like it’s just the two of you anyway. “That was incredible.”
Mingyu’s mouth opens, then shuts, then opens again, but nothing remotely human comes out. Just static. Just overload. He can drive 300 kilometers an hour, but this? This he has no defense for.
Somewhere in the back of his scrambled thoughts, he realizes the headlines are already writing themselves. But, for once, he can’t bring himself to care.
“You have to break up with her.”
That’s how his PR opens the meeting. No good morning, no coffee, no gentle preamble. Nothing but a straight shot to the chest.
Mingyu blinks across the glossy conference table, helmet hair still damp from simulator practice. “I’m sorry, what?”
“You and her.” His PR gestures vaguely, like waving at a rumor in the air. “The influencer. It’s time to end it.”
“End… what?” Mingyu asks, baffled. “We’re not even—” He cuts himself off, because he knows exactly how this sounds. “I’ve said a hundred times we’re not dating.”
“Exactly.” His PR leans forward, earnest in that professional, bloodless way only PR managers can be. “Which makes this easy. If you’re not really together, then breaking up shouldn’t be a problem.”
Mingyu stares, slack-jawed. “You’re asking me to fake break up with someone I’m not dating. Just so what—people stop shipping us?”
“Not just shipping. Headlines. Trends. The narrative has shifted too far. You leading laps, finishing P6—that should’ve been the story of Melbourne. Instead, every outlet ran photos of her kissing your cheek. Four races in, and people are still asking about your ‘girlfriend’ instead of your cornering speed. We need the spotlight back on Williams.”
He drags a hand down his face, muttering, “Unbelievable.”
“Triple-header is coming,” PR presses on, relentless. “Europe is brutal with media. If we don’t redirect focus now, you’ll spend half your pressers answering personal questions. So we end it. Clean break. A short statement, mutual respect, wishing her well, etcetera. It’ll die down in a week.”
Mingyu tries—really tries—to keep his expression neutral. But the twitch in his jaw, the way his knee won’t stop bouncing, betrays him. He’s frustrated. No, worse than frustrated. Cornered. Like they’ve told him to DNF a race he hasn’t even started.
Finally, he exhales, sharp and disbelieving. “You make it sound so simple. Just—press release, problem solved. But you ever consider maybe it’s not that simple for me?”
His PR fixes him with that calm, unblinking stare. “Mingyu. This is Formula One. Nothing is ever simple. That’s why we manage the story before it manages you.”
Mingyu doesn’t have a quick, witty comeback to that. All he has is a knot in his chest, tightening as the word breakup echoes in his head. Something he was never in, something he doesn’t want, and yet somehow, they’re asking him to make it real.
The race around the corner is Suzuka. It’s a world away from the neon chaos of Melbourne or the glamour circus of Monaco. Perfect, Mingyu had thought. Lowkey. Easy. So, of course, it feels anything but.
He spots you, weaving through a cluster of tables on the restaurant’s outdoor patio. Even in the soft light, you stand out, easy and composed, the kind of presence that makes him sit up straighter without realizing. He tells himself to be cool, casual—no overthinking.
“You look…” He pauses, searching for a word that doesn’t sound like it was fed to him by a PR intern. “… phenomenal.”
Your lips curve into a smile, faintly amused. “Phenomenal, huh? Big word for a race car driver.”
“Don’t get used to it,” Mingyu shoots back, grin in place. “I usually stick to things like ‘fast’ and ‘turn left here.’”
The banter lands, but there’s a hitch in his chest that doesn’t ease. He pulls out your chair like a gentleman, sits across from you, and tries to remind himself this is supposed to be simple. Two friends, two meals, no cameras, no press statements hovering like storm clouds. You were here to watch a different series, and he was a couple of days early to his own race weekend. A convenient meet up.
You glance at the menu, easy, unbothered, while Mingyu pretends not to study the way the lantern light catches in your hair. He wants to lean into it. The warmth, the normalcy, the way your presence steadies him more than any simulator lap ever could. But the conversation with his PR sits in the back of his mind like a weight he can’t shake.
He laughs at your joke about jet lag, compliments your choice of ramen, even teases you for documenting the steam curling off the bowls for your followers. Outwardly, he’s himself. Playful, a bit awkward, just enough charm to keep things light. Underneath, he’s split in two. Half of him is here, in this moment, soaking you in. The other half is already calculating headlines, imagining the fallout, wondering when the other shoe will drop.
You catch him zoning out once, chopsticks paused midair, and tilt your head. “What’s that look for?”
“Nothing,” he says too quickly, pasting on a grin. “Just… carbs. Love carbs.”
You laugh, though it’s edged with a bit of certainty. Mingyu laughs too, because that’s easier than saying the truth. He wants to be fully here, fully with you, but there’s a part of him that can’t stop holding back. And it kills him a little, because if any place should’ve been easy, it should’ve been Suzuka.
It turns out the city has a dessert shop tucked into every side street. Crêpe stands with paper cones, ice cream parlors with flavors no European circuit would dare attempt. Mingyu follows your lead, ducking into the more secluded ones, the two of you slipping past fans like conspirators avoiding capture. Sunglasses, hoodies, baseball caps—it’s practically a spy movie, if spies cared this much about mochi.
He ends up with matcha soft serve, you with strawberry. You both settle into a park bench that looks like it was made for dates, not debriefs. For once, the air feels still.
It’s you who brings up Qatar. “Remember that weekend?” you ask, twirling your spoon in the air. “When you DNF’d and looked like you were ready to quit motorsport entirely?”
“Vividly,” Mingyu deadpans, licking a drip of ice cream before it melts down his hand. “Truly one of my career highlights.”
“You were sulking,” you continue, grin tugging at your lips, “so I asked you all those ridiculous scrapbook questions. Favorite color, dream vacation, bucket list stuff. You looked at me like I’d lost my mind.”
“You had lost your mind,” Mingyu insists, playful. “I’d just cooked my tires in Q1 and you wanted to know my favorite animal.”
“Still worked though,” you say lightly, biting into your cone. “You smiled. And I told you all about how Suzuka is my favorite circuit.”
Mingyu pauses, spoon halfway to his mouth. “Why’d you do that, anyway?”
You glance at him, eyes reflecting the lantern glow. Your answer is simple, almost offhand, but it lands like a punch straight to his ribs. “Because I wanted you to just think of good things.”
He stares for a beat, throat suddenly tight. There’s a dozen clever replies he could make, a hundred quips to dodge the weight of it. None of them feel right. Not here, not now.
Instead, he does something braver. Wordlessly, he reaches out, fingers brushing against yours in the small space between. His pulse hammers as he waits, half-expecting you to pull away. You don’t. You blush, glance down, then shyly curl your hand into his. Soft, certain.
Neither of you says anything after that. You just sit there, eating ice cream in companionable silence, hands entwined under the lantern glow, letting Suzuka hold the words you’re not ready to say out loud.
The park is quiet, the lantern-lit street behind you fading into soft shadows. Mingyu leans back, still holding the ghost of your hand in his own, when it happens: the both of you speak at the same time. “I—” “We—”
“You first,” Mingyu says, quick, because he’s a gentleman—or because he’s stalling.
You hesitate. Then you take a breath and drop it like a guillotine. “We should… break up.”
For a second, Mingyu thinks he’s misheard. The cicadas are loud, the buzz in his ears louder. “Sorry,” he stutters, “what?”
“You know.” You look down at your lap, twisting the edge of your sleeve between your fingers. “Just… say we split. Make it official, so people stop talking about it.”
Mingyu heart skids. “Let me guess. My PR gremlins reached out to you.”
You shrug without meeting his eyes. “Something like that.”
That shrug shouldn’t hurt as much as it does, but it does. You look small when you say it, like the words don’t belong in your mouth. And Mingyu hates it. Hates that this thing, whatever it is between you two, makes you sad instead of light.
He sits there, silent for a beat, staring out at the faint glow of the vending machines across the park. There’s a hundred arguments to make, loopholes to wriggle through. But none of them are what he wants to say.
So he settles on the simplest answer, voice steady even though his chest feels anything but: “No.”
The word hangs between you, clean and sharp, like a flag he’s just planted. No disclaimers, no half measures. Just no.
Your brows knit. “No?”
Mingyu sits up straighter, realizes he’s just lobbed a single syllable grenade into your lap, and now you’re staring at him like he owes you the full manual. Which, unfortunately, he does.
“Right. No,” he repeats, nodding too much. “As in, no, I’m not doing that. The fake breakup thing. Because—because—” His voice trips over itself. He groans, face tilting skyward for a moment. “God, why is this so hard to say?”
You wait. Patient, kind, which only makes it worse.
“Look.” He exhales, and forces his eyes to meet yours. “I don’t want to lose you. Not like this. Not before I even get the chance to—” He falters. Then, softer: “—to have you properly.”
The last words tumble out in a rush, embarrassingly earnest. His ears burn, and he wants to bury himself under the park bench. Instead, he braces for impact. You’re staring at him, wide-eyed, caught somewhere between startled and touched. And then—unfairly, devastatingly—you blush. A soft pink spreading up your cheeks, visible even in the dismal park light.
Mingyu swallows, throat dry. “So, uh,” he adds, voice cracking around the edges, “your move.”
It feels a lot like waiting for a race to start, for that iconic lights out, and away we go to ring through the circuit. There’s a countdown in Mingyu’s head. Five, four, three, two—
“So…” you start, “how did your matcha ice cream taste?”
Mingyu balks. He’s halfway through processing the confession he just dumped on you, and now—ice cream reviews? “Uh. It was… cold? Sweet? A little bitter? Like, earthy?” He gestures vaguely, as if the right adjectives are hiding in the bushes behind you. “Honestly, it just tasted like… matcha.”
You press, lips twitching. “I mean, I want to try it for myself.”
He looks at the empty cup in his hand, then back at you, utterly lost. “But I, uh… finished it? Like… five minutes ago?” He lifts the cup to show it off, because clearly the evidence helps.
You laugh, the sound bubbling up like you can’t hold it in any longer. “Mingyu. I’m trying to ask if I can kiss you.”
Oh.
Oh.
His entire brain hits the emergency brakes. Eyes wide, ears hot, neurons firing off fireworks. And then he sputters, grinning so wide it almost hurts. “You should’ve just asked that in the first place!”
Before you can roll your eyes again, he’s already leaning in, all eagerness and barely-contained giddiness, heart hammering so loud he swears you can hear it as his lips find yours.
His hands find your face almost instinctively, palms cupping your cheeks. You, ever contrary, slip your hands up to wrap around his wrists instead, grounding him. The contact sends a jolt straight through him, but he doesn’t dare move away.
You’re both terrible at this. Smiling too much, giggling in the middle of it, teeth and noses bumping just enough to make it ridiculous. And yet, Mingyu thinks it’s the best kiss of his life. He tastes sugar and laughter and the kind of lightness that makes the world spin softer. Something sweet, faintly tart, clings to your lips. It ruins him all over again.
When you finally pull back for air, he immediately chases after you, lips brushing clumsily, desperate. You catch your breath and tease, “Still not enough matcha flavor?”
Mingyu, breathless and pink-eared, blurts, “I’ll get you all the ice cream in the world if you just—” and cuts himself off by pulling you right back in, kissing you like it’s the only thing on the calendar that matters.
Monza smells like gasoline, nostalgia, and the kind of pressure Mingyu pretends doesn’t get to him.
He tells the camera it’s just another race weekend, but in his head he knows Monza is still sacred. Straight lines, roaring history, the sort of track that makes or breaks legends. Which is why, naturally, he’s been paired for media duties with Minghao and Seokmin. Because fate likes to test him.
Minghao is being his usual infuriating self, answering a journalist’s question about tire management with a perfectly calm, perfectly vague “It depends,” while Seokmin leans into his mic and announces, “I plan on not crashing.”
The room laughs. Mingyu groans. This is his life: carrying the weight of Monza while babysitting two men who find chaos funny.
They bounce off each other like badly behaved electrons, the press delighted, and Mingyu, despite himself, plays the straight man. “I’m surrounded by clowns,” he says, and sure enough the clowns grin.
But then—then—he sees you.
You’re not supposed to be here yet, but there you are, slipping into the paddock. Mingyu goes still, mic halfway to his mouth. His brain is gone, his mouth is gone, and he’s halfway out of his chair before he realizes he’s moving.
“Where are you going?” Seokmin calls after him, eyes wide with mischief. “Hey, it’s just a media session, not a wedding march!”
Minghao, not even looking up from his phone, adds, “Don’t trip over your feelings, Mingyu.”
Mingyu ignores both of them. He’s already weaving through cables and crew, long legs making embarrassingly quick work of the distance. He tells himself he’s walking, but the truth is closer to a jog. Maybe even a run. He doesn’t care. He’s got Monza waiting, he’s got pressure pressing down on him, but right now, he’s got you, and that eclipses everything else.
He doesn’t even pretend to slow down. He barrels straight into you with the kind of single‑minded determination he usually saves for turn one, sweeping you into a hug so tight it makes your feet leave the ground. The cameras click like machine gun fire, but for once, he doesn’t care. It’s you. Everything else can queue up and wait.
You melt into him, laughter bubbling as he rocks you side to side. When he finally loosens his hold, his gaze snags on your outfit—and that’s it, Mingyu’s gone.
“Wait—hold on—” He leans back just far enough to take you in properly. “Is that… is that a custom jersey?” His voice pitches up like he’s seeing fireworks. “Oh my God, it’s my number. And Williams. And cropped? Do you want me to die?”
You grin, tilting your chin so the light hits the printed ‘06’ stitched across you. “Figured I should dress for the occasion.”
Mingyu is instantly generous with his compliments, layering them one after the other like he’s stacking pit stop tires: “You look insane. Gorgeous. Unfair. Like—do you know how much trouble you’re about to get me in? People are going to riot.”
Before you can roll your eyes, he’s already attacking with kisses. Forehead, cheeks, nose, chin, quick pecks everywhere like he’s determined to leave no part of your face unclaimed. You try to push him off, laughing protests muffled between smacks of affection.
“Mingyu—stop—people are staring—”
“Let them stare,” he breathes between kisses, words warm against your skin. “They should know I’ve already won today.”
Eventually, you surrender, slumping into his arms with a sigh that’s equal parts exasperation and fondness. Somewhere off screen, his PR person is already probably having a heart attack.
Mingyu has never been prouder of three hours spent sitting in a too-cold conference room surrounded by too many suits. Usually, PR meetings drag on with endless discussions about sponsor activations and social media angles, but that one? That one, he’ll happily put in his memoir someday.
For three hours, he sat tall in his chair, chin lifted, repeating the same thing until the walls practically echoed with it: he was not breaking up with you. Not in private, not in public, not in any alternate universe.
The team tried everything—statistics about audience focus, graphs showing the attention curve, polite suggestions that Williams deserved the spotlight. He listened, nodded, smiled even, then shrugged and repeated it again: “I’m not doing it.”
His PR lead had rubbed their temples. His manager threatened to ‘circle back.’ Mingyu just folded his arms and thought about Suzuka, about you laughing into his mouth with strawberry ice cream still sweet on your lips, and wondered how they ever thought he’d say yes.
He promised you he’d figure it out. That meeting was him fulfilling his promise.
The climax came when James walked in, coffee in hand, eyebrow already raised at the tension in the room. Mingyu didn’t even wait. “I’m not breaking up with her,” he said, like a kid daring his parent to say no.
James stared, sipped, then sighed like a man who has seen too much. “Fine,” James said, and just like that, the case was closed.
Victory, thy name is Kim Mingyu.
And now, here he is in Monza, with you in his arms, reveling in the world’s biggest plot twist. The cameras might think they’re witnessing a PR disaster. Mingyu knows better. He thinks it’s a love story. He squeezes you tighter, grins against your hair, and calls you the prettiest thing he’s ever seen.
Mingyu goes through his rituals. Left glove first, always. Then right. A tug on each strap to make sure they’re snug.
He taps his helmet twice against his knee before handing it to his mechanic. Sips water. The same old checklist, muscle memory dressed up as superstition. This time, there’s a new addition.
He glances down at his phone, the lockscreen glowing back at him. A screenshot from that very first broadcast. Your name, your tag, bold and impossible to ignore: Partner of Kim Mingyu. Wrong back then. Right now. Better than right—deserved. He grins like an idiot every time he sees it, and now is no exception. The sight of it steadies him better than any pep talk could.
Then comes the walk to the grid. Mingyu does the usual handshakes, the usual half-hearted smiles for the cameras. But his mind isn’t only running laps this time. It flickers back to you, standing somewhere in the paddock with that jersey on, cheering him with a grin that’ll outshine the entire weekend. His girl, his girl, his girl.
The moment his helmet clicks into place, the world changes. The crowd is still there, the cameras still there, Joshua still fiddling with his steering wheel two rows ahead. But to Mingyu, it’s silence. Pure, focused silence. You’ve already done your part, even if you’re not sitting in the cockpit beside him.
He slides into the car, straps pulled tight across his chest, the cockpit cocooning him. His visor lowers. His breath echoes back at him, steady, rhythmic. The grid fades to shapes, colors, blurred edges at the periphery of vision. All that’s left is the straight ahead—the red lights waiting to tell him when to leap.
Formation lap. Heat in the tires, brakes biting, the car alive under him. He lines up in P10. The lights blink on, one by one.
Five.
Four.
Three.
Two.
One.
For a second, nothing exists but his heartbeat—and a faint image of his lockscreen still burned into his vision.
And then the lights vanish, the world snaps back to deafening, and Mingyu launches. The car surges forward, and Monza welcomes him home.
Mingyu drives like he’s been waiting his whole life for this. In a way, he has. Not just for Monza. For you, too. For love and speed and calling wins as they come.
He’s precise. Every turn-in is sharp, every exit clean, every lap a mirror of the last. The car finally behaves, the balance perfect, as if it’s decided, for once, to stop fighting him and join in on the dream. The pit stops click like choreography, mechanics flawless, seconds shaved so cleanly it’s synonymous to fate. He glides back out without losing rhythm, and somewhere in the corner of his mind, he’s grinning at the absurdity: Williams, of all teams, putting on a masterclass.
He tells himself not to get ahead. Don’t count the laps, don’t think about the what-ifs. Except it’s impossible. Ten to go and he’s still there, clinging to the back of the train. Minghao up front, Seokmin directly in front of him, and then him—Williams blue streaking against the sea of silver and papaya.
Eight laps.
Six.
His engineer’s voice is smooth, coaxing, but Mingyu can hear the edge in it, the tremor beneath the calm. “Keep it steady, Gyu. You’re right there. Bring it home.”
Bring it home. As if it’s that easy. As if he hasn’t been haunted by years of DNFs, slow cars, pit wall gambles that never paid off. As if this isn’t Monza, cathedral of speed, the place he’d sworn as a rookie he’d give anything just to finish well in.
The tifosi are a blur of scarlet in the grandstands, flags whipping like fire, but somewhere among them, he imagines you. Hands clasped tight, heart pounding as hard as his.
Four laps.
He can’t tell if it’s sweat or tears fogging up his visor, but the corners blur for a second, heart jackhammering against his ribs. He laughs breathlessly, half a sob, as if the sound will keep him steady.
Three laps. Two.
Every instinct in his body screams to push harder, to gamble everything on one reckless dive. He could try and snap past Minghao, could maybe overtake Seokmin. For once, Mingyu doesn’t chase. He holds. He trusts. He feels the car answer him in kind, as though it knows, finally, what’s at stake.
Final lap.
The world condenses into white lines and asphalt. Every braking point feels sacred, every throttle press an oath. Ascari rushes by like a memory he’ll never lose. Then Parabolica. Endless, swallowing him whole and spitting him back onto the straight.
The checkered flag waves.
Kim Mingyu, Williams’ pride and joy, roars across the line in P3.
The radio explodes. Crying, shouting, voices tripping over each other in disbelief. Five years without a podium, and Williams finally has one. Mingyu finally has one. His engineer is yelling his name. Someone else is screaming numbers, lap times, statistics. He can’t speak, throat too tight, helmet pressing against his tears. The noise is unbearable, overwhelming, until something cuts through all of it.
Your voice. Trembling, wrecked, crying and laughing all at once: “Mingyu—”
Just his name, but it knocks the breath out of him harder than Eau Rouge ever did.
That’s it. That’s when the dam breaks. He’s laughing and crying at the same time, shoulders shaking in the cockpit, breath fogging his visor. He squeezes the wheel, Monza unfolding around him like a film reel he never thought he’d get to star in. The podium ceremony, the champagne, the photos—he’ll get to them eventually. But right now, all he can think about is you, you, you.
“Did you see, baby?” Mingyu chokes, voice cracked and breaking. “Are you proud of me?”
🏎️💨 Brought to you by @camandemstudios' Lights Out Collab
F1 GLOSSARY FOR THIS FIC
pairing: f1 driver!joshua x race engineer!reader
status: updates in progress
word count: 47.8k words / ???
genre: strangers to coworkers to lovers, romcom
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.
content warnings: 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)
chapters
✦ teaser
✦ part one - 31.5k words
✦ part two - 16.3k words
✦ part three
✦ part four/epilogue
♫ nothing's gonna stop us now starship ⟡ hope ur ok olivia rodrigo ⟡ don't dream it's over crowded house ⟡ shoong! taeyang feat. lisa ⟡ run BTS BTS ⟡ airplane pt. 2 BTS ⟡ you are in love taylor swift ⟡ we can't be friends ariana grande ⟡ still into you paramore ⟡ team lorde ⟡ mantra jennie ⟡ shut up and drive rihanna ⟡ strategy twice feat. megan thee stallion
credits: photos from pinterest (ctto); banner, dividers, edits by me
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 / ??? an obscene number i don't wanna share rn
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 finished 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 :)
13 reasons why | reason no.5: the free wifi is super fast
☆ characters: barista!seungkwan & binge-watcher!you (Miri - ‘99 liner)
☆ genre: coffee shop au, humour
☆ summary: your love story with Seungkwan is so playful, he almost doesn’t realise you want to be more than friends
☆ words: 8,3k
☆ massive thank you: to @dat-town ♥ because this chapter needed some more serious editing and it’s her who pointed out the errors
☆ a/n: 습관 (seubkwan) means habit in Korean
☆ taglist: @soobin-chois
➼ chapter index
You liked to think that you could adjust to any kind of situation rather quickly and turn even the most unfortunate ones into something fun to remember. Like when you and your best friend had visited that new coffee shop on campus and the baristas had managed to mess up almost your entire order. They had prepared hot choco for Miyeon instead of her iced one, served the wrong slice of cake for you (though, that at least had tasted just fine) and called something suspicious, that had tasted like strawberry juice mixed with yoghurt, a shake. Or when you had forgotten to get off the train on your way to your father and ended up on a station in the middle of nowhere where you had been able to try the most delicious shrimp sandwich ever. Or when you had forgotten your keys on the bus, but had managed to get them back along with a nice dude’s number.
Seventeen's Reaction—How they would actually be in a relationship
Note from author: Before YOU throw stones at me, I am still working on the "Confessions" series, but we all need a palate cleanser from time to time.😏👀
Summary: ot13, how they would be as actual boyfriends.
Warnings: THIS IS MY PERSPECTIVE ON MY PERSONAL ANALYSIS OF THEM. PLEASE TAKE IT WITH A GRAIN OF SALT, AND ENJOY.
He’s the type to walk around like he owns the world, broad shoulders, steady eyes, cool voice, but the moment that front door shuts behind him, all of that melts away. With you, he lets himself fall apart a little. He lets himself need. That tough cookie exterior? It’s all part of the package. But you're the only one who gets the version of him that clings to you at 1 AM asking, “Can we just stay like this for a while?”
He’s incredibly protective, sometimes to a fault. Whether the two of you decide to go public or keep things private, that doesn’t change how intensely he loves. He has a deep need to make sure you feel safe, wanted, and cared for. He’s the type to remind you to eat, to check your location if you're out late, to text “Let me know when you get there.”
And it’s not performative, he genuinely worries, “What if something happens and I’m not there to help?”
But here's where it gets complicated. Because he’s also a man, his kind of man. The kind that was taught to lead, protect, provide. The kind that thinks strength means being in control, but slowly, through you, he learns that there’s strength in softness too. That being vulnerable doesn’t make him weak. Still, there are habits that run deep.
He won’t like it when you’re being too friendly with someone he doesn’t know. That smile you give to strangers? It’ll put him on edge.
“Who was that guy?” he’ll ask, not because he doesn’t trust you, but because the thought of someone else being close to you gnaws at him. It is the possessiveness speaking.
He needs to feel like he knows what’s going on in your world. In a controlling way, because in his eyes, you are his, you are an extension of who he is, and he needs to be in control of that.
“What did you do today?”
“Who’d you hang out with?”
“Did you miss me?”, he needs to hear it, more than he lets on.
He wants you to depend on him. Not because he thinks you can’t handle things on your own, but because it makes him feel needed.
When you lean into his chest after a long day, when you let him handle things for you, when you reach for his hand without thinking, those are the moments he treasures. But he also admires your strength, your independence, the way you handle your own.
It’s this quiet balance he craves. “Be my safe place,” he says without saying it, “and I’ll be yours.”
He’s emotionally complex, intense, and at times, frustrating. But love with him feels real. Tangled in contradiction, yes, but solid, raw, and deeply loyal.
He’s not easy to love, but once he loves you, he’s all in.
And behind that occasional jealousy, that need to protect, and that stubborn pride, there’s just a man who wants to be yours, in every version of himself.
2️⃣ Jeonghan:
A softie, that’s the truth, no matter how well he hides it. Anyone who assumes he’s just a walking menace needs to reevaluate their entire perception of him. Sure, he’ll throw sarcasm like daggers, roll his eyes mid-conversation, and drop comments that sound a little too honest. But don’t be fooled, that’s how it starts. That’s how he shows interest. That’s how he falls in love.
And you’ll realize it’s not just an act. Beneath all that dry humor and sharp wit, he’s quietly one of the most loving people you’ll ever meet. Protective in that subtle, silent way. Supportive without needing recognition. Attentive in ways that matter.
“You started that new painting, right?”
You blink. “Yeah... how’d you know?”
He shrugs, not meeting your eyes. “You mentioned the idea once. I remember stuff like that.”
He’s the type to act like he’s not listening, then buy you the exact brush set you said you needed in passing. He’ll never say the words directly, not at first, but he shows up. That’s his love language. He notices when you’re tired before you do. He brings you snacks during your hyper-focused phases. He doesn’t interrupt your rambles about random topics, in fact, he asks.
“Wait, you never told me how that book ended. The one with the time loop thing?”
You pause, surprised. “You really wanna hear about it?”
“Obviously,” he mutters, already scrolling through his phone. “Not like I just sit here for the vibe.” (But he does. He really does.)
His life? Chaotic. A mess of schedules, commitments, noise. But in you, he looks for calm. Stability. He won’t say he’s looking for peace, because that would make him feel exposed, but that’s exactly what he needs. The quiet kind of understanding. The kind where he doesn’t need to explain his silences, or justify his exhaustion. Where he can just be, and you still get him.
And he’ll do the same for you. He listens when no one else does. He remembers the small things. He checks in, not constantly, but when it counts.
“I know I can be... a lot,” he says one evening, voice low. “But I don’t wanna be too much for you.”
You glance at him, seeing that tiny crack in his usual confidence. “You’re not. You’re just... you. And I like you like that.”
His expression softens, and for once, he has no sarcastic comeback.
Probably one of the most emotionally mature ones when it comes to relationships, not in the way people expect, but in the way that matters. He won’t play games. Once he’s in, he’s in. He doesn’t love lightly, and he definitely doesn’t unlove easily.
So yeah, he might look like trouble from the outside. But if you’re the right kind of person, patient, understanding, someone who doesn’t flinch when he pulls away or hides behind his humor, you’ll uncover the truth.
3️⃣ Joshua:
Joshua was never the kind of man you stumbled into by accident, he was the kind you had to grow into. A man with depth, purpose, and patience. A man with a plan, yes, but more than that, a man with principles. The kind of man you didn’t just get, you had to earn.
He wasn’t flashy or trying to impress anyone. Joshua had nothing to prove. He knew who he was and what he brought to the table, and he brought everything. Stability, ambition, kindness, and clarity. The full package, respectfully and quietly confident. He never chased validation. He was fulfilled on his own. He had goals, he had his family, he had peace.
So when he chose you, it wasn't out of need. It was out of want. And he made damn sure you understood the difference.
"I was fine before I met you," he once told you on a quiet night, brushing his thumb over your hand. "But with you… life just feels fuller. Richer. Like everything means more."
From the beginning, he was intentional. There were no games. No guessing. On your first date, he made it clear that he was looking for something real, something lasting.
“I don’t date just to pass the time,” he said, looking you straight in the eyes. “I’m not in a rush to settle, but I know what I want. If I’m choosing you, I’m choosing with purpose.”
By the second date, you already knew how deeply he valued family. The way he talked about his mom, the respect in his voice, the sense of duty, it told you everything.
By the third, you learned something else, clear, honest communication was the foundation of how he loved. And you learned to meet him there.
He never made you question how he felt. When he loved you, he said it. When he missed you, he told you. When something was wrong, he sat down and talked to you, not around you.
You were always a priority. But Joshua was also a realist.
“There’s going to be times when I’m busy,” he said once, exhausted but still present as you shared a late meal after a long workday. “But I need you to know, it’s not just my future I’m working for. It’s ours. This grind, this hustle… it’s for something bigger. It’s for us.”
Your relationship wasn’t the whirlwind fantasy you imagined dating an idol might be, it was better. It was grounded. Peaceful. Mature. It felt like home. He didn’t just make space for you, he built a life where you naturally fit.
You never had to nag or guess. Plans were already handled.
“Don’t worry about it,” he’d say with that calm smile, sliding over your passport. “Flights are booked. I already reserved the hotel, and yes, it has a spa.”
You didn’t have to ask twice. He anticipated. That was just Joshua, organized, present, thoughtful. You always felt safe with him. He gave you room to grow but never let go of your hand.
He was your calm in the chaos, your compass when life got loud. A man who loved you with both intention and action. And though he never needed anyone to complete him… he chose you. Every single day.
And somehow, that made it mean even more.
4️⃣ Jun:
It’ll feel like one of those high school romances you thought only happened in indie films. The kind with shy smiles exchanged across crowded rooms, giggles tucked behind closed doors, and the soft thrill of finding a handwritten note in your mailbox, inside jokes scrawled in his messy handwriting like little love poems only the two of you understand.
He sends you flowers sometimes. Not for anniversaries or birthdays, but on random Tuesdays, just because you once said tulips remind you of your childhood. The card? Probably says something ridiculous like “Your laugh is brighter than these.” And you’d roll your eyes, but your cheeks would hurt from smiling.
There’s something beautifully unscripted about the whole relationship. Midnight walks where the air is cold, but his hoodie’s warm. Coffee dates that never go according to plan because you spend more time laughing at the barista's playlist or trying to guess what kind of dog just walked past. It’s awkward in the best way, unfiltered and unforced.
It’s easy. No pressure, no constant checklists. He’s a "go with the flow" kind of boyfriend. He talks about the future with you, of course, about cities you might live in, the dog you’d get, how your kids would definitely inherit your sass, but there’s never tension in it. He knows life isn’t linear. People grow. Plans shift. So instead of obsessing over timelines, he chooses to show up for you, now. Fully, completely, right here.
And when you win? When you reach a goal you’ve been quietly working on? It feels like his victory too. He’d probably scream louder than you, drag you out for late-night dumplings just to toast with cola bottles, grinning like “I told you you’d crush it.” Because he’s your biggest fan, like, full stadium lights, poster-waving, front-row type of fan. He thinks everything you touch is gold.
Sometimes you’ll joke that he must be new to Earth, because he gets amazed by the smallest things, like how your nose scrunches when you’re focused, or how you talk to stray cats like they’re old friends. And he loves experiencing everything with you, whether it’s your favourite song or a new park or the smell of your shampoo on his hoodie.
He’ll probably be the last one in the friend group to move in with their partner, not because he’s hesitant, but because he treasures the tiny thrill of coming over. Of texting “you home?” and showing up with snacks. Of sleeping on your couch half the time and never actually minding it. He’d want to stretch the honeymoon phase as far as it’ll go, and maybe even longer.
Because to him, love isn’t a series of milestones. It’s the little stuff, the giggles, the mess, the comfort. And with you, he’s in no rush to “arrive.” He just wants to enjoy every step of getting there.
5️⃣ Hoshi:
Games, games, games.
That’s what it felt like in the beginning. Not on purpose, but because he was figuring it out as he went. One day, you’d be laughing into your pillow at 3 a.m, phone resting on your chest, your thumb hovering over the “send” button as he texted something vulnerable or oddly poetic.
“Sometimes I think I dream better when you’re the last thing I talk to,” he once said.
The next day? Nothing. No reply for 12 hours. No “good morning,” no “sorry I got busy,” just… silence. You'd stare at your screen, refreshing the chat, wondering if you imagined the intimacy.
Then, suddenly, he’d ask you to grab a coffee. You’d meet his dog. You’d see the way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention, like you were a puzzle he didn’t want to solve too fast.
But then again, poof.
“Sorry, I’ll be MIA. I’ve got this event out of town. Talk when I’m back?”
A message sent at 1:11 a.m, hours after you had already fallen asleep overthinking. Two days of silence would follow.
He was all over the place at first. Not because he didn’t like you, God, no. If anything, that was the problem.
He liked you too much, too early.
He took his time putting a title on it. Not to keep his options open. But because once he made it official, it was real. He wasn’t just a performer then. He was responsible, for your heart, not just his own. And that scared him in ways he wouldn’t admit out loud.
When he finally said it, “You’re mine now, right?”, everything shifted.
That’s when Soonyoung stopped being Hoshi.
The idol turned into the boyfriend.
And the boyfriend? Oh, he was possessive. Not in a toxic way, but in a “you’re my favorite person in the whole damn world and I don’t want to share you” kind of way.
He hated it when he couldn’t read you. If you got quiet during a call, he’d instantly ask,
“What’s wrong? Did I say something?”
Even if it was nothing.
Even if you were just tired.
He needed to know you like the back of his hand, and not just know you, but understand you. The way you liked your tea. The kind of music you listened to when you couldn’t sleep. What it meant when you texted “ok.”
His jealousy showed up quietly. Not with fights, but in the way he stood a little closer when another guy made you laugh. Or how his hand found yours under the table, his thumb brushing your knuckles just once before lacing your fingers together like it was second nature.
But even in all that, he was still Soonyoung.
Still a little goofy. Still sweet in the most unsuspecting ways. Still the guy who’d get pouty if you didn’t answer fast enough, even though he used to disappear for hours at a time.
Still the boy who would whisper, “Don’t go falling out of love with me, okay?” as if he didn’t realize you already had, completely.
Because once he chose you, he really chose you.
And from then on, it wasn’t a game anymore. It was real. Messy. Honest. A little dramatic.
But real.
6️⃣ Wonwoo:
At first, he's frustratingly casual about you. Like… too casual. So much so that you catch yourself wondering late at night ‘Does he even like me? Or am I just convenient company?’. He never says much, never gets too deep, just keeps things light, safe. You’d be lying if you said it didn’t make you overthink.
But then comes that night. The one where nothing seems to go his way. Plans fall through, people disappoint him, and his usually even tone carries a sharp edge. You're there, just like usual, sitting across from him on the floor with two mugs of tea going cold between you. You don’t push, but you stay. And that’s when he says it, soft, quiet, eyes not even meeting yours.
“I really don’t want to lose you.”
You blink. “What?”
“I mean it,” he says, still looking away. “I’ve lost people before. Friends. Opportunities. Pieces of myself I can’t get back. And I just… I don’t want to do that again. Not with you.”
That’s when it clicks. He’s not casual because he doesn’t care. He’s casual because he does. Because getting too close too fast feels dangerous when you’ve already tasted loss.
From that moment on, it’s different. He doesn’t say it all the time, but he shows it. In the tiny, intentional ways he builds a world just for the two of you. Matching keychains he buys without asking, your initials carved on the back. Sneakers in the same style but with just enough of a colour difference to make them feel like a pair. His game username suddenly ending in your birth year. Little things. Meaningful things.
You spend countless nights curled up on the couch, a blanket tossed lazily over both your legs. Your fingers absentmindedly tracing his as his other hand gently scratches your scalp. Some dumb movie plays in the background, something you’re not even watching, but the warmth? The weight of his arm across your shoulder? That’s the real feature film.
You rarely go out, but when you do, it’s slow walks down quiet streets at night, hoodies up, fingers laced, city lights reflecting in puddles. You tease him into filming silly TikToks. He groans but does it anyway, lips twitching like he’s pretending not to enjoy it. You never post them, but he saves them all.
He becomes your safe space without even trying. Every rant, every vent, every chaotic outburst, you throw it all at him. He never interrupts, never rolls his eyes. He just listens, nodding slowly like he’s soaking it in, like it matters.
One evening, after a particularly long monologue about a coworker who crossed the line again, you finally fall quiet. His thumb is rubbing small circles into your back, and when you glance up, he’s already watching you with that signature soft smile of his.
You exhale. “What?”
“Come here,” he murmurs, tugging you into his chest like you’re something fragile. And maybe you are, but not with him. With him, you're safe. Always.
7️⃣ Woozi:
My favourite misunderstood man trope.
Yes, he's busy. Yes, he works long hours, sometimes gets lost in his own world, and no, he’s not the most emotionally expressive person to the outside world. But that doesn’t mean he feels less. In fact, it means he feels more, just quieter, deeper, and more deliberately.
Once you’re his, it’s game over. It’s you. Every single time, it’s you.
You’ll wake up to his good morning texts before his day even starts.
"Did you sleep well? Don’t skip breakfast."
He’ll check in around lunch, even if he’s swamped.
"How’s your day going? Did you eat? Send me a picture of your outfit."
Because sometimes, that’s his way of saying I miss you, without actually saying it.
And when he can, he'll move meetings, reschedule, cut things short, just to make it to dinner with you. Not because he's whipped or soft, but because he wants to show up for you. He knows love isn't built on grand gestures but on consistency, presence, and being there in the quiet moments.
He won’t love loudly. But he will love deeply.
He remembers the small things: your favorite scent, the snack you always grab when you're stressed, the way you hate being talked to in the morning before coffee. You'll find little surprises on your desk, or tucked in your bag:
"Saw this and thought of you. No reason. Just… yeah."
And one day, without fanfare, he'll take you home, to his home.
Introduce you to the people who raised him, the people he protects most.
Because to him, you’re no longer just someone he loves. You’re someone he wants to keep.
He won’t wait to talk about the future.
"Do you want kids?"
"Where would you want to live?"
"Would you ever take my last name?"
Not out of pressure, but because he’s not here to play. His love is intentional. If he’s with you, it’s because he sees the endgame with you. And he’s not afraid to say it, even if his voice shakes.
But here’s the thing about him, he won’t coddle you.
He’ll be your rock, but he’ll also hold up a mirror when you start doubting yourself.
"Why are you talking like that? You’re better than this. Don’t shrink."
He won’t let you spiral. He’ll pull you back when you drift, ground you when you forget who you are. Not because he wants to control you, but because he believes in you, even when you don’t.
So yes, he’s misunderstood. He’s quiet. He works too much.
But if you’re patient enough to stay, you’ll find that behind the walls is a man who will love you with a loyalty that doesn’t waver.
Not just when it’s easy.
Especially when it’s not.
And in a world that’s so quick to leave, you’ll finally know what it means to be chosen. Every day. By someone who never had to say much to prove it.
8️⃣ DK:
Very mature, when the relationship is in the beginning stages.
When things first start between you and DK, there’s a quiet maturity about him that surprises you. He’s thoughtful, present, and incredibly self-aware. Not because he’s trying to impress you or put on some polished persona, but because, for once, he’s able to be himself without worrying about a spotlight. It’s a side of him that most people never really get to see.
You notice it in small things. Like how he listens, really listens. Or the way he pauses to think before giving you his honest opinion. Early on, you're waiting in line at a cozy, local cafe, and you catch him trailing behind you, hands gently tugging on the belt loop of your jeans like a child following someone they trust. When the barista looks up and says, “Hi, what can I get started for you two?” he nudges you forward softly and mumbles,
“You go first. I’ll have whatever you’re having.”
You chuckle, “What if I get something you hate?”
“I won’t,” he says with a small grin. “If you like it, I’ll probably like it too.”
It’s in those moments, unguarded, soft around the edges, that you realize how introverted he really is. Not shy exactly, just... private. Comfortable in silence. And it’s never boring. At home, when the doors are closed and the cameras are off, he's a completely different version of himself, bubbly, hilarious, full of animated storytelling and bad impressions. He’s all in. There’s no halfway with DK once he feels safe.
In public though? He leans into you. Literally and emotionally. If you're out shopping, he’s the one waiting in the corner chair, scrolling on his phone or humming quietly to himself while you browse. Sometimes you feel bad about making him tag along, but when you ask, he just shrugs,
“I like being near you. I don’t have to say anything, right?”
“Nope,” you smile. “Just exist beside me.”
“Perfect,” he grins. “I’m great at that.”
He’s a phenomenal partner, communicative, emotionally intelligent, and someone who takes accountability without turning it into guilt or drama. When he messes up, which everyone does, he owns it.
“I shouldn’t have said that yesterday,” he’ll tell you one night, curling up beside you under the covers. “I think I was too in my head to really listen, and that’s on me.”
He doesn’t wait for you to forgive him. He gives you space and then does better. Every time.
But being together also means learning each other’s limits. You learn pretty quickly that just because he’s kind doesn’t mean he’s endlessly patient, and just because he laughs easily doesn’t mean he doesn’t get overwhelmed. DK can burn out quietly if you’re not paying attention. He might agree to things too quickly just to make you happy, and then shut down hours later, overstimulated and exhausted. You begin to recognize the signs.
So you adjust. You soften the way you bring up plans or sensitive topics.
“Hey,” you say one evening, curled up with him on the couch, “what do you think about maybe joining me for dinner with my friends this weekend? No pressure, just wanted to ask early so you can think about it.”
He nods slowly, eyes focused on your fingers tracing his knuckles.
“Thanks for asking like that,” he murmurs. “I’ll let you know tomorrow, yeah?”
“Of course,” you reply. And you mean it.
There’s this beautiful rhythm that begins to form. He teaches you the power of gentleness, of patience, of choosing your words with intention. And you give him space to feel, to process, to just be, without trying to fix or push or rush him.
And contrary to what the world may assume, he’s not the carefree, always-joking guy they see on screen. He’s layered, deep, and yes, someone who can get overwhelmed. But with you, he’s learning how to breathe through it.
9️⃣ Mingyu:
Consistency.
That’s what your relationship with Mingyu is made of, thread by thread, it’s woven into every part of your shared life. From the beginning, everything with him just made sense. No push-and-pull, no confusion masked as chemistry. He showed up, heart wide open, and never once made you question your place in his world.
That’s Mingyu. Thoughtful in the small ways that matter most. He didn’t just talk about forever, he started living like it. Not in a rush, but in a rhythm. One that felt like home.
Within a few weeks, it was second nature. You had a toothbrush at his place before you even talked about moving in. Your favourite snacks magically appeared in his kitchen. He adjusted his sleep schedule to match yours.
“You get cold in the mornings,” he said, handing you his hoodie without you asking. “Keep this in the bathroom. It’s softer.”
Before the month was up, you were already part of his real life, the one outside of cameras and choreography. You went to the team dinners, sat beside him with your fingers laced under the table while the others teased him mercilessly. He never flinched. Never hid it. Just grinned, brought your hand to his lips, and kissed your knuckles like it was the most normal thing in the world.
You met his sister over bubble tea. She joked that she could already see a wedding happening within the year. Mingyu turned pink but didn’t disagree. Later that night, while you were brushing your teeth, he hugged you from behind and murmured into your neck,
“Don’t freak out, but I could see that too.”
Then came the afternoons with his mom. You thought it would be intimidating, but it wasn’t. She welcomed you with warm eyes and a gentle smile, teaching you how to cook his favorite meal with hands that moved like they carried decades of care.
“You’ll be the one feeding him now,” she teased, handing you the spoon.
You laughed, but the words stuck. Because they felt true.
Mingyu didn’t just invite you into his life, he built a space for you within it.
And God, the way he loves. People say Mingyu was meant to be this tall so all the love he holds could fit inside him, and you believe it. His affection is constant but never overwhelming. You’ll catch him watching you across a crowded room, not with hunger or need, but with quiet awe. Like he still can’t believe you’re real.
Sometimes you’d ask him,
“Why do you love me like this?”
And he’d reply, without even thinking,
“Because you’re mine. And loving you like this is the only way I know how.”
But it’s not just sweetness and warmth. Mingyu is your partner. Your anchor. He challenges you to grow, gently pushes you toward the version of yourself you’ve always wanted to be. When you doubt yourself, he doesn’t just give you compliments, he gives you clarity.
“That plan of yours?” he says, when you come to him with ideas, notebooks, fears. “It’s smart. But you need to stop second-guessing yourself. You’re brilliant. Own it.”
He never lets you shrink. And he never lets you forget your worth. When you burn out or spread yourself too thin, he notices before you do.
“You don’t need to prove anything to anyone,” he tells you, brushing the hair out of your eyes. “Rest. You’re allowed.”
He celebrates your wins louder than anyone, but he’s also the one holding you when it feels like everything’s falling apart. He doesn’t flinch from the hard stuff. He stays. He listens. He learns how to love you even on the days when you forget how to love yourself.
And he never makes it about him. Never demands a performance. With Mingyu, you are safe to be messy, to be tired, to be unsure. He meets you exactly where you are, and walks with you forward.
With Mingyu, the love doesn’t live in promises, it lives in the way he shows up, again and again. In how he protects your peace. In how he lets you be exactly who you are and somehow still sees more in you than you’ve ever dared to see in yourself.
So no, it’s not just pretty packaging. It’s not just flowers and forehead kisses and lingering glances in the kitchen light. It’s trust. It’s real partnership. It’s growth.
1️⃣0️⃣ Minghao:
He’s a man who’s reserved, not shy, and definitely not passive. Just quiet in a way that’s intentional. He doesn’t open his world to just anyone, and when he chooses to let you in, it’s deliberate. Measured. He knows what he brings to the table, and he values his peace, so if he gives you the power to disrupt it, it’s because he’s already decided you’re worth it.
With him, love isn’t loud or dramatic. It’s steady. It’s in the way he looks at you like you’re already a part of his life, like you’ve always been meant to be there. You’re not just his girlfriend. You’re family. That’s how he treats you from the start.
You meet his parents earlier than you expected, not out of obligation, but because he’s proud. Not in a performative, “look what I scored” kind of way, but in the quiet awe of someone who can’t believe how lucky he got.
“Omma, this is her,” he says, hand gently resting on the small of your back. “The one I was telling you about.”
The smile on his face doesn’t scream possession. It beams with admiration.
Your connection with him isn’t textbook clear. People might assume he’s the best communicator because he’s emotionally mature, and he is, but he also wants you to try. He wants you to pay attention. To notice when his silence is thoughtful, when it’s guarded, or when it’s just comfort.
He doesn’t always hand you his emotions in neat, wrapped sentences. Sometimes, he waits, watching if you’ll catch the subtle change in his expression, the way he sighs after a long day, or how he hesitates before saying something vulnerable.
“It’s okay,” you tell him once, when he doesn’t speak right away. “You don’t have to explain everything.”
He glances at you, quiet for a beat. “I don’t want to explain everything. I want you to feel it.”
And you do.
Because when he loves, he just loves. It’s in everything, how he texts you during the day just to say “Take a break, ok? You do not need to overwork yourself.” Or the way he surprises you by waiting outside your building on rainy evenings, hood pulled up, holding your favourite drink in one hand.
It’s in the way he pulls you into his arms on the couch at night, your legs tangled together, your head resting on his chest as you talk about futures you never imagined before him.
“Do you think we’ll still be doing this in ten years?” you whisper, fingers tracing lazy circles on his arm.
He doesn’t even hesitate. “If I have anything to say about it, yeah. And even longer than that.”
He may not say “I love you” twenty times a day, but it’s there. It’s in the silence. It’s in the details. It’s in the weight of the way he looks at you when you laugh, like he wants to memorize it forever.
With him, love doesn’t shout. It doesn’t rush.
It chooses you, and then keeps choosing you, again and again.
1️⃣1️⃣ Seungkwan:
He’s the hardest one to get into a committed relationship, not because he’s afraid of love, but because he’s just so used to being alone. Not lonely. Just... self-contained. Self-sufficient. He’s built a whole world around structure and achievement, and in that world, there’s not a lot of room for messy, unpredictable things like emotions.
This man is busy. Volleyball practice in the morning, dance rehearsal in the afternoon, studio recording till late. Throw in an ad campaign shoot, a last-minute MC gig, maybe a talk show appearance, and a variety show taping that runs over schedule. He’s everywhere, all the time, and when he does finally sit down, he’s already thinking about what’s next.
So when he finally enters a relationship, when he chooses you, it’s not some casual fling. It becomes its own full-time job, one he throws himself into with the same intensity he gives to everything else.
He’s professional. He’s organized. But none of that helps when it comes to love. Love doesn’t follow scripts or schedules.
So in the beginning, it’s hard. Really hard.
He keeps performing, even around you. Smiling through frustration. Saying yes when he means no. Putting you on a pedestal so high he forgets you're just a person, not an ideal. And all the while, he's slowly bottling up his stress and fatigue, until one day it spills out in the middle of a petty argument about something like… not replying fast enough.
"You say you care, but sometimes I feel like I'm the only one holding this together," he snaps, and then immediately regrets it. He didn’t mean it that way. Not really.
You don’t yell back. You just look at him, tired, a little hurt, and ask softly, “Then why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
And that’s when it hits him. He doesn’t know how to tell you things. Not the real things. Not when he’s so used to being dependable, the strong one, the capable one. He has to unlearn that. He has to unlearn the idea that love means being perfect.
And you? You learn how to slow him down. How to catch the signs of burnout before they hit. How to ground him with a touch on his wrist or a quiet “Let’s just stay in today.” You become his anchor, but not in a way that ties him down, in a way that steadies his storm.
You cheer for him. Loudly. You’re his biggest fan, and he needs that. He needs to be seen, to be reminded that someone notices how hard he works, not just for the world, but for you. He needs to feel like he matters outside of the spotlight.
Sometimes, out of nowhere, on a lazy Saturday afternoon while you’re scrolling through food delivery apps, he’ll glance over and murmur, “Hey… we’re good, right?”
And even though there’s no fight, no tension, you know what he’s asking. You smile, lean in, and say, “We’re better than good.”
Because what he’s really asking is, ‘You’re not going to leave me… right?’
And you won’t.
1️⃣2️⃣ Vernon:
You know that rare kind of relationship, the one that just fits? Where you don't have to tiptoe around each other or play the game of pretending to be cooler or more mysterious than you are. The kind where everything skips the awkward stages and goes straight to real. That’s what it’s like with Vernon.
With him, you never had to try so hard. There were no mixed signals, no waiting three hours to reply to texts just to seem chill. He didn’t ghost you only to come back when it was convenient, and you didn’t feel the pressure to always be “on.” He met you exactly as you were, and you met him the same way. It’s easy, almost suspiciously easy, but in the best way.
He does the boring things with you, and somehow makes them feel like a movie montage. He pushes the cart at the grocery store while you debate toilet paper brands like it’s a serious life decision. He stands next to your mom in the detergent aisle and doesn’t flinch when your little cousin throws a tantrum on the floor. He even showed up, willingly, fully present, at your cousin’s piano recital. He clapped like he meant it. Your grandparents have a framed photo of you two at Christmas on the wall now. He didn’t pose, he just was. And somehow, that’s enough to make him feel like he’s always been part of the picture.
Your face is his laptop lockscreen. Your shoes are lined up by his door, your hoodie’s draped on his desk chair. Your laughter echoes off the walls of his apartment at midnight when you're eating leftover pizza straight from the box, arguing over which late-night show is the best. Your photos, blurry, sunlit, mundane, are scattered around his space, like you're both living in some quiet little world you made together.
You take spontaneous city breaks, nothing extravagant, just places where you can walk hand in hand without anyone looking twice. You try street food, go thrift shopping, stumble into cozy cafés with foggy windows and warm mugs, and laugh through karaoke nights where he pretends he can’t sing when you know he can.
With Vernon, it feels like you’ve been together forever, even if it hasn’t been that long. He feels like home, not in the loud, firework kind of way, but in the quiet way a light turns on when you walk in the door.
But here's the truth, love still takes learning. Even when it’s easy, it’s still something you build.
He’s not overly romantic, not the type to shower you with roses or surprise you with designer gifts. That’s not who he is. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t care, he just shows it differently. He’s thoughtful in ways that feel like a second heartbeat. He’ll wake up before you just to put in a load of laundry you forgot. He’ll pack you leftovers for lunch and write a little note on the container lid that says, “Don’t skip meals, okay?”. He always makes sure there’s a glass of water on your nightstand before bed. Always.
And maybe he won’t plan elaborate date nights, but he’ll notice when you’re overwhelmed and wordlessly take over the chores. He’ll hold your hand when you’re anxious in public, not saying a word, just grounding you in that small, firm grip of his. He’ll sit quietly next to you when you’re sad, not trying to fix it, just being there.
And honestly? That means more than any grand gesture ever could.
Because with Vernon, love isn’t something he performs. It’s something he lives, with you, beside you, around you.
1️⃣3️⃣ Dino:
Controversial opinion, but boyfriend Dino is wildly different behind closed doors compared to what the public sees. And I don’t mean that he’s putting on a show for the cameras, no, it’s the opposite. He never wears a mask for you. With you, he’s just him. All heart, all effort, all flawed and soft and real.
He’s not just “the maknae” or the guy with crazy energy on stage. At home, he’s the steady one. The one who grabs the heavy grocery bags without a second thought, who instinctively starts cooking when you’ve had a long day, who wipes down the counter while telling you some random fact he read online.
He’s the guy who picks you up from work when it rains, even if he only had four hours of sleep. The guy who sits through dinner with your family and somehow has your parents wrapped around his finger by the end of the night. He’ll compliment your dad’s cooking, help your mom clear the dishes, and still find your hand under the table just to hold it.
In the relationship, Dino is shockingly mature. There’s no guessing game with him. If something’s wrong, he tells you. If something’s right, he shows you. You never have to beg for clarity, he gives it to you without hesitation.
But don’t get it twisted, he’s still Dino. Still your chaotic, endearing, occasionally clueless boyfriend.
He’ll forget to text back for hours because he got sucked into a video game with the guys. He’ll throw his hoodie on the floor right next to the laundry basket and swear he meant to put it in. He’ll leave the hallway light on at 6 AM while he’s heading out to practice, and you’ll be blinded in bed like, “Seriously, Chan?”
He’ll pop his head back in with a sheepish grin.
"Sorry baby, forgot again. Want me to turn it off?"
You’ll groan, pull the covers over your face. “Too late, I’m already awake.”
And he’ll lean down, kiss your forehead, and whisper, “I’ll make it up to you later.”
Because despite the mess, the forgetfulness, the light in your eyes at ungodly hours, he’s your boyfriend first. Always.
He makes sure you feel loved in the most grounded ways. He’ll hold you without needing a reason. He’ll look you in the eyes and say, “I’m not going anywhere, okay?” just because you looked a little tired that day.
With him, you never have to wonder where you stand. You know.
⊹ overview - pairing: mingyu x f!reader
genre: slice of life · fluff · contemporary · slow burn · lighthearted tone
themes: casual romance, soft humor, text-based narrative
cw: brief mentions of social anxiety, implied fame context, sfw
summary: you didn’t plan to meet mingyu in paris. and you definitely didn’t plan for a blurry photo, one conversation, and a few late-night texts to turn into the internet’s favorite theory. but maybe the truth is even stranger: quiet, funny, and almost real.
from kai: got this idea after mingyu and sexyy red's moment at the pfw afterparty lol twitter wouldn't stop talking about it. started as a one-shot, but their chemistry was too good…
ps: part two’s up, you can read it already!
now playing: paris, texas - lana del rey
you’re not used to this.
the flashing lights, the screams, the chaotic elegance of fashion week in paris. sure, you’ve done premieres and panels before. your netflix series blew up way more than anyone expected, and suddenly your face was everywhere. streaming numbers through the roof. interviews. magazine covers. your face on a billboard near times square.
but this? this is dior.
they flew you out. they dressed you like a dream. they made you sit front row. you smiled, you posed, you pretended you weren't internally freaking out.
because deep down, you still feel like that girl who watched fashion shows at 2am, dreaming about stuff like this. and maybe you’re still that girl. just with better eyeliner and a driver waiting outside.
you make it through the show without tripping or passing out. success.
then someone mentions the afterparty and you’re like... okay. sure. why not. you’ll go. stay twenty minutes. do your duty. leave with grace and dignity and maybe a tiny dessert in your purse.
it’s crowded. obviously. but beautiful. soft lighting. velvet everything. a lot of cheek kisses and air-sipping cocktails. the kind of party where people look bored on purpose.
you’re standing near the back, halfway through a glass of something sparkling and expensive, when you see him. and by “see him,” you mean feel the atoms in the room shift slightly.
he walks in like it’s no big deal. which maybe it isn’t, to him. he’s mingyu. people know him. tall and glossy and casually perfect. wearing something you’re sure costs more than your rent, but it doesn’t even look like he’s trying. you’re not even a hardcore carat, but you’ve seen enough seventeen content to know that he’s funny and clumsy and surprisingly shy for someone that handsome.
you glance. once.
okay, maybe twice.
you tell yourself that’s it.
until someone says, “oh, mingyu! this is y/n.”
and your heart tries to climb out of your chest.
he smiles like it’s easy. like he does this all the time.
“hi,” he says. “i watched your show.”
you blink. “seriously?”
“yeah,” he says, sipping something clear. “i binged it on a flight.”
you weren’t expecting that. “you watched my show on a plane?”
he shrugs, almost sheepish. “i needed something good. ended up watching the whole thing.”
your mouth opens slightly, like your brain’s buffering.
“that’s… wild,” you say finally. “you watched me act while trapped at thirty thousand feet.”
he laughs. “and liked it.”
you manage to hold eye contact, just barely. “thank you.”
he nods. “you were great. the whole cast was. but yeah, you stood out.”
you try not to smile too much, but it slips through anyway.
“well,” you say, “i’m a fan of yours too.”
he tilts his head a little, amused. “really?”
“really,” you nod. “you’re very good at what you do.”
his gaze softens, just slightly. “thanks.”
he laughs. it’s nice. warm. and you feel oddly calm now. like maybe this is just two people who exist in the same strange world, chatting for a second.
it doesn’t last long. someone pulls him away. someone else tries to talk to you. and just like that, he’s across the room again, surrounded by people who look like they were born on red carpets.
but later, when you’re waiting for your car outside and the air is a little too cold for your dress, you catch him looking at you. just once. a glance. maybe nothing.
but you feel it.
you don’t expect the internet to feel it too.
the next morning, your name is trending.
you think: oh god, what did i say? did someone post a bad angle of me? did i spill something?
but no.
it’s a blurry pic. you and mingyu. standing close. talking. both smiling. someone zoomed in so much that it’s pixelated like a renaissance painting, but the caption says:
“what are they cooking”
another post:
“mingyu looking at her like she hung the stars HELP”
and then:
“she literally said she was a fan of him a few months ago and now they’re at the same party this is my roman empire”
you want to scream. or hide. or laugh. you do all three, kind of.
your dms are unhinged.
your friend sends you a tiktok of someone doing a powerpoint presentation titled “why mingyu and y/n would make sense actually.”
you text back: i talked to him for thirty seconds.
but it doesn’t matter.
people see what they want to see.
you try to ignore it. let it pass. the internet always moves on eventually, right?
you post a normal picture the next day. a croissant. the eiffel tower in the background. very chill. very “look at me being unbothered in paris.” comments are not chill.
“where is mingyu”
“blink twice if it’s real”
“what did you talk about PLEASE I BEG”
you don’t reply.
you just keep scrolling. wondering if maybe he saw all this too.
and then, a few nights later, it happens.
your phone lights up. unknown number.
hey.
this is mingyu.
i hope it’s okay i got your number from someone at the party.
just saw the chaos online and thought i should say hi officially.
you sit with that for a full five minutes.
you reread it like he might have changed his mind and deleted the message.
but it’s still there.
you type.
hi lol
yeah the internet’s kinda having a moment huh
he replies almost instantly.
mingyu
i forgot how people pay that much attention to who i stand next to lol
you smile. because yeah. same.
you
the internet’s wild. last week someone made a thread about how i hold my coffee cup “suspiciously”
he sends a laugh emoji.
mingyu
suspicious how
you
apparently i grip it like i’m about to throw it at someone
mingyu
honestly that’s a power move
you both stop texting for a few minutes. maybe he’s busy. maybe you are. you don’t expect more.
but then:
mingyu
anyway, sorry if that’s random
just made me think of it
and you seemed cool
you read that twice.
you seemed cool.
you don’t know why it hits the way it does, but it does.
quiet, lowkey, easy.
you
not random
i get it
you seemed cool too
weirdly calm for someone being chased by cameras
mingyu
lol it’s a skill
built over time and mild panic
you smile, thumb hovering over your screen.
you don’t ask anything else.
don’t push.
later that night, when you're brushing your teeth in a hotel bathroom that smells faintly like roses and money, you check your phone one last time.
a final message from him.
mingyu
just saw someone on twitter say we have “suspiciously good timing”
you
what does that even mean
mingyu
like every time one of us posts, the other one’s online
you
we’re not special. we’re just addicted to our phones
mingyu
they also said we probably have a secret handshake
you
we should
mingyu
something dramatic
lots of finger snaps
maybe a spin
you
followed by complete denial that we know each other
mingyu
of course
professionalism
you pause for a second, then type:
you
you know this only makes them worse
mingyu
yeah
isn’t it kind of fun though
you
a little
mingyu
we should give them just enough to stay confused
you
like posting the same sky photo 6 minutes apart
mingyu
or both pretending we love the same very specific fruit
you
papaya?
mingyu
chaos...
you grin at your phone.
neither of you says anything else for a while.
but you don’t leave the chat.
and neither does he.
—-----------------
you wake up to sunlight spilling through gauzy curtains and the sound of distant traffic humming under your window. your phone is on the nightstand, buzzing once with a notification, then going quiet again.
you don’t check it right away.
instead, you stretch. take your time. the sheets are soft, the kind of hotel-soft that feels too luxurious to be real. you think, briefly, about how weird this week has been. fashion week. dior. mingyu.
you smile a little. not because of him, exactly. just... the whole thing. how surreal it all feels.
you finally grab your phone. one unread message.
mingyu
walked past a bakery on the way back to the hotel
smelled really good
made me think this city is unfairly good at mornings
you snort, already smiling.
you
i haven’t even left the room yet and now i feel like i’m missing out
thanks
mingyu
no pressure
just reporting the vibes
you
noted
very responsible of you
mingyu
it’s a public service
you
should i be worried you’re turning into a pastry influencer
mingyu
depends
do you think that title comes with free samples
you
100%
but only if you post aesthetic overhead shots
mingyu
i’ll practice with my leftover croissant
though i did already take a bite
i was weak
you toss your phone on the bed and head to the shower. you tell yourself you’re not thinking about whether it might buzz while you’re in there.
it’s just texting. it’s just paris. it’s fine.
when you come back out, towel in your hair, your screen lights up.
mingyu
do you think the eiffel tower ever gets tired of being perceived
you
deeply
needs a break
maybe a vacation
mingyu
it should visit new york
blend in for once
you
take photos pretending it’s never seen a bagel
mingyu
“omg first time in the big city”
you laugh out loud.
you
stop i can see the caption
mingyu
all lowercase. subtle filter. very aesthetic
you
towercore
mingyu
#tbt even though it’s live
you laugh. then leave the room and disappear into the paris streets.
you walk with no real plan. you pass tourists, locals, little dogs in sweaters, a couple arguing quietly outside a tabac. the kind of scenes that would look too scripted in any film but feel perfectly normal here.
you get spotted near the river by a girl who looks like she just stepped out of your show’s fan edits. she freezes, eyes wide, then gasps like she can't believe it's actually you.
“no way. i literally watched the entire season in two days,” she says, voice shaking slightly. “i cried. like, real tears. three times.”
you smile, surprised and touched. “that’s so sweet. thank you.”
she hesitates, then blurts, “can i hug you? i’m sorry, i just...”
you laugh softly. “yeah, of course.”
she hugs you tight. not long, but full of emotion. and when she pulls back, her eyes are glassy.
“you’re even cooler in real life,” she says.
“you’re gonna make me cry now,” you reply, still smiling.
when she’s gone, you stand there a moment longer, letting it settle. feeling a little lighter, like the day just got warmer.
how strange it is to be recognized.
how stranger it is to feel... okay with it.
you’ve been walking without direction. coffee in hand, sunglasses on, trying not to overthink how quiet your phone’s been.
then, finally, you text him:
you
paris keeps looking like something important is about to happen
mingyu
like a plot twist?
you
or a confession
maybe a chase scene
mingyu
i could see you in a slow-motion chase
you
i’d trip over a baguette
mingyu
and i’d walk past like “sorry can’t get involved”
you
very realistic
mingyu
very french
you pause at the edge of a crosswalk, watching the way the light turns everything peach and soft.
you
every corner here feels like it has backstory
mingyu
i walked past a florist this morning and got emotional
you
was it the flowers
mingyu
the font on the sign
you
powerful
mingyu
might write a song about it
you
can’t wait for “bouquet in d minor”
you keep walking, grinning into your coffee, phone still in hand.
--------------------------
you have dinner plans that night but cancel.
you stay in instead. order room service. eat fries from a silver tray while sitting cross-legged on the bed in the hotel robe. on tv, a french reality show plays with no subtitles. you make up the plot as you go.
your phone lights up again around ten-thirty.
mingyu
is it lame if i say tonight’s the first time i’ve actually rested all week
you
extremely
but also same
mingyu
i feel like i’ve been smiling for cameras since tuesday
you
i forgot how to blink correctly in photos
pretty sure i look mildly haunted in half of them
mingyu
new aesthetic unlocked
you
what about you
how’s your night off
mingyu
very quiet
i’m pretending i’m in an artsy indie movie
nothing happens but the music is good
you
mine’s more “girl orders crème brûlée at midnight and judges everyone on tv without knowing the language”
mingyu:
i’d watch that
you:
it’s a limited series
moody lighting
no plot
mingyu
i play your mysterious neighbor with three lines
you
you play the guy at the bakery who always gets the last croissant before me
mingyu
oh no
i’m the villain
you
obviously
the next morning, you get a message from someone on the dior team.
there’s a private dinner that night. low-key, mostly creatives, no press. they say you don’t have to go, but they’d love to have you there. you say yes. mostly because you’re curious. maybe also because you wonder if he’ll be there.
you don’t ask.
you show up in a long dark dress and a tired smile. the room is warm, lit low, buzzing softly. the kind of gathering where you don’t have to be anything other than yourself.
he’s already there.
you spot him across the room, leaning against a marble fireplace, listening quietly. his jacket fits perfectly. he looks like he belongs here, but like he’d rather be somewhere else.
you think he sees you at the same time you see him. he gives a small nod.
you return it.
you don’t talk during dinner. you’re seated apart, close but not close enough to chat easily. he laughs once at something someone says, and you smile without meaning to.
after dessert, people drift toward the windows, champagne flutes in hand. the city lights glow softly below.
you stand near a window, watching the blur of lights over the seine. he walks over, close enough to speak quietly.
“still holding your champagne suspiciously?” he jokes.
you glance at your glass. “yeah, it feels important. like a tiny glass trophy.”
“paris does that to everything.”
“even small talk,” you say, smirking.
he laughs. “this view makes everything feel staged, like we’re extras in a film.”
“the city’s the real star.”
“exactly.”
a pause.
“people still can’t stop spinning stories about us.”
you laugh softly. “maybe we should take a picture together. just to make things more interesting.”
he grins. “caption it ‘just met’ or something mysterious.”
“‘totally random encounter,’” you add, smiling.
“internet loses it instantly.”
“and then fifty new theories start.”
“guess we’re good at this.”
you both look out over the city, quiet between you.
“you’re easier to talk to than most here,” he says.
you glance at him. “is that a compliment?”
“just an honest observation.”
“i’ll take it.”
you share a small smile.
after a moment, you quietly say goodbye and slip out, the city’s soft hum following you.
when you get back to the hotel, there’s a message.
mingyu
you disappeared like a spy
no dramatic storm-off or slow-motion slap. i’m disappointed
you
the lighting wasn’t right
i’ll save it for the sequel
mingyu
you looked nice tonight
not saying that to be weird
just. you did
you
thank you
you too
mingyu
safe to say we survived paris?
you
not over yet
but yeah
mostly intact
mingyu
mostly
you don’t know what to call this.
not a crush. not a friendship. not really anything you need to label. just this... quiet, mutual thing.
something that makes a strange city feel less distant.
something that doesn’t ask for more than it gives.
on your last night in paris, you stay up late with the window cracked open.
the sounds of the street rise and fall, soft voices, a motorbike passing, the clink of a bottle in the distance. you sit on the bed with your legs pulled to your chest, phone in hand, but no new messages.
you open your notes app and type without thinking:
things i want to remember:
the bakery smell at 8:10am
the girl who hugged me near the river
the music in the car on the way to the dinner
the way no one rushed anything
the quiet
how he said i was easy to talk to
how i felt okay
you leave it there.
you close the app.
you sleep lightly.
in the morning, just before your car arrives to take you to the airport, your phone buzzes one last time.
mingyu
i’m thinking of posting that pic of us.
don’t forget to keep the mystery alive when you get back.
⊹ overview - pairing: mingyu x f!reader
genre: frenemies to lovers · office romance · slice of life · fluff
themes: trying to play cupid (and failing), witty banter, accidental intimacy, one bed trope, mutual pining, clichés. a lot.
cw: mild sexual content (MDNI), workplace setting, suggestive humor.
summary: when two overworked assistants team up to secretly play matchmaker for their clueless bosses, the plan is simple: coordinate schedules, fake a little chemistry, and absolutely not fall for each other.
minors do not interact!
from kai: i can't stop writing about mingyu. i need help. this one's loosely based on set it up (2018), but a little more chaotic? enjoy.
now playing: my type - saint motel
you’ve met kim mingyu four times.
the first: when your bosses scheduled two meetings at the exact same time in the same conference room and you both had to play rock-paper-scissors in front of the ceo to decide who got it. (he won. with scissors. a rookie mistake. you never forgave yourself.)
the second: in the elevator. he spilled half a latte on your shoes and said “at least they’re not suede...” like that was helpful.
the third: when you accidentally replied-all to an internal memo about performance evaluations, calling your boss “a capitalist goblin with a caffeine addiction.” he just replied "bold of you to speak truth in this economy. solidarity."
the fourth: now. every day. too often. always.
the thing is: you don’t work together. not really.
you work adjacent.
which is worse.
he’s the assistant to ms. seo, who runs strategy like she’s planning war. sharp heels, sharper tone, and a calendar color-coded within an inch of its life. mingyu walks two steps behind her like a loyal retriever, clipboard in one hand, existential dread in the other. he smiles too much for someone who gets cc’d on every meltdown in the building.
you, on the other hand, work for mr. yoon. a man with a god complex, a phobia of silence, and a diet that consists almost exclusively of espresso and the souls of junior staff. he once called your lunch “visually distracting” because it had “too much sauce”. you haven’t forgiven him either.
and because the two of them (ms. seo and mr. yoon) are in constant, competitive collaboration, it means you and mingyu are stuck in a never-ending tug-of-war of email threads, late-night reschedules, and passive-aggressive calendar invites.
the dynamic?
you’re the ghostwriter of your boss’s bad ideas. he’s the translator of his boss’s mood swings.
you text each other more than you text your actual friends. and you’re not sure if you hate him or if he just reminds you of your own job too much.
mingyu [work enemy adjacent]
your boss just moved lunch to 1
mine is fasting for "clarity of mind"
so i'll be dying quietly in the corner
you
clarity of mind is wild for someone who screamed at a stapler last tuesday
mingyu [work enemy adjacent]
she said it was "threatening her aura"
you
i'm scared it might've been right
mingyu [work enemy adjacent]
justice for the stapler
by week three of back-to-back “urgent” requests, you’ve memorized the way he sighs through his nose when ms. seo cancels a meeting thirty seconds before it starts. you’ve also learned that he eats lunch in exactly four minutes and always forgets a fork. you’ve stopped offering him one. mostly out of principle.
“you’re not a real person.” you tell him one thursday. “you’re like a mirage. a corporate hallucination.”
he blinks. “thanks?”
“not a compliment.”
but he’s already scrolling through his phone, completely unfazed.
“you realize we’ve been yelled at by our bosses for the exact same meeting reschedule like, four times now.” he says. “at some point they’re gonna think we’re doing this on purpose.”
you sigh. “i wish we were. at least then it’d be satisfying.”
he throws his head back dramatically, groaning. “i’m too pretty to get fired.”
"you’re too clumsy,” you correct. “and you owe me a new pair of shoes.”
the idea comes after the fifth minor disaster of the week: a double-booked call, a vegan lunch delivery sent to a man who once called kale “a scam”, and a particularly pointed all-caps message from ms. seo.
you’re both slumped in the break room. the vending machine, as usual, has betrayed him. again.
he’s chewing your emergency chocolate like it’s keeping him alive.
“i’m just saying...” he starts, mouth half full. “if they were hooking up, maybe they’d stop using us as pawns in their weird power game.”
you blink at him.
“you’re not saying that.” you say. “you’re not actually suggesting this.”
“yoon and seo.” he says, nodding. “they have tension. it’s weird. disgusting. undeniable.”
“no.”
“hear me out.”
“no!” you repeat, louder this time. “are you insane? what part of this place makes you think romance is the solution?”
he blinks, caught off guard.
“do you even understand where we work?“ you go on. “we work for emotionally repressed narcissists with god complexes and matching calendars. this isn’t a rom-com, mingyu. this is hell.”
he opens his mouth, but you cut him off again.
“and you...” you say, jabbing a finger in his direction, “you think you're clever because you smile through the misery, but you’re just as trapped as me. stop pretending this is some cute little team-up.”
he’s quiet for a moment. you expect him to bite back, but he just tilts his head a little, watching you with something unreadable in his face.
“okay.” he says softly. “message received.”
you leave before you say something worse.
twelve minutes later, your phone rings. your boss's name lights up your screen.
“my office. now.”
you barely have time to close your tabs before you're in his doorway, arms crossed.
he doesn't look up from his monitor.
"you sent this?” he asks, pointing to a printed email. yes. printed.
“yes, sir.”
he reads a sentence aloud like it personally offended him. “‘apologies for the mix-up — i’ve reattached the correct file for your convenience.’”
“yes,” you say again. “because the original pdf had a broken...”
“this.” he interrupts, stabbing the paper with his finger. “is passive-aggressive.”
you blink. “it’s standard wording.”
“your tone” he says, “undermines my authority. and by extension, yours. if you ever want to be taken seriously in this industry, you need to learn how to communicate without sounding like you’re rolling your eyes.”
he leans back in his chair.
“do you think you’re indispensable?”
you don’t answer.
“because you’re not. you’re efficient, but so is every other assistant here. i could replace you by monday.”
he lets that sit for a beat.
then gestures to the door. “that’s all.”
you walk out of the office with a tight jaw and something sharp curling in your chest.
you sit back at your desk. your screen is full of open tabs, blinking messages, a reminder to pick up dry cleaning you can’t afford and a google search for “can stress cause actual brain damage.”
your phone buzzes.
mingyu [work enemy adjacent]
so the plan's back on, yeah?
just checking.
you don’t look up. not right away.
you type slowly.
you
if i say yes
it's not because i believe in it
it's because i want peace
mingyu [work enemy adjacent]
peace is valid
so is revenge
you
i still think it's a terrible idea
mingyu [work enemy adjacent]
perfect
now it feels balanced again
the plan doesn’t take shape immediately. it starts as a joke.
you’re both in the supply closet, pretending to look for toner while avoiding being assigned yet another last-minute revision to the joint quarterly review deck.
he leans against the shelf like it’s a bar counter.
“okay, hypothetically...” he starts, “if we were to interfere with the romantic fates of our bosses, how would we do it?”
you snort. “we wouldn’t.”
“but if.”
you sigh, and, against your better judgment, answer.
“it’d have to feel natural. like a coincidence. accidental. you know. a narrative beat.”
he raises an eyebrow. “you’re disturbingly good at this.”
you ignore him. “it can’t be too obvious. no weird setups. no ‘i booked the same table for two’ bullshit.”
“agreed.” he says. “they’d see through that.”
there’s a pause.
then, you both say it at the same time:
“coffee.”
you blink.
“no way.”
“you said coffee too.” he says, pointing.
you groan. “i hate this...”
he’s already typing into his phone. “they both get coffee, right?”
“dude, we can’t make them run into each other...” you say. “it has to be a cliché.”
he grins like that’s the best thing he’s heard all week. “a cliché.”
you nod. “every great romance starts with one.”
“so what?” he says. “we drop a folder? one of them bends down to pick it up? brushes hands? instant chemistry?”
“too forced.”
“they reach for the same croissant?”
“getting warmer.”
“they both complain about us at the same time in the same line and bond over how ungrateful we are?”
you raise your eyebrows. “you think they’d do that?”
“they already do…” he mutters.
you roll your eyes. “okay. listen. we know their orders. their schedules. their routes. if we can time it just right…”
he finishes your sentence: “...they’ll think it’s fate.”
later that day, you’re back at your desk, scrolling through mr. yoon’s calendar like a bored private investigator.
he’s consistent. pathologically so.
coffee at 10:15. always the same place. same corner seat. same cappuccino. sometimes with extra foam. depending on his mood.
you open the app and look up ms. seo’s location history. mingyu already gave you access. you're not sure how. you don’t ask.
“they’ve been in the same place five times in the last two weeks” he whispers from behind your chair.
you jump. “jesus. do you materialize now?”
“only for dramatic effect.”
you look back at the screen. “five times.”
“and they didn’t notice each other once.”
“so what we’re saying is... we know them better than they know themselves.”
“yup.”
“that’s bleak.”
“deeply.”
he leans over your shoulder. “so. next tuesday. 10:15. table near the window.”
“you handle ms. seo.”
“you handle yoon.”
“if this backfires...”
“we were never here.”
you shake your head and open a new tab.
you’re not proud of it.
but you google “best pastries for accidental eye contact.”
tuesday arrives like a slow-moving disaster. you wake up late, spill coffee on your shirt, and have to switch to your “i’m pretending to be calm” blouse. the one that’s too stiff at the collar and makes you look like a very tired lawyer.
but none of that matters, because today is operation cliché.
phase one: coffee collision.
the location? a minimalistic café on the first floor of the neighboring building, where all the tables are identical and everything smells like lavender and oat milk. it’s the kind of place that sells banana bread for twelve dollars and calls it “seasonal.”
you arrive at the café twelve minutes early. mingyu's already there, sitting in the corner like he’s a spy. you slide into the seat across from him. “what's the plan again?”
he doesn’t look up right away. just nods once like he’s been waiting for this briefing all his life.
“simple.” he says. “they both come here every tuesday. always between ten and ten fifteen. always order the same thing. they never notice each other because they’re too busy speed-reading emails and being vaguely terrifying.”
you raise an eyebrow. “go on.”
“so,” he continues, “i called ahead. asked the barista to delay both orders until exactly ten seventeen. give or take thirty seconds.”
“and then?”
“and then,” he says, leaning in slightly, “they both get called up at the same time. same tray. same awkward pause. eye contact. emotional disarmament. destiny.”
you blink. “you’ve really thought this through.”
“of course i have” he says. “i’m deeply invested in my own survival.”
“and you think this will work?”
he shrugs. “every great romance starts with an inconvenient beverage.”
you snort into your cup.
you hate how much sense that makes.
ms. seo arrives exactly on time. she doesn’t wait in line, she orders like she owns the place and claims her table with one glance. mr. yoon enters two minutes later, slightly out of breath and already annoyed by the background music. he hates piano jazz. you know this.
you both sink lower in your seats.
“this is so dumb...” you whisper. “they’re not even-”
“wait for it.” he mutters.
there’s a pause.
a blink.
the barista calls both names at once.
they reach for the same tray.
your breath catches.
and then:
“oh...” mr. yoon says, taking a step back. “didn’t see you there.”
ms. seo raises an eyebrow. “you never do.”
and for one moment the tiniest moment they smile.
smile.
mingyu looks at you like he just saw god.
“we’re geniuses” he whispers.
“don’t jinx it.”
you watch them sit. not together, but closer than usual. angled slightly toward each other. enough to talk, if they want to. enough to notice.
“they’re talking...” mingyu says.
“this is happening.” you nod, stunned.
you don't say it out loud, but it does feel like a movie. you don't believe in fate. but maybe you believe in timing. and coffee. and croissants that carry plot.
they leave separately.
she goes first. phone in hand, shoulders back, the way she always walks when she’s thinking. he waits thirty seconds, then follows, not too close. but closer than usual.
you and mingyu don’t move.
you just sit there, two overcaffeinated employees hiding behind an aggressive fern, watching your bosses walk away like characters from the end of act one.
“okay." you say. “that was... weirdly successful.”
“i’m scared” he says.
“same.”
you finally stand. his drink is empty. your croissant is gone. neither of you remember eating it.
outside, the air smells like too much perfume and half a dozen corporate regrets. you stop at the corner.
“so what now?” you ask.
he grins. “phase two.”
you roll your eyes. “of course there’s a phase two.”
“come on” he says, already walking backward toward the building. “we made them smile. that’s practically engagement.”
“don’t say engagement.”
“too late.”
you don’t see him again until after lunch.
mr. yoon pulls you into three back-to-back meetings, one of which is just him ranting about fonts. you think he’s in a good mood. or at least a neutral one. it’s hard to tell.
by the time you get back to your desk, your phone buzzes.
mingyu [work enemy adjacent]
you owe me a thank you croissant
that was art
they both reached for the tray like it was scripted
you
you ate my croissant
i'm the one who deserves a thank you
mingyu [work enemy adjacent]
fine
i'll meet you halfway
supply closet in 15
bring no expectations, only snacks
and your most chaotic ideas
you
you're unbelievable
mingyu [work enemy adjacent]
and yet
deeply necessary
you stare at the screen for a beat too long.
and then, before you can stop yourself, you type:
you
make it 10 minutes
i have a very dumb idea
the supply closet is barely a closet.
more of a broom-sized purgatory. it smells like dry erase markers. someone left a sad motivational sticker on the inside of the door that says you’ve got this! and it feels like a threat.
you’re already there when he arrives.
he knocks twice, unnecessarily, before slipping in and closing the door behind him with too much ceremony.
“you’re late” you say.
“you said ten minutes. i gave you eleven. that’s generosity.”
“that’s procrastination.”
he holds up a granola bar like it’s a peace treaty. “i come bearing carbs.”
you take it, mostly because you’re hungry, but also because the wrapper says crunchy with a hint of sea salt and you feel vaguely called out.
“so...” he says, leaning against a shelf of printer paper like he’s hosting a TED talk. “what’s your dumb idea?”
“you go first” you say.
“you told me to come because you had the idea.”
“and now i don’t trust it.”
“why not?”
“because you’re looking at me like you already love it.”
“i do love it. i just don’t know what it is yet.”
you sigh and break the granola bar in half, handing him a piece.
“okay.” you start, mouth full. “we can’t do another run-in. it’ll look too convenient.”
“agreed.” he says, through granola. “we need escalation.”
“we need... a shared cause.”
he blinks. “like... activism?”
“like fake activism” you clarify. “a team-building initiative. professional development. something they can co-lead.”
he nods slowly. “a task that forces prolonged contact. good. close proximity. subtle emotional vulnerability.”
“something high-pressure, low-stakes.”
“something where they think they’re in control.”
you both pause.
and then, at the exact same time:
“leadership retreat.”
you stare at each other in horror.
“that’s...”
“terrible.” he finishes. “dangerous. complicated.”
“they’ll kill us.”
“...we have to do it.”
you groan and slide down the wall until you’re sitting on the floor between two boxes of branded mugs.
he lowers himself beside you.
“okay.” he says. “if we pitch it right... this can work.”
“how do we pitch it?”
he pulls out his phone, opens a notes app already titled operation chicle, and starts typing.
you lean in without realizing.
your shoulders brush. neither of you move.
mingyu taps at his phone, brow furrowed in mock concentration.
“okay, proposal: joint leadership off-site to boost collaboration. location… somewhere with bad wifi and strong coffee. schedule: two-hour brainstorm, four-hour tension.”
you tilt your head. “you mean four hours of suppressed resentment disguised as productivity.”
“exactly!” he says, not looking up. “it’s authentic.”
you lean in slightly, peeking at his screen.
“add ‘quiet team bonding’ and ‘organic interpersonal growth’. make it sound like we read a book about it.”
he types obediently, nodding. “love that. very linkedin-core.”
then he pauses. “should we make a deck?”
you snap your head toward him.
“if you make a deck” you say, deadly calm, “i’ll kill you.”
he grins, not even pretending to be sorry.
“you say the sweetest things.”
you try not to smile. you fail. just a little.
you don’t leave the closet together.
but as you step back into the hallway, you realize your hand still smells like granola and printer ink.
and that he didn’t mock your idea.
and that, somehow, sitting on a dusty floor with him felt more peaceful than your own desk.
thursday morning.
you’re in the small conference room, the one with flickering lights and a very aggressive print of a lighthouse on the wall, watching mingyu adjust the brightness on his laptop for the sixth time.
“stop it.” you mutter. “it’s fine.”
“it’s washed out.” he says. “the slides have to pop. we’re selling transformation.”
“we’re selling emotional manipulation in a power suit.” you correct. “no one’s buying.”
“not with that attitude.”
he clicks through the deck one last time. every slide is a masterpiece of corporate nonsense: gradient backgrounds, buzzwords in bold, and fake statistics like “teams who bond off-site are 63% less likely to initiate passive-aggressive email chains.”
you sigh. “we’re going to hell for this.”
“it’s fine” he grins. “we’ll carpool.”
the pitch goes disturbingly well.
ms. seo barely blinks. she nods halfway through slide two and says, “this could be efficient.” which, from her, is basically a standing ovation.
mr. yoon interrupts twice to talk about thought leadership and uses the phrase “executive synergy” like it’s a personality trait.
when you finish, there’s a pause.
then:
“you two will run it.” ms. seo says.
“what?” you blink.
“i’ll be in singapore next week,” she says, already opening her phone. “you’ll facilitate on our behalf.”
you turn to mr. yoon, desperate. “sir?”
he waves a hand. “sounds like a perfect opportunity for growth. report back with a summary. keep the receipts.”
you open your mouth.
close it.
then open it again, for good measure.
mingyu says nothing. absolutely nothing.
you both leave the room in silence. outside the conference room, you stop walking.
he stops too.
you stare at him.
“you ruined my life.” you say calmly.
“technically, they approved the plan.”
“technically, you were the one who said leadership retreat like it was a good thing.”
“you said it at the same time!”
“and i regret it.”
he lifts both hands, grinning. “look, it’s fine. we’ll run a few workshops, do some trust falls, eat a buffet dinner, and be back in three days.”
“do not say trust falls like it’s a fun concept.”
“do you want me to start a shared document?”
“i want you to get hit by a metaphorical bus.”
“great” he says. “i’ll add that to the parking lot.”
you walk away before you start laughing.
later that afternoon, your phone buzzes.
mingyu [work enemy adjacent]
new plan: we fake food poisoning
or burn down the lodge
or both
you
i knew this was a bad idea
i KNEW
mingyu you've doomed us
you've condemned us to team-building hell
there will be icebreakers
there will be name tags
we will be forced to share feelings
mingyu [work enemy adjacent]
can’t wait to see you cry during trust circle
you
if i disappear
tell people i died doing what i hated: corporate bonding
mingyu [work enemy adjacent]
should i pack snacks?
you
pack dignity
you’ll need it
mingyu [work enemy adjacent]
never had it to begin with
you close the chat with a groan.
three days to the retreat.
no bosses.
no escape.
just you.
him.
and four hours of scheduled “guided reflection.”
god help you both.
the corporate retreat center looks exactly like you imagined it would.
a beige lodge in the middle of nowhere, flanked by pine trees and suspiciously cheerful signage. there's a wooden welcome board near the entrance that says “unlock your inner leader!” in three fonts too many.
“i already hate it.” you mutter, dragging your suitcase over a gravel path that definitely wasn’t meant for heels.
“look on the bright side,” mingyu says, way too cheerful for someone carrying a duffel bag that looks like it holds gym trauma. “bad wi-fi. no bosses. and apparently a breakfast buffet.”
“if you make this sound fun one more time i’m leaving you in the woods.”
he grins. “you say that now, but wait till you see the lanyards.”
you check in at the front desk.
the woman behind the counter gives you your room key and a chirpy, “we went ahead and upgraded you two to the executive suite! hope that’s alright!”
you blink. “we’re not...”
“thanks!” mingyu cuts in, snatching the key. “very alright. super alright.”
you narrow your eyes. “what did you do?”
“nothing.” he says. “probably.”
the room is… cozy.
too cozy.
small fireplace. two mugs on a tray. mood lighting that tries too hard. and one large bed in the center of the room.
you stop in the doorway.
mingyu walks in, drops his bag, looks around once, then turns to you.
“what?” he says innocently. “you said it yourself.”
you stare at him.
“every great romance...” he quotes, smug. “starts with a cliché.”
you blink. once. twice.
“i hope you die.”
“listen, it’s fine. we’ll pillow-wall it.”
“we’re not pillow-walling anything.”
he flops onto the bed with too much confidence. “you can have the blanket majority. i’ll sleep on the floor like a gentleman.”
“you’ll sleep on the floor because you brought this on yourself.”
you find a yoga mat in the closet and throw it at his head. he catches it midair like a reflex, then sighs dramatically.
“pray for me.” he says. “i have fragile joints.”
later that night, you sit side by side on the bed, legs barely touching, a bag of overpriced mini bar chips open between you. the room smells like lavender pillow spray and artificial air freshener, and the fireplace crackles in the most suspiciously cozy way imaginable.
mingyu has the printed retreat schedule unfolded across his lap like it’s a classified document.
he clears his throat.
“7 a.m. sunrise meditation,” he reads aloud. “8 a.m. partner walk. 9 a.m. circle of trust. 10 a.m...” he pauses for dramatic effect. “feelings breakout.”
you make a noise of pure disbelief. “are they trying to kill us? circle of trust sounds like a cult.”
“circle of trust is a cult.” he says. “i’ve seen documentaries.”
you take a chip. crunch thoughtfully.
“do you think if we hold hands and run, we can make it to the road before they catch us?” he says, head tipping toward you just slightly.
“only if you leave the yoga mat behind.” you add. “it’ll slow you down.”
he sighs, deeply. “cruel. but fair.”
the chips rustle between you. somewhere outside, a tree creaks. inside, it’s quiet enough that you can hear the soft shift of his sleeve when he leans back against the headboard.
you don’t say anything for a while. neither does he.
but you don’t move apart, either.
and that, somehow, says enough.
the next day feels like a slow-motion trial.
you wake up to the faint sound of birds and the less-faint sound of mingyu already moving around, getting ready like he’s preparing for some kind of emotional boot camp.
breakfast is painfully organized. you share a table, not by design but because every other seat is taken. he slides you the salt shaker without looking, and you catch his fingers brushing yours for a split second.
the morning starts with the sunrise meditation. you try to focus on your breath, but mingyu is the only one who manages to stay still. mostly because he fell asleep sitting up, chin resting on his chest, looking like an angel who didn’t get the memo.
later, during the partner walk, you find yourselves naturally walking side by side, matching pace without planning it. the trail winds through pines and sun-dappled clearings, the air fresh and cool.
he makes a dumb joke about how this is “nature’s way of making us confess our feelings,” and you pretend not to laugh. but you do.
the circle of trust comes next, exactly as terrifying as it sounds. when it’s your turn, he looks at you like you’re both in on the joke, and you mumble something about “trust falls being a trap.”
he catches your eye and shrugs. “at least we don’t have to actually fall.”
the afternoon is a blur of workshops, icebreakers, and group exercises where everyone is trying (and failing) not to make it awkward.
when the sun starts to set and the temperature drops, mingyu notices you shivering and without a word, pulls his hoodie off and drapes it over your shoulders.
you don’t say anything. you just let it hang there, the fabric warm between you, the silence saying everything.
it’s ridiculous. it’s perfect. and you wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.
the evening settles in with the kind of hush that only happens after a day of mandatory bonding and dried-out protein bars. everyone else has disappeared to their rooms, leaving behind half-finished mugs of herbal tea and the lingering scent of essential oils.
you and mingyu are still awake.
he’s on the floor, stretching like someone who read about mindfulness once and committed to the bit. you’re on the edge of the bed, aimlessly scrolling through your phone, pretending not to watch him try (and fail) to touch his toes.
“you’re gonna pull something.” you say.
“i’m increasing my hip mobility” he replies, completely serious. “for leadership.”
“of course.”
he glances up at you, grinning. “jealous?”
“of your hamstrings? wildly.”
he pushes himself upright with a groan and collapses onto the bed beside you, dramatically boneless.
“okay...” he sighs, “real talk. are we actually gonna sleep at a normal time or…”
you glance at the clock. 10:12 p.m.
“...or what?” you ask.
he shrugs. “i don’t know. talk about our feelings. play two truths and a lie. make a series of increasingly bad decisions.”
“tempting” you say. “but i think i’m out of feelings.”
“you sure?” he asks, turning toward you, head propped on his hand. “because earlier, during the circle of trust, i definitely saw emotion in your eyes.”
“that was rage.”
“i find rage very sexy.”
you roll your eyes. “you find everything sexy.”
he pauses. “not true. powerpoint presentations. deeply unsexy.”
you laugh. a real one, loud and sudden and he looks pleased with himself.
“what?” you say, noticing.
“nothing,” he says. “just thinking.”
“about?”
“how weird it is that we ended up here.”
you raise a brow. “in a romantic cult lodge?”
“in the same room. same bed. same… whatever this is.”
he’s closer now. not enough to crowd you, but enough that you feel the warmth radiating off his skin. your knees bump. neither of you pulls away.
“well, you set this up.”
“yeah, i know. but still...”
you tilt your head. “do you regret it?”
“not even a little.”
he looks at you for a long second, like he’s trying to decide something. then his eyes drop.
“you’re in my hoodie.” he says.
“wow. thank you for the update, captain obvious.”
“no, i mean…” he pauses. “you’re still in my hoodie.”
you glance down at the sleeves, bunched around your hands. “is this a problem?”
he shakes his head. “no. just… you should probably know it looks better on you than it ever did on me.”
your mouth opens, ready to hit back with some flirty insult but the words don’t come. instead, you look at him a beat too long.
“you always talk this much when you’re nervous?” you say finally, voice quieter now.
“only when i think i’m about to do something stupid.”
“like?”
he doesn’t answer. just keeps looking at you like the answer’s obvious.
your fingers tighten around the hem of the hoodie. his knee presses into yours again, this time deliberate.
“like kiss you.” he says.
you go still. “are you going to?”
his smile flickers, slower this time. “i’d like to.”
“then maybe stop talking and do it.”
so he does.
it’s not rushed. not urgent. just intentional. like he’s been thinking about this since the first time you told him off in a staff meeting, and now that it’s happening, he wants to get it exactly right.
he kisses like he speaks. confident, a little playful, always testing the edges. his hand finds your waist. yours fists in the front of his sweatshirt. there’s no hesitation in the way your mouths move, just heat and muscle memory that shouldn’t exist, but does.
after a moment, you pull back just enough to look at him, eyes glinting with something playful.
“you know,” you say, voice low and teasing, “i’ve always wanted to do this.”
he grins, a slow, knowing smile. “really? all this time, i thought that cold shoulder, the eye rolls, the ‘i’m-so-over-you’ attitude was just you being tough.”
“oh please...” you scoff, but you’re smiling. “that was all hate.”
“hate?” he raises an eyebrow, mock offended. “i always suspected it was just repressed attraction.”
“yeah, sure.” you say, nudging him with your knee. “keep telling yourself that.”
he leans in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “honestly? i think you’ve been into me since day one. all that ‘hate’ was just a cover-up for the fact that you thought i was too cool for you.”
you laugh softly, shaking your head. “too cool for me? i was the one who threw the first punch.”
“exactly” he says, “which is code for ‘i’m interested, but i’m also awkward.’”
you bite your lip, thinking how ridiculous yet kind of cute this all feels.
then your fingers find the hem of his hoodie, tugging gently.
“off” you say, barely a whisper.
he looks down at your hand, then back up at you, a mischievous sparkle lighting his eyes. “was that an order?”
“definitely.”
he smirks, sitting up a bit. “well, then… say please.”
you roll your eyes, but the smile never leaves your face. “please.”
he laughs quietly, pulling the hoodie off over his head like a trophy.
you sit up just enough to look at him in the low firelight. his hair’s a little messy, his chest rising and falling, eyes bright.
you touch his chest. lightly, tracing a line from his collarbone to just below his ribs. he twitches under your hand.
“ticklish?” you tease.
“no” he lies. “i’m just emotionally overwhelmed.”
you laugh again, but it catches in your throat when he leans down and kisses your neck. not soft, not featherlight, but with purpose. like he wants to leave a thought behind.
his hands are everywhere. exploring. mapping. learning. he touches you like a puzzle he’s been waiting to solve, like every button undone is a secret, every sigh a new language.
when your shirt’s gone and his jeans are halfway off and you’re both out of breath, you look up at him. flushed, disheveled, ridiculous. and say, “this is a terrible idea.”
“yeah” he breathes, eyes dark. “do you want to stop?”
you pull him down by the front of his waistband.
“that’s what i thought.”
what happens next is messy and slow and fun. it’s not cinematic. it’s not even that graceful. he accidentally knees you in the thigh. you tug his sock off too hard and it hits the wall. at one point he tries to say something sexy and chokes on his own breath.
but it’s good. so good.
he kisses like he’s memorizing you. like he wants to make you laugh and make you beg. your hands slide down his back, nails dragging lightly, and he shudders. not from pain, but from surprise.
he touches your thigh, then higher, watching your face the whole time. you arch into him, your name falling from his mouth like a promise.
and when it finally happens, when all the ridiculous tension finally snaps, it’s not explosive.
it’s intimate.
his forehead pressed to yours, both of you breathing hard, still smiling even as you fall apart together.
after, you lie tangled in the sheets, his hoodie now lost somewhere under the bed, your leg over his hip and his fingers drawing circles on your stomach like he doesn’t want the moment to end.
you stare at the ceiling.
“we are absolutely not talking about this at work” you say.
“agreed.”
“no weird glances across the copy machine.”
“never.”
a pause.
“but” he adds, “we can maybe do it again sometime?”
you glance at him.
he’s grinning.
“i’ll think about it.” you say.
but you’re already smiling too.
day three begins with the kind of awkward optimism only a mandatory leadership retreat can inspire.
you wake up tangled in mingyu’s hoodie, which now smells like campfire and him. it’s too warm, slightly bunched around your hips, but you don’t take it off.
you find him in the kitchenette, making coffee like it’s a lab experiment. precise measurements, silent concentration, a grim kind of determination.
“morning” you say, sliding in beside him, pretending this is normal.
he hands you a mug without looking. “you look like you slept on a bed of spreadsheets.”
“i feel like i did” you mutter, taking a sip. “you?”
“dreamt i was being chased by performance reviews” he says. “woke up in a cold sweat.”
“how corporate trauma of you.”
he snorts into his mug. “don’t diagnose me before coffee.”
you both sip in silence for a few seconds. his arm brushes yours when he lowers the mug, and he doesn’t move away.
you nudge his hip with yours. “so, uh… about last night.”
he raises a brow. “which part? the part where you insulted my hamstrings? or the part where you kissed me first?”
“okay, bold of you to rewrite history like that.”
“what can i say...” he grins. “i’m a storyteller.”
you shake your head, laughing into your coffee.
later, on the partner walk, you fall into step without thinking. the trail winds through pine trees and patches of sunlight, and every now and then he reaches out to steady you. like when you nearly trip on a root, or when a bee flies too close and you squeal louder than you'd like to admit.
“you know” he says, “for someone who claims to be outdoorsy on their dating profile, you’re doing a lot of swatting and stumbling.”
“for someone who can’t touch his toes, you’re awfully smug.”
he grins. “that’s because you find it charming.”
you open your mouth to argue but... fine. maybe you do.
he points at a squirrel making off with someone’s granola bar and mutters, “even the wildlife here is stressed.”
“at least it’s honest,” you say.
he glances over at you, and this time when your shoulders bump, he leans just a little closer. not obviously. just enough that it feels like a secret.
you keep walking.
the workshops in the afternoon feel less painful than usual. maybe it’s the sleep deprivation. maybe it’s mingyu passing you a sticky note with a terrible drawing of your retreat leader mid-lecture. maybe it’s the way you keep catching each other’s eyes and trying not to laugh.
he offers to be your “accountability buddy” during the trust-building activity and then immediately betrays you in a group exercise. you pretend to be outraged. he apologizes with gummy bears and a dramatic bow.
when your hands brush reaching for the same marker, he says, “careful. i bite.”
you roll your eyes and say “noted” but don’t move away.
by the time evening rolls around, it’s cold enough that sharing a blanket on the couch feels justifiable. he drapes it over your laps casually and doesn’t say a word when you lean against his side.
the fire flickers, casting golden shadows over his profile.
“did you know that i can’t actually sing ‘kumbaya’?”
you grin. “i was hoping you couldn’t.”
a pause.
your eyes lock. again.
he kisses you. again.
slower this time. a little longer. like he’s learning the shape of you, one brush of lips at a time.
you smile into it. and when you finally pull away, he rests his forehead against yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“still team-building” he murmurs.
“i’ll allow it.”
on the last day of the retreat, there’s a closing circle.
the room smells like whiteboard markers and lemon disinfectant. someone’s playing a spotify playlist called reflect & renew. the volume is too low to be inspiring, but just loud enough to be annoying.
everyone’s handed a blank feedback form and a final question:
what did you learn about yourself this week?
you write: i can survive on granola bars and passive aggression and turn it in without a second thought.
mingyu doesn’t.
he stays behind, pen tapping against his clipboard, brows furrowed in concentration like the question matters more than it should.
you don’t ask, not right away.
but later, on the shuttle ride home, when the trees blur past and the windows fog with soft breath and leftover heat, he says it.
softly. like he’s not sure he means to say it out loud.
“i wrote your name.”
you turn to him.
he’s looking straight ahead, at the back of the seat in front of him.
“on the form. under what i learned.”
you blink.
your chest does something weird and slow.
you want to say something clever. or funny. or soft. maybe all three. but your throat’s too full of whatever this is.
so instead, you just let your shoulder fall against his. let his hand drift close enough that your pinkies touch.
and leave it there.
returning to the office is like stepping into a parallel universe.
the emails are worse. the coffee is worse. the printer is somehow worse.
but everything’s different.
you see it in the way he lingers by your desk instead of breezing past.
in the way your conversations drift. less complaints, more curiosity.
and when he texts at 12:31 p.m. asking “lunch?”, you don’t even pretend to hesitate.
at first, it’s casual.
shared takeout at the back of the break room. eating out of the same box without acknowledging it. him stealing your last dumpling like it’s tradition. you letting him.
then it becomes routine.
tuesday: curry. thursday: overpriced poke. friday: him remembering you don’t like cilantro. you pretending not to notice that he remembered.
the others don’t question it.
you’re assistants. you’re allowed to coordinate.
no one asks why he walks you out some nights.
or why your lipstick keeps fading around 4 p.m.
the supply closet becomes your shared religion.
there’s something hilariously undignified about kissing someone between boxes of toner and spare lanyards. but that’s where it happens most. tucked into the corner, his clipboard jammed under his arm, your breath catching before you even close the door.
it’s never dramatic.
it’s always sudden.
like gravity just... tips.
his hand finds your jaw. yours fists in his shirt. you both laugh too much after. you both leave with your heart doing that thing it’s not supposed to do during work hours.
sometimes he texts you while you’re ten feet away.
mingyu [work enemy adjacent]
your boss just called his 47-slide deck "visionary"
thoughts?
you
immediate prison
mingyu [work enemy adjacent]
same cell or separate?
you
supply closet. ten minutes. no witnesses.
your boss seems pleased lately.
“your tone’s changed” he tells you one morning. “you’re more solution-oriented. less... sharp.”
he thinks it’s the retreat. thinks you came back wiser. calmer. aligned.
maybe he’s not wrong.
but he doesn’t know that the thing that changed isn’t you.
it’s that now, when the workday gets unbearable, when the chaos piles up and the caffeine runs out, there’s someone waiting by the copier with a smirk and a post-it that says:
“lunch?”
“you look like you need a minute.”
“i’m stealing you. don’t argue.”
and maybe that’s all it takes.
maybe the retreat didn’t fix your job. maybe it didn’t fix your boss.
but it gave you something else.
something stupid and ridiculous and kind of beautiful.
vernon has big hands and according to dino big feet… so… like… what should I do with this info
ok WAIT! dude. you just gave me such a good idea for what we could do with that information in the corniest way possible but like… it works.
hear me out:
hand to god
⊹ overview — pairing: vernon x f!reader
genre: smut · humor · friends to something more · kinda corny but it works themes: hand size discourse, casual intimacy, mutual thirst, research purposes only
minors do not interact!
cw: explicit sexual content, fingering, oral (f receiving), dirty talk, light teasing, one (1) very cocky vernon, soft petnames, suggestive banter, use of hands (critically important), you started it btw
now playing: coming down - the weeknd
you only meant it as a joke.
a throwaway comment. a spiral on tiktok. then suddenly you’re both sitting on the floor of your living room, legs tangled, laughing over nothing, and comparing hand sizes like it’s a valid form of flirting.
"wow" you mutter, holding your palm up to his. "your hand is, like… stupid big."
vernon doesn’t flinch. he just watches you, fingers spreading slightly to match yours.
“thanks?”
“no, i mean. it’s kind of disturbing. are you even real?”
he laughs. soft and low. the kind of laugh that makes your stomach clench a little.
"you're the one who wanted to compare." he says.
"because you kept knocking things over with those damn paws..." you tease, pushing his hand lightly. "i needed to see the science."
"the science..." he repeats, dry. you nod. very serious.
"yeah. dino said something about your feet too, so… it’s for research."
a beat. he blinks at you. once. twice.
“you know what they say about guys with big hands and big feet.” he says, voice neutral, like he’s just mentioning the weather.
you narrow your eyes.
“i’m not giving you the satisfaction.”
“i didn’t say anything.”
“you were thinking it.”
he smiles. slow and dangerous. “were you?”
you hate him. a little. mostly because he’s right.
because his hand is still half over yours, and it’s warm, and your brain is now absolutely not thinking about hands anymore. it’s thinking about what he could do with them. how careful he might be. how thorough.
“shut up...” you mutter. he leans closer.
“make me.”
your heart skips. your breath catches. and somehow it’s the stupid hand thing that pushes you over the edge. the way his thumb slides gently across the back of your palm, like he’s memorizing it. like he likes the size difference.
“you’re so annoying!” you say. but you don’t move away.
his fingers curl slightly, catching yours.
“you gonna let me show you, then?” he asks, almost too soft. “what these hands can do?”
you don’t answer. not out loud.
you just lean in, slow enough to give him time to pull back. he doesn’t. his eyes drop to your mouth like it’s instinct. like he’s been waiting for this.
the kiss is lazy at first. warm and curious, the kind that doesn’t need to rush. his lips part slightly, and yours follow, until it’s more heat than breath, more tongue than teasing.
his hand is still over yours, even as the other comes up to your jaw, tilting your face just right. he’s gentle. way more gentle than he should be, considering how fast your heart’s beating.
“so...” he murmurs against your mouth, between kisses. “how am i doing so far?”
“you’re fine” you breathe. he smiles. cocky this time.
“just fine?”
you tug him closer by the collar of his hoodie. “shut up and touch me.”
he listens.
his hand slides down, grazing the curve of your waist, then under the hem of your shirt. his palm is huge. warm and certain, spanning more skin than you thought possible. it makes you shiver.
he kisses you again, slower this time, as his fingers slip beneath your waistband. you gasp when he touches you properly. light at first, then more deliberate, like he’s feeling out the exact kind of pressure that makes your knees weak.
“you’re already wet…” he murmurs, like it’s something he’s proud of. like he earned it.
his thumb brushes over you once, just to feel how soft and warm you are there, and he exhales. slow, like he’s steadying himself.
then he sinks to his knees in front of you.
tugs your shorts down with both hands, slow and teasing, mouthing at the inside of your thigh as he goes, like he has nowhere else to be.
his hands settle on your hips. wide, certain, like he’s claiming something. you. the moment. all of it.
“you’re so pretty like this” he says, more to himself than to you.
he kisses up your thigh, closer and closer, until you feel his breath where you need him most. your whole body tenses, but he just smiles, nuzzling the crease of your leg.
he licks once, flat and slow and then does it again, softer.
you gasp, hips twitching.
and then he’s really eating you out. slow, steady, deliberate. like he wants to make it last.
his mouth is warm and wet and so fucking confident. his tongue flicks at your clit in soft, lazy circles, like he’s savoring the taste. like he knows exactly what he’s doing and wants you to know it too.
and then his fingers come in. two, thick and smooth, easing inside you like you were made for this. like your body was already waiting for him.
you cry out, clutching at his hair.
he groans into you, low and guttural, like the way you tighten around him turns him on just as much as it ruins you.
his palm presses against your stomach, grounding you, keeping you in place.
he works his fingers slow at first. dragging them in and out, curling just right while his mouth never stops moving. he alternates between soft suckling and firm, perfect pressure, until your thighs are shaking around his shoulders.
“fuck...” you whisper, breath catching. “vernon—”
he hums in response, and the vibration goes straight through you.
you pull harder on his hair. he moans again, just for that.
you lose track of time. of language. of anything except the slick, obscene sound of his fingers moving in and out of you, the way his tongue circles you like it’s muscle memory, the wet heat of his mouth, the stretch of your body opening up under his touch.
you feel it build slow. like heat in your spine, like pressure under your skin, like something about to snap.
“vernon...” you breathe, voice thin, barely there. “i’m—”
he looks up, lips glossy, eyes dark and wrecked.
“i know” he says, thumb now flicking your clit while his fingers stay buried deep. “come on, babe. let go for me.”
and you do.
it hits hard. wave after wave, curling you inward, stretching you out. your thighs clench around his head, your fingers dig into his arm, your back arches as your orgasm crashes through you with dizzying heat.
he doesn’t stop. just slows down, eases you through it. his tongue soothes, his fingers still moving inside you gently, like he’s helping you land again.
by the time he pulls away, his lips are swollen, chin slick, hand glistening and he’s smiling like he just won something.
you cover your face with your hands, still trying to breathe.
he looks up at you with a grin, boyish and way too proud of himself.
“still just fine?”
you blink at him, dazed, chest rising and falling.
then you glance down.
his hoodie’s bunched up at the hem. the outline in his sweats is obvious. and honestly?
you’re impressed.
you hum thoughtfully, head tilting.
“you know” you murmur, voice still breathless, “for all that talk about big hands and big feet…”
his brow arches, playful.
“yeah?”
“still haven’t seen the evidence.”
he huffs a laugh, running a hand through his hair. “so now you want proof?”
you smirk.
“just saying, if you’re gonna brag, might as well commit to the bit.”
his eyes darken, just a little. he shifts forward, palms on either side of your thighs, and leans in until his mouth is by your ear.
“careful.” he whispers. “you ask nicely, i might let you hold it for size.”
When you’d woken up in Jin’s bed you were alone, it wasn’t a big deal. You’d been friends for years there’d been many times in the past when you would share a bed together only this time…you were naked. Jin was downstairs, you could hear him moving around the kitchen so you decided to get up and join him wondering if he remembered anything from the niht before.
You perched on the edge of Jin’s pristine sofa, trying not to scream. You weren’t sure what had happened, who had kissed who first and what Jin remembered. Did he want you to leave? Did he regret any of it happening? More importantly where the FUCK was your underwear? You’d searched the bedroom high and low but it was like they’d upped and vanished.
You were lost in thought as you felt around under the sofa for the thin piece of material.
“Hey,” Jin said way too casually, poking his head into the living room from the kitchen door, “you like eggs, right? Let me cook for you. Take your time.” You noticed the way his eyes watched you and you instantly knew how your underwear had gone.
You narrowed your eyes before following him into the kitchen, his back to you as he focussed on the food in the pan.
“Jin…” You trailed his name out and watched him, “Where are my panties?” He froze while flipping the omelette, his shoulders turned tense and you knew instantly it was him.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He mumbled and you watched him, looking at the apron he was wearing before gasping. Sitting in the pocket, just poking out with the black thong you’d worn the night before,
“Seriously?!” You gasped, grabbing it and pulling it from him,
“I panicked!” he whined out. “You were gonna run, and I couldn’t let you go before I told you that last night wasn’t a mistake for me!”
You rolled your eyes… and stayed for eggs.
YOONGI:
The quiet tension in the room made your skin crawl. Yoongi sat at the table sipping coffee like he hadn’t just slept with his best friend of ten years. Like you hadn’t just woken up naked in his bed, curled up with one another and covered in love bites. God, you could still feel him inside of you, the way you were sore made your heart race.
You glanced around at the mess. Your clothes were all over the apartment, your jeans were in the porch, your shirt in the kitchen, it was clear you hadn’t just had sex once but all over his apartment. But there was one thought in your mind, your underwear was still missing.
You were sitting at the table with yoongi in nothing but one of his shirts since you hadn’t been able to find your panties.
“Have you seen my—”
“Nope,” he said fast…a little too fast. You looked up from the floor to him and narrowed your eyes. Yoongi never answered anything that quickly.
“Hmm, funny.” You whisper, watching him closer than before.
Five minutes later, you spotted a flash of lace sticking out of his hoodie pocket as he reached bent down to pick something up from the floor.
“Yoongi!” You hiss out as soon as you saw them.
“L-Listen! I didn’t want you to leave before I could talk. I didn’t know what to say, so I stalled.” He groans looking at the panties as he pulls them from his pocket and you snatched them back, whining as you hide them under your ass on the seat,
“With my panties?!” You squeal a little and he met your gaze, a serious expression on his face now,.
“I think I’ve been in love with you for years. I just didn’t want to lose you over one stupid night...I wanted us to talk properly before you ran..”
“So talk to me, don’t steal my panties like some perv,” You laugh a little and inch your chair closer to his, sipping on your drink as he nods and smiles, his cheeks turning bright pink.
HOSEOK:
“I was thinking of ordering breakfast, what do you think?” Hoseok asked as he walked toward the bedroom door, you hummed softly. Your head was buzzing from the hangover not to mention you weren’t sure if Hoseok was pretending last night never happened or if he was going along like it was normal.
“Or I can cook, I have food in.” He suggest, you nod and look around for your clothes. Sliding into one of Hoseok’s shirts like you usually did before you got up and stretched,
“Cook, ordering will take too long.” You hummed, and he nodded sliding out of the room and you continued to look around for your phone.
“Where the fuck, is it?” You grumble running your hands under the pillows on the bed when you found your panties.
“…What the actual hell, Hobi?!” Your voice carried all the way through to the kitchen where Hoseok winced, his shoulders practically up to his ears as you came running into the kitchen holding the panties he’d tried to hide.
“Okay, wait, before you judge me—”
“Why were they under your pillow?! Were you gonna sniff them?!” You yell between laughter, you couldn’t help but find it funny at the thought of Hoseok hiding your underwear from you,
“W-What?! No! No! I’m not- T-That’s not-” He stutters and sighs, taking in a deep breath as he shook his head, taking the pan off the heat and turning to look at you.
“I thought if you couldn’t find them, you’d stay long enough for us to talk…For me to tell you how in love with you I am.”
You stared at him, your heart was two seconds away from leaping from your chest and into his waiting hands.
“I’m an idiot,” he said, walking over to you with that devastatingly soft smile. His hand cupped your cheek and he ran his thumb along your bottom lip
“But I’m a sincere idiot who’s been head over heels for you since last summer.” You bit back a smirk before tossing your panties in his direction,
“You could’ve just told me that instead of kidnapping my panties.”
“I panicked!” he yelled out as you kissed him softly.
NAMJOON:
The night before came rushing back to you as you laid in the bed staring at the ceiling. Namjoon was snoring beside you but the night came back to you in glimpses - almost like a movie - the way Namjoon had hungrily pinned you to the wall after you’d flirted with him for most of the night. Heart pounding you raced to get out of the bed, grabbing your things and heading out of the room.
You were almost at the bedroom door when you realized something was missing. Dress? Check. Phone? Check. Dignity? Questionable. Underwear? …Not check. Where the fuck was your underwear?!
Namjoon cleared his throat awkwardly behind you and you slowly turned to face him. Your heart was practically coming out of your chest as you felt your stomach roll,
“Looking for something?” he chuckles, nodding his head in the direction of his book case.
You turned, catching the edge of a pale pink waistband peeking from between a worn copy of The Art of War and a Nietzsche collection on his bookshelf and your jaw dropped. He’d stashed your underwear!?
“…Are my panties in your library, Namjoon?” You scoffed walking over to the shelf and sliding them out from the books, shaking your head at the creativity of hiding them.
He winced. “Okay, yes, but hear me out—I panicked. You were gonna leave and I—I didn’t know how to say don’t go.” You blinked at him as you made your way toward the bed, sitting beside him and arching a brow.
“So you hid my underwear… with philosophy?”
“I thought it was poetic,” he mumbled, reaching out to hold your hands as he gently ran his fingers over your knuckles as he peeked up at you. “Also, I think I might be in love with you.”
“I think I might be in love with you too,” you whisper back to him, smiling shyly before squealing as he pulls you into the bed, peppering you with kisses all over your face.
JIMIN:
The two of you had woken up almost two hours ago and you’d been hunting for your underwear high and low. It was starting to feel as though your best friend had stashed the panties away on purpose.
“Okay, seriously. Where are they?” You quizzed, standing in front of him with your hands on your hips and raising your eyebrow at him. Jimin blinked innocently, giving you that soft smile he always gave someone when he was trying to get out of something.
“Where’s what?” He asked, playing dumb but you gave him a flat look and folded your arms across your chest. It was that simple look from you that could make any of the boys fold. It was the one they told you was your “mum look”.
“D-Don’t give me that look…I have no idea-” He sighed as he stopped himself short, he knew he had no way out of this without admitting the truth. He’d woken up before you and stole your panties so he would have the chance to speak with you alone. Slowly reached into his hoodie pocket… and pulled out your panties.
“…Are you KIDDING me?” You laughed, stealing them from his hands and sliding them on under your shirt.
“I panicked!” he said, face going red, stammering over his words as he tried to justify what he’d done. “I thought you’d leave before we could talk and I just—It was dumb, I know, I’m sorry!”
You stared at him, trying not to laugh right in his face as you shook your head.
“I didn’t want last night to be just a one time thing...Okay?” He shook his head, he knew how stupid it must have seemed but it had been a long time since he’d had his crush on you.
“I’ve liked you forever, and I was worried that if I didn’t say it today then I never would.” You dropped yourself down beside him on the sofa and laid your head on his shoulder,
“You’re lucky you’re cute.” You tell him, cuddling up to him as he smiles in relief, wrapping one arm around your shoulder and tugging you closer.
“I know,”
TAEHYUNG:
“We should watch a film.” Was all Taehyung had said to you when the two of you woke up naked together. He didn’t say anything about it, he put the movie on and that should have been your first clue something was going on in his mind. He’d picked love rosie…a film about two friends eventually coming together in a relationship.
Was this his way of hinting at you?
Shaking your head you decided to ask him about it later and you tried to get closer to him. You were curled up in a blanket,trying not to make things weirder than him ignoring the blatant obvious of you two sleeping together but when you shifted and felt something lumpy in Taehyung’s pocket.
“Don’t.” He whispers but it was too late you’d already reached into his pocket sliding out the black lace panty and smirking to yourself as you saw them.
“…Taehyung.” You said slowly, his cheeks were already the colour of strawberries as he swallowed thickly.
“Y-Yes?” He asked, glancing at you and you waved the panties in front of his face,
“Why are my panties in your pocket?” He looked at you, opening his mouth like he was goin to speak but he quickly closed it before looking at them. He knew he had to tell you the truth but he was also going to look like a weirdo about it.
“I love you?” he offered, smiling way too confidently for someone caught red-handed. You gawked at him, throwing them at his chest making him laugh as he caught them and smirked at you.
“Okay, it was also because I panicked. But mostly the love thing.” He grins bringing you into his chest as he squeezes you softly.
“You’re a fucking menace.” You hiss at him,
“You still love me though,” he winked.
JUNGKOOK:
Jungkook woke up long before you, remembering every single second he had you in his arms and he instantly knew what he was going to do. It was the only way he was going to be able to get you to stay long enough to talk to him about the night before. He practically shot out of the bed, planning on hiding just your jeans but he couldn’t find them.
“Shit, shit shit.” He hisses before he spots the underwear at the bottom of the bed, he ripped them away and dropped beside the bed, not noticing as you began to stir.
“Hmm, Jungkook?” You whined, turning over and freezing when you caught him mid-squat by the bed, trying to sneak your underwear underneath it. Jungkook could have sworn he could hear every single sound in the house, the faint ticking of a clock, the water dripping from the tap as he waited for you to say something.
“Jungkook. What are you doing?” You grumbled, sitting up and clutching the bedsheets around your naked chest. He jumped, smacked his head on the underside of the bedframe, and stood with a guilty look and your panties balled in his fist.
“I—I didn’t want you to leave without talking to me first!” he rushed out so quickly you could barely get a word of what he said.
“Last night meant a lot and I was scared you’d just… go. So I—uh—detained you.”
“With underwear theft?!” You quizzed, staring at the underwear still in his hand. He rubbed the back of his neck with his other free hand and he gave you a sheepish grin.
“...Yes?” The nervous chuckle fell from his lips but that was all it took for you to burst out laughing, holding your stomach as you shook your head.
“So you’re not mad?” He whispers as he sits on the edge of the bed, you smirk and look over at him,
“Well…That depends,” you said, crawling toward him and stealing your panties back from him. “You gonna talk or hide my bra next?”
bts reacting to you fainting in front of them/slipping in the shower
💌 Reply:
hi there💜 first a massive sorry this took an eternity. life avalanched me and this draft lived half-finished in my tabs for weeks while I wrestled with it. I’m still not 100% happy (my inner critic won’t shut up ever...), but I missed writing for you all so much I had to set it free.
I truly hope it still hits right for you, even if imperfectly... if it doesn’t? my DMs are wide open for tweaks, or just talking. your comfort matters more than my pride.
— c — 💜
BTS Reacting to You Fainting in Front of Them - HC
Pairings: BTS (solo) members x you
Rating: PG 13 - R
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Medical Drama (is that a thing? idk)
Warnings: Graphic Injuries, Medical Trauma, Light Substance Abuse (Yoongi), ED Implications (Jimin), PTSD (JK)
KIM NAMJOON (RM)
"PHILOSOPHER’S PANIC"
“Beauty is peace. I forgot that. She reminded me.”
Where/When:
a crowded contemporary art gallery opening in Seoul
he invited you to join him
as his "muse of metaphors"
Why You Faint:
sensory overload
= strobe lights in an installation, stuffy room, skipped lunch because "art feeds the soul"
Catalyst:
a violently flickering piece titled "Capitalist Dystopia Dreamscape"
HOW IT HAPPENS
you’re debating the symbolism of a melted clock sculpture when your vision tunnels
you grip his arm
slurring
“Joon-ah… floors… tilting...”
His First Thought
"Did I bore her? Oh god, was my Nietzsche reference too pretentious?"
you collapse backward like a felled tree
HIS REACTION
Physical
drops his exhibition pamphlet
lunges too fast, knocking over a champagne flute
“SHIT!”
catches your head just before impact
scraping his elbow on the floor
Verbal
voice shifts from booming panic to hushed urgency against your ear
“EVERYONE BACK UP! SHE NEEDS AIR!”
“Stay with me. Breathe in… 4, 7, 8… like we practiced.”
Actions
cradles your head in his lap
frantically loosening your scarf (knots it in his stress)
presses two fingers to your wrist
counts beats like a metronome
texts Jin: “Gallery 3. Fainted. Bring sugar and car. NOW.”
INTERNAL MONOLOGUE (During Crisis)
“Idiot. You knew she looked pale by the Basquiat rip-off. Should’ve forced her to eat that muffin. Was it the lights? The existential dread radiating from that taxidermy duck? Focus. Pulse weak but steady. Elbow bleeding? Irrelevant. Why is everyone staring? Should’ve rented the private viewing...”
AFTERMATH
At the Hospital (Waiting Room)
paces like a caged bear
reciting Sylvia Plath under his breath
buys 3 protein bars from a vending machine
“Eat this. I won’t discuss Kant until you do.”
Guilty Confession
“I curated this exhibit. The strobes… they were supposed to challenge comfort. Not hurt you.”
At His Apartment
sets up a nest of blankets and poetry books on his couch the same night
plays “moonchild” on low volume
“The bassline regulates heartbeats. Scientific fact.”
Quiet Breakdown (3 AM)
researches “sensory processing disorders” until sunrise
finds a study linking strobe lights to syncope
emails the gallery director a 10-point safety manifesto
"EYE-OPENER" REALIZATION
next morning
hands you noise-canceling headphones
“For galleries or grocery stores. Your sanctuary.”
handwritten note:
“Art shouldn’t demand sacrifice.
Next exhibition: botanical gardens.
No clocks. No ducks. Just us and quiet trees.
(And I packed sandwiches).
– Joon”
KIM SEOKJIN (JIN)
“BIRTHDAY RESCUE OPERATION”
“My heart can’t take encore scares. Eat the damn rice.”
Where/When:
his extravagant birthday dinner at a Michelin-starred hanwoo restaurant
you helped plan it for weeks
Why You Faint:
exhaustion (coordinating surprises)
low blood sugar (forgot lunch)
claustrophobia (overcrowded VIP section
Catalyst:
the 7th round of soju toasts
heat from the tabletop grill
HOW IT HAPPENS
you’re clapping as staff bring his “birthday crown”
the room spins
you grip his chair
“Jin-ah… too loud...”
His First Thought
“Is she drunk? No, she only had water. Did Hobi drag her into dance practice again?!”
you slump sideways into the grill tray
HIS REACTION
Physical
slams crown down
sends kimchi flying
leaps up, catches you milliseconds before your arm hits the grill
“YAH! MOVE!”
shoves a waiter aside
Verbal
booming Panic
“SOMEONE CALL AN AMBULANCE! And cancel the cake... PRIORITIES!”
hushed Urgency
cradling your face
“Hey. Look at Oppa. If you die, I’ll revive you just to kill you myself.”
Actions
fails to undo your jeogori tie
rips it with a frustrated growl
forces sugar water between your lip
“Swallow or I’ll sing ‘Super Tuna’ in your ear.”
texts Manager:
“VIP room NOW. She fainted. Bring IV drip or peach juice. FIGHTING.”
INTERNAL MONOLOGUE
“Idiot. Why did I let her organize everything? Saw her skip breakfast. Should’ve force-fed her like that trainee in 2014. Is she breathing? Yes... shallow. Grill’s off... good. Why is Tae filming? I’LL MURDER... Focus. Pulse? Weak. Cake can wait. Her lips are blue. NEVER AGAIN.”
AFTERMATH
At the Hospital (Waiting Room)
paces in his beef-stained designer shirt
ranting to Yoongi
“If the doctor says ‘stress,’ I’m deleting her work emails!”
buys all vending machine snacks
dumps them on your lap
“Protein bars are energy grenades. Pull pin with teeth.”
Guilty Confession
“This birthday was perfect… until you dropped like a drama heroine. Next year: just us and instant noodles. I’ll cook.”
At His Apartment (That Night)
builds a “recovery fortress” on his couch
= silk blankets, Squishmallows, and Dragon Ball DVDs
plays “Epiphany” on loop
“This song cures 78% of ailments. My scientific thesis.”
Quiet Breakdown (3 AM)
googles “how to make someone immortal”
rewatches your fainting moment (from Tae’s video)
cries secretly
"EYE-OPENER" REALIZATION
next morning, he serves seaweed soup with a “survival kit”
custom air-horn: “Blast if dizzy. I’ll hear it from Mars.”
embroidered headband: “World’s Okayest Planner”
handwritten note:
“New Birthday Rule: you eat with me, no surprises (except my face), if tired? SCREAM... P.S. I rehearse bridal carries now. -Your (Handsome) Lifeguard”
His Final Thought
“Best gifts aren’t beef. It’s her rolling her eyes at me… alive.”
MIN YOONGI (SUGA)
“SILENT ALARMS”
“You hid it. I see it now. Never again.”
Where/When:
his private studio
3 AM
you brought him coffee
claiming you "couldn’t sleep"
truth: migraines for 3 days, hidden behind painkillers
Why You Collapse:
overdosed on otc pain meds
chronic pain flare-up
(later) reminding him of his own years of silent suffering)
Catalyst:
reaching to adjust his monitor = a wave of dizziness hits
HOW IT HAPPENS
you sway mid-sentence about his new track
“Yoongi, the bassline is... spinning...”
His First Thought:
“Sleep-deprivation. Or lying. Her pupils are too wide.”
you crumple against his synth rack
HIS REACTION
Physical
slams laptop shut
lunges, catching your waist before your head strikes the desk edge
lowers you to the floor
cushioning your neck with his hoodie
Verbal
Biting Calm
“Look at me. Did you take pills? How many?”
his voice is like ice
Hushed Urgency (on phone)
“Studio. Now. Bring a blanket. She’s cold.”
Actions
checks pulse, pupils, breathing
hid hands tremble
finds empty painkiller pack in your pocket
crushes it in his fist
texts Manager:
“No hospital. Call Dr. Kim. Discretion.”
INTERNAL MONOLOGUE
“Fool. Both of us. Saw her flinch when I hugged her yesterday. Let it go. Like I let my shoulder go until it snapped. Pulse 110. Shallow breaths. How many pills? Two? Six? Should’ve thrown mine out years ago. Stupid. Stupid. Her skin’s gray. Not again. NOT AGAIN.”
AFTERMATH
At His Apartment (Couch Vigil)
wipes your face with a cold cloth
repeats: “Idiot,” but his thumb brushes your cheek
forces honey-water between your lips
“Swallow. Or I’ll dissect your playlist.”
Guilty Confession
“I knew. When you rubbed your temples for 20 minutes yesterday. I... walked away. My fault.”
3 AM Breakdown (Alone in Kitchen)
smashes his own painkillers in the sink
researches “chronic pain management”
books migraine specialist appointment for you
watches you sleep
replaying his injury in his head
“Shoulder gave out mid-concert. Hid it. Couldn’t lift my arm for months. You watched me. Now I watch you.”
"EYE-OPENER" REALIZATION
leaves a few things for you =
replaced painkillers
herbal tinctures, CBD oil in labeled jars
burner phone
= pre-programmed with his number
texts: “PAIN? → CALL.”
Handwritten note:
"No pills alone. I dose you. Pain? Tell me. IMMEDIATELY. My studio? Your bed now. P.S. I’ll compose your agony into something beautiful. – Yoongi”
His Final Thought
“We break in silence. No more.”
JUNG HOSEOK (J-HOPE)
“SUNSHINE BLACKOUT”
“If my passion dims your light, I’ll dance in the dark forever.”
Where/When
11 PM in the Big Hit practice room
he stayed late to drill a new MAMA-level choreo
you secretly returned after he left
determined to master the combo he sighed over earlier
Why You Faint
dehydration
overexertion (3 hours non-stop)
hidden ankle sprain from tripping earlier
Catalyst:
720º spin move
he’d muttered “needs sharper angles”
= the exact moment your vision whited out
HOW IT HAPPENS
you’re mid-spin when the mirrors kaleidoscope
you crumple against the sound system
“Hobi… can’t… lock it...”
His First Thought:
he’d actually returned for his headphones
“Why’s she...? I TOLD her to go home! Was my sigh that loud? Shit. SHIT!”
your head cracks against the speaker
...silence
HIS REACTION
Physical
drops his duffle
slides across polished floors like a base-runner
cradles your lolling head
pressing his hoodie to the bleeding temple
“NO NO NO... LOOK AT ME! SUNSHINE, STAY WITH ME!”
his voice cracks
Verbal
Booming Panic
“YOONGI-HYUNG! 4TH FLOOR! EMERGENCY!”
his voice echoes down halls
Hushed Urgency
“Breathe, baby. In… 2, 3… Out… 2, 3… My count. Only mine.”
tears dripping on your cheek
Actions
fumbles phone
drops it twice trying to call 119
attempts CPR compressions
aborts after realizing you’re breathing
INTERNAL MONOLOGUE
“Idiot. I’m the idiot. Saw her ankle wobble at 7PM. Should’ve carried her to the dorms. My frustration poisoned her. That sigh, it wasn’t at her. It was at me. Why does she always… Shibal... Pulse? Thready. Blood on my hoodie. Not her face. Never her face. Ambulance coming? Why aren’t they HERE? If she... No. Dance is joy. I made it a weapon.”
AFTERMATH
At the Hospital (Waiting Room)
paces in blood-stained dance pants
vibrating with adrenaline
forces coffee into Jimin’s hands
“Drink it. For her. Positive energy transfers!”
buys every teddy in the gift shop
arranges them around your bed like shrine offerings
Guilty Confession:
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. My face… it lies when I’m stressed. You were perfect. I’m the one who failed you.”
forehead pressed to your IV-taped hand
At the Dorm
builds a “healing nest” in his bunk
heated blanket, ARMY Bomb nightlight, Chicken Noodle Soup merch plushie
plays “Blue Side” on repeat
“The bass is a heartbeat. Sync yours to it. Please.”
Quiet Breakdown (3 AM)
watches security footage of your fall
sobs into pillow
researches “dance pedagogy trauma”
drafts a 10-Step Kindness Curriculum for trainees
lists 100 Things I Love About Her Dancing in his Notes app
#76: “The way her pinky lifts like a bird taking flight.”
“New Practice Rules: Hydrate OR I water-gun you. Ankle pain means piggyback rides. My sighs and side eyes are MINE to fix. P.S. The combo? You owned it before you fell. - HOBI"
His Final Thought
“Real MVPs don’t break their bodies to mend my pride.”
PARK JIMIN
“THE WEIGHT OF WORTH”
“My love isn’t measured in grams. It’s the universe.”
Where/When:
late-night dance practice for his solo comeback
you stayed to support him
Why You Faint
mimicking his old habit
sipping water for 48 hours to “match idols discipline.”
Catalyst
complex floor spin sequence
heat, exhaustion, emptiness = collapse
HOW IT HAPPENS
you’re taking notes in the corner as he drills a move 17 times
he turns, then sees you swaying
“Jimin-ah… stars…”
His First Thought
“The lights are dim? No... her. That sway… I know that sway. FUCK.”
you crumple mid-step toward the mirror
HIS REACTION
Physical
dives across the studio
sliding on knees
tearing his designer sweats
catches your temple inches from the mirrored wall
“DON’T YOU DARE!”
voice raw, cracking
Verbal
screams
“YOONGI-HYUNG! GLUCOSE! NOW!”
echoes in empty studio
whispers, cradling you
“I’ll kidnap you to a bakery. Just breathe, jagiya.
Actions
unzips his hoodie, then wraps you like a cocoon
“Cold? I’m here.”
texts group chat:
“EMERGENCY. Practice room. Bring, banana milk, warm blankets, my will to live if she doesn’t wake up.”
INTERNAL MONOLOGUE
“Stupid. Stupid. Saw her water bottle all day. Saw the hollow cheeks. I KNEW... why didn’t I stop her? Hyung would’ve stopped me. Is her pulse there? Please. Not like back then... Not her. Never her. If she dies, I burn this studio down.”
AFTERMATH
At the Hospital (Waiting Room)
rocks in plastic chair
your hand crushed in his
ignores his bleeding knees
Guilty Confession
“This is my fault. My… sickness. You thought starving was love? This is love...”
presses your palm to his tear-soaked cheek
At His Apartment (That Night)
builds a “healing nest” in his bed
= weighted blanket, heated pads
plays “Save me” on loop
“Hear the pain? That’s past-me. Don’t be past-me.”
Quiet Breakdown
googles “calories in tears”
sobs harder.
cooks
sits cross-legged force-feeding you
"EYE-OPENER" REALIZATION
gifts you embroidered hoodie = “Jimin’s Heartbeat”
handwritten note:
“New Rules... we eat like kings. My past pain isn’t your bible. If hungry? STEAL MY LUNCH. P.S. I dance better with you fed..."
His Final Thought
“Her weight in my arms was light. The weight of her worth? Infinite. That’s my truth.”
KIM TAEHYUNG (V)
“STAIRWAY TO THE STARS (AND SCARS)”
“Fights are fireflies; bright then gone. But your pain? That’s a constellation I never want to see.”
Where/When:
his vintage loft after a heated debate about his "impulsive" solo trip to Morocco
Why You Fall
you slipped rushing down the spiral staircase post-argument
still shaking
Catalyst:
worn velvet carpet edge
and tear-blurred vision
HOW IT HAPPENS
Argument:
you shout
“You’re always chasing dreams! What about us?”
he turns away, his voice icy
“If my dreams suffocate you, the door’s right there."
you flee toward the stairs
he hears you gasp
then thud-thud-CRACK
your ankle hitting wrought iron
your choked sob, before you faint from pain
His First Thought
“...Was that her? No. No. Please be a dropped sculpture. Please.”
HIS REACTION
Physical
drops antique camera, the lens shatters
leaps over the sofa in 3 strides
sliding to your side
“DON’T MOVE!”
hands hovering, terrified to touch, then realising you fainted
Verbal
Raw Panic
“I’M SORRY! I’M SORRY! I DIDN’T MEAN IT!”
repeating like a prayer
Hushed Urgency
presses forehead to yours
“Breathe, baby. Breathe for TaeTae."
Actions
wraps you in his Gucci scarf
soaking blood from your brow
texts Jimin:
“LOFT. STAIRS. BROKEN. HELP.”
forgets to send
cradles your ankle after you came back
“Did the stars kiss you too hard? I’ll scold them.”
INTERNAL MONOLOGUE
“Idiot. KING IDIOT. Saw her crying. Should’ve hugged her. Now she’s bleeding. Her ankle, is it bent? Don’t puke. Focus. Jimin’s not answering. Call 119? Can’t remember numbers. Her skin’s cold. Did I kill us? Please no. I’ll sell the camera. Burn my passport. Just let her be okay.”
AFTERMATH
At the Hospital (ER)
paces in socked feet
forgot shoes at home
clutching your purse like a teddy bear
buys all your favourite snacks and a teddy bear from the gift shop
builds a pyramid of Pocky on your cast
“Food is mortar. Heals bones.”
Guilty Confession:
“The Morocco trip… I booked it for us. Wanted to surprise you under the desert stars. Now the stars hate me.”
At the Loft (That Night)
transforms the living room into a “healing galaxy”
= fairy lights, Van Gogh projections, velvet pillow moat
plays “Winter Bear” on vinyl
lips trembling
“This song has 9,000 healing Hz.”
Quiet Breakdown
stares at the bloodstained stair
paints it gold “to trap the pain”
drowns in guilt
texts you 57 times (unsent):
“Can you ever forgive me?”
"EYE-OPENER" REALIZATION
brings a custom ankle brace
painted with clouds and a tiny door labeled “Tae’s Heart”
plane ticket to Marrakech
departure: “When Doc Says Go”
handwritten note:
“Fights are thunderstorms.
I forget how hard rain hits.
I’ll build you an ark next time.
P.S. The stairs are now a ‘safety slide.’
– Your Foolish Dreamer”
His Final Thought
“Her smile is the only visa I need.”
JEON JEONGGUK (JUNGKOOK)
“SHADOWS AND STEAM”
“I’ll break every door in the world if it keeps you safe.”
Where/When
his bathroom after a 2AM gym session
you’re showering
he’s just returned
Why You Slip/Faint
exhaustion (72hr work marathon after your company messed up big)
wet tiles
panic when he slams the door open; thinking it’s an intruder
Catalyst
your scream
you scramble back, hitting your head on the faucet
HOW IT HAPPENS
steam blurs the glass
you hear the thud of him kicking off shoes
then the door swings open
“WHO’S...?”
Your Reaction
wheel-spin on wet tiles
crack of skull against chrome
vision bleeds black as you crumple
His First Thought
“Not her. Not like Mina's broken wrist. NOT AGAIN.”
(Mina = staffer hurt in sasaeng ambush)
HIS REACTION
Physical
dives across the bathroom
knees skidding on water
catches your limp body mid-fall
hurting his elbow
“FUCK... LOOK AT ME!”
shakes your shoulders, then freezes
Verbal
Guttural Panic
“911--- NOW! HEAD INJURY! PENTHOUSE 7!”
shouts into his Apple Watch
Hushed Urgency
cradling your cheek
“I’m here. Not them. Me. Breathe, jagiya. Please.”
Actions
rips towels down
wraps you like a cocoon
presses towel to your bleeding scalp
hands trembling
“Stay awake. Talk to me. Anything.”
texts Security:
“CODE BLACK. MY BATHROOM. LOCK BUILDING DOWN.”
INTERNAL MONOLOGUE
“Stupid. STUPID. Heard water...thought it was them climbing through vents like last week. Saw her shadow; moved before thinking. Her head... so much blood. Should’ve knocked. Should’ve called first. Pulse? Thready. Eyes dilated? Can’t tell. Ambulance ETA? 4 mins. Too long. If she dies..."
AFTERMATH
At the Hospital (CT Scan Waiting)
paces in blood-soaked gym shorts
snarling at paparazzi outside
“One photo and I break that lens.”
forces waterbottle into your IV-drip hand
“Drink. Or I’ll sing ‘Seven’ on repeat.”
Guilty Confession
“I bought this penthouse ‘cause it had panic rooms... but I’m the one who hurt you.”
At His House (That Night)
gets blackout curtains
plays “Still With You” on acoustic
“This song healed my anxiety. Work for you too.”
Quiet Breakdown
watches cam footage
vomits seeing your limb body on the stretcher
orders $50k of non-slip flooring
tears out every tile in the penthouse
texts management:
“No schedules. Protecting her is my job now.”
"EYE-OPENER" REALIZATION
kneels by your bed at dawn
gets panic buttons in evbery room
“Push if scared. I come running. Quietly.”
gifts you necklace with both your names engraved
“Wear these. Security knows they mean touch her and die.”
handwritten note;
“New Rules... I knock. Always. Please shower when I’m home, so I catch you; and if afraid? Say my name. I’ll answer. P.S. I re-learned first aid. - JK"
His Final Thought
“Love isn’t roses. It’s checking locks 17 times... so she never does.”
🔮 preview. Despite your tense relationship with Seungcheol, you’ve done your best to support him as a sister, and you know his teammates by sight alone. Jeon Wonwoo and Kim Mingyu, two Olympians… two sexy, athletic, very fuckable Olympians. You’ve watched Too Hot to Handle and Love Island, you’ve watched Singles Inferno, and you’re not on any of those shows. No, you’re in Thailand for your brother’s wedding, staring at his work besties like they’re your next meal. You know how problematic this is, but you’re yet undecided on just how far you want to go with this. All you know, is you’re alone at a bar, there’s two gorgeous men, and you’re feeling just lonely enough to go talk to them.
tw/cw. Unprotected sex, threesome, pussy eating, blow job, fingering, masturbation, spit roasting, double penetration, doggy style, missionary, multiple sex positions, multiple reader orgasms, pain kink, spanking, spitting, choking, dom!Wonwoo, eager!Mingyu, overstimulation, breast worship, dirty talk, praise, dry humping/grinding, undertones of therapy/childhood sibling rivalry/bad family dynamics, etc… I pet names: (hers) gorgeous, baby.
👹 rating.18+ explicit I wc. 10.9k
🍭 aus. Surfer Meanie au, Destination-Wedding au, my friend’s sister is hot au, etc…
☀️ mlist + an. I want to start this off by saying, I don’t know much about surfing or the Olympics, but fuck it, this is fanfic, and surfer Meanie is too hot to pass up.
Prologue:
“And in an astonishing turn of events, Choi Seungcheol, representing South Korea in surfing, wins silver at this year's Olympics! I think we were all shocked when South Korea qualified for not two, but three contenders this year, and what contenders these men have been. We can see Jeon Wonwoo and Kim Mingyu watching from the beach, clapping for their teammate… and what’s this? Choi Seungcheol is not approaching his team, no! He’s going for his longtime girlfriend! Love is definitely in the air here today at the Olympics- and… no, is he getting down on one knee? I can not believe my eyes! Choi Seungcheol of team South Korea, who has just won a silver in surfing, is proposing to his girlfriend right here on the beach! What an end to the day for team South Korea!”
One (Day)
Wonwoo’s never been a fan of weddings, and he loves destination weddings even less, but he supposes Thailand isn’t the worst place for this sort of event. The waves are good, the climate is perfect, and with the entire wedding party scattered among the massive resort, Wonwoo is confident he’ll be able to slip away and have alone time if need be.
Sure, he’s excited for Seungcheol. They’re teammates, and while the new silver medalist has always kept his work and private life separate, Wonwoo knows supporting his friend at the start of the next chapter of his life is the right thing to do.
Besides, as Wonwoo walks through the resort an hour after arriving, he’s got Mingyu by his side, and they’re both eager to see what the waves here look like. It’s a week-long destination wedding, but Wonwoo’s pretty sure only two of those seven days will be really hard-core in terms of his obligations to the groom.
The resort has a number of amenities, one of which is an entire rack of surfboards, and as the two men approach it, Wonwoo notices you on the beach.
You’re under a shade umbrella, relaxing on a lounge. Unlike many people here, you’re not on your phone or reading a book, you’re simply looking out at the ocean.
It’s as if you must sense his gaze, because your head turns, and your eyes meet.
Wonwoo swallows the lump in his throat, turning his attention back to the boards.
He’s never been one for one-night stands and is even less enthusiastic about hooking up with some random at a resort in Thailand while he’s there for his friend’s wedding. No, this week is all going to be training, relaxing in his off hours, and supporting Seungcheol, no matter how hot you might be.
One (Night)
You’ve never been super close with your older brother Seungcheol. You suppose it boils down in part to him being the golden child. He was the athletics prodigy, and now, - surprise, surprise - he’s an Olympic-level silver medalist. Growing up in an environment where your sibling was overtly favored over yourself was difficult, and you spent the majority of your teen years being upset about it.
Through your anger, you found art, and now, you’re a successful entrepreneur. You work for yourself, you work doing what you want and when you want it. You have freedom, and maybe your childhood was a blessing in disguise.
Having gone through years of therapy to unpack this dysfunctional family system, you don’t hold very much anger anymore, and you’re actually kind of happy to be in Thailand to support Seungcheol, who really had no fault in your upbringing.
However, even with admitting all of this to yourself, you also know you don’t want to spend the entire week attached to your overbearing and judgemental mother’s hip, so here you are, in the late evening after the dinner rush, enjoying a meal all by yourself in the hotel restaurant.
It’s as you’re finishing your meal that you recognize two men entering the bar.
Despite your tense relationship with Seungcheol, you’ve done your best to support him as a sister, and you know his teammates by sight alone.
Jeon Wonwoo and Kim Mingyu, two Olympians… two sexy, athletic, very fuckable Olympians.
You’ve watched Too Hot to Handle and Love Island, you’ve watched Singles Inferno, and you’re not on any of those shows. No, you’re in Thailand for your brother’s wedding, staring at his work besties like they’re your next meal. You know how problematic this is, but you’re yet undecided on just how far you want to go with this. All you know, is you’re alone at a bar, there’s two gorgeous men, and you’re feeling just lonely enough to go talk to them.
Finishing your drink, you stand up, wobbling slightly in your high heels as you set off to join the Olympians at the bar.
You settle next to the larger of the two, Kim Mingyu, taking a seat while his eyes turn to you.
“Hi.” You smile.
“Hi.” He grins back at you, all handsome and puppy-like.
“So you two are the infamous surfers,” you muse. “I’m Seungcheol’s sister, y/n.”
You suppose there’s no use glossing over the fact that you’re related to their friend, after all, they’re going to find out sooner or later.
Honesty has always been the best policy, and as recognition flashes over Mingyu’s features, you realize your brother must have mentioned you to them at least once or twice.
“Wait, you’re Seungcheol’s sister?” Mingyu asks in shock.
“In the flesh,” you laugh, motioning at the bartender for another drink. “What did he say about me?”
“He said you’re some artist,” Wonwoo chimes in, leaning over the bar top to get a better look at you.
“Some artist,” you scoff. “I sell five-figure art, but if I’m just some artist, then fine.”
“Five figures?” Mingyu turns to exchange a look with Wonwoo.
“Anything we would know? Are you in galleries?” the more inquisitive of the two asks.
“I’ve actually got an exhibition coming up,” you admit. “Celebrating the new generation of female artists in South Korea.”
“That sounds huge!” Mingyu gasps.
“In the art scene, it’s a pretty big deal,” you laugh.
“Guess you’re just a family of overachievers,” Wonwoo muses with a smile, waving the bartender over as he gives you your second drink.
“Some fields are more recognized than others,” you sigh, fiddling with your straw.
“I always thought artists were super cool!” Mingyu tells you. “I draw a little, but I’m nowhere near your level, and Wonwoo, well, he can’t even draw a straight line.”
“Hey!” Wonwoo objects, turning his narrow gaze on his friend.
You watch the two of them fuss together, and you try your best to figure out which one is more attractive, but it’s simply impossible.
They’re both stunning in their own right. Mingyu has those puppy-like, boyish good looks. He’s big and handsome and you can tell he knows it. Wonwoo, in contrast, is quieter, but he’s regal in a way you can’t quite put your finger on. He’s smaller than Mingyu, shorter, but he’s still larger than the average male, and his shoulders aren’t something to complain about either.
“So how did you get into art?” Mingyu asks, turning to look at you again.
“Uh… I think I was left to my own devices a lot as a kid. Seungcheol always had a soccer practice or a football game, and then it was going to the beach all the time- so I had to learn to find something to do with all my time waiting for him to finish up his sports.” You frown a little. Although you’ve learned through therapy to find the silver lining, it can still be hard at times to think back on your upbringing and all the times you were in a state of neglect. “Anyways, how about you guys? Surfing isn’t usually the first Olympic sport people decide to give a go.”
“I lived in Hawaii for a bit when I was a kid,” Mingyu tells you. “Surfing is religion there, and I was lucky to have a lot of mentors who helped me get started.”
“That sounds nice,” you smile.
“And Wonwoo, well, he was a swimmer first,” Mingyu explains, speaking for his quiet friend.
“I tried surfing one day and never looked back,” Wonwoo finishes. “Nothing spectacular.”
“You can say that, but here we all are, at the top of our game, in Thailand to celebrate an Olympic silver medalist,” you muse, lifting your drink. “I’d say we’re all doing pretty spectacularly.”
“I like the way you think,” Mingyu grins, raising his glass.
Wonwoo says nothing, but he joins you in your cheers, and you all drink together.
“So…” Mingyu takes a deep breath and puts his empty glass down, “how did a guy like Seungcheol get a hot sister like you?”
“Guess all the pretty genes went to me,” you tease, skin heating with pleasure at the compliment.
“I wonder if this is why Seungcheol doesn’t talk about you often,” Wonwoo says quietly.
“What do you mean?” You cock your head to the side.
“I think he’s just saying, like…” Mingyu searches for the right words, “If Seungcheol ever showed his work friends your picture, we’d all… you know, think you’re hot.”
“You two are just trying to butter me up,” you laugh, heart beginning to thump faster in your chest.
Wonwoo leans forward. “Is it working?”
Two (Day)
It might be his wedding week, but Seungcheol will be damned if he doesn’t spend even a bit of time enjoying Thailand’s ocean.
He’s up early, with Wonwoo and Mingyu beside him as they float on their surfboards after a couple of really good waves. Seungcheol really appreciates his work friends, they’re not as invested in his personal life, so when he’s with them, he can just forget about all the chaos and wedding jitters.
“So… Olympics 2028,” Seungcheol breathes.
“Los Angeles,” Mingyu agrees with a nod.
Seungcheol looks at his friends. “How are we feeling?”
“We’re feeling like you should retire and give us a chance,” Wonwoo jokes, flashing one of his rare smiles.
“We’re also feeling like LA waves are going to be insane… and they have sharks,” Mingyu points out.
Seungcheol laughs at his friends. Of course, Wonwoo would be thinking of medals, and Mingyu would be more focused on what could eat him while trying to win big.
“I’m sure they’ll have shark watch or something,” Seungcheol points out.
“Yeah, but Great Whites can attack from below!” Mingyu exclaims. “They’re designed to blend in with water, they’ve got grey coloring on the tops of their bodies so they’re harder to see!”
“Can we not talk about sharks while we’re in the ocean on surfboards?” Wonwoo sighs.
“If it makes you feel better, the only really bad shark in Thailand is the bull shark, no Great Whites,” Seungcheol offers, having done research on the subject before booking the resort for his wedding.
“Bull sharks are still a top three-man eater,” Mingyu frowns, looking down at the water.
“Don’t bull sharks usually attack in shallows?” Wonwoo asks. “Besides, you lived in Hawaii for a while, you’re still terrified of sharks?”
Seungcheol drowns out what his friends are talking about at this point, his gaze shifting to the beach. His eyes land on you, walking on the sand in search of a lounger.
You must notice he’s seen you because you lift your hand to give him a wave, which Seungcheol returns.
That’s when he notices that his friends have gone quiet.
“Are you guys done your shark talk?” Seungcheol sighs. “Ready to actually catch some waves?”
Wonwoo chuckles a little, and Seungcheol doesn’t miss the look he exchanges with Mingyu.
“We met her last night at the bar,” Mingyu explains. “She seems nice.”
“Yeah, she is what she is,” Seungcheol sighs. He doesn’t like to think too hard about family history, about the way he felt like he had to compete with you growing up. Somewhere, deep down in Seungcheol’s soul, he’s always been a winner, and when he was a kid, he hadn’t really realized that winning meant making a loser out of his sibling. There’s regret there, but Seungcheol’s not about to put in the hours that you have with a therapist to unpack all of it.
“There’s not much resemblance between the two of you,” Wonwoo muses.
“Yeah, I got the gene for good looks,” Seungcheol says, trying to make a joke out of it.
Wonwoo laughs. “Debatable.”
A sigh escapes Seungcheol before he can stop it. “Fuck this, let's get some waves. And just so we’re all clear, my sister is off limits.”
Two (Night)
Mingyu loves night swimming, and the resort has so many wonderful pools for him to be alone in while he does laps.
He’s sort of falling in love with Thailand. The sounds of animals in all the luscious trees, the warm temperature even now that the sun has gone down- God, he could get used to this.
He finishes up his swim, switching to a relaxed breaststroke to cool down, and that’s when he notices you sitting by the pool. You’re drinking a beer, and you’ve got a second bottle on the ground next to your lounger.
“Hi,” you smile.
“Hi,” he laughs. “Are you waiting for me?”
“Yeah. I saw you swimming, figured I’d get us some beers.”
Mingyu comes to the side of the pool, grabbing at the ledge and letting out a breath as you hold the second bottle out for him.
“I don’t usually drink after a workout,” he chuckles.
“Well, it would be a shame for me to drink alone,” you tease.
Mingyu can only nod at the statement, lifting the beer to his lips.
“How was your day?” you ask.
“Pretty good. It started off with your brother, and then we caught some waves. Wonwoo and I went to look at a monastery or something in town today. It was nice.”
“Definitely sounds like a good day in Thailand,” you muse.
“How about you? Up to anything fun?”
“Not really.” You release a deep breath, and Mingyu gets the suspicion that this whole thing isn’t as much of a vacation for you as it is for them. “I’m supposed to be taking the week off, having just finished a whole bunch of work these past few months, but I don’t know, this place is so beautiful, I really wish I had some paint and canvas with me.”
“I’m sure we could find an art supply store or something?” Mingyu offers.
You wave your hand. “It’s okay. Like I said, I’m supposed to be taking the week off.”
“We’re all supposed to be taking the week off,” Mingyu tells you, “but Seungcheol, Wonwoo and I were all catching waves this morning, and I’m sure other people are taking work calls- it’s easy to say we’re here on vacation so we should just put out real lives to the side, but it’s another thing to actually do that, you know?”
“Yeah, I know.” You let out a laugh. “Capitalism is a bitch.”
Mingyu considers your words. “I guess capitalism is part of it, but… we all have things we’re good at, things we love to do. I think capitalism sometimes takes the joy out of our hobbies if we’re making money off those hobbies in the real world. We’re surfing to keep our skill level up, but we’re also doing it for ourselves. I’m sure if you got a drawing journal or something and drew for yourself, it wouldn’t be hurting anyone.”
“And here I thought you were just another pretty face,” you muse with a grin, sipping your beer.
“You don’t know me that well yet.”
“We can change that,” you suggest. “Tell me more about you. I’m not stepping on any girlfriend’s toes by chatting with you right now, am I?”
“Nah, I’m single,” Mingyu laughs.
“And how is an Olympic athlete like you single?”
“Good question.” Mingyu thinks about it for a moment. “I guess… Wonwoo and I are homebodies. We’ve been renting together since university, and we both just… like to stay home.”
“I didn’t know the two of you were roommates.”
“Yeah, it’s not something we talk about too often,” Mingyu chuckles. “Two Olympians living together isn’t the most endearing thing.”
“I think it’s pretty endearing.”
“You do?”
“Yeah, I mean, it’s clear the two of you are super close.”
“We are.”
“So… I asked about stepping on any girlfriend’s toes… should I have asked about stepping on a boyfriend’s turf?”
Mingyu’s heart leaps in his chest. “No!” he blurts out. “Wonwoo and I aren’t- I mean… no, we’re not together or anything. We’re super close, but no.”
“You’re saying the word no, but I’m hearing there’s more to the story,” you point out.
“I mean…” Mingyu can’t even meet your eyes. “He and I are both into girls, it’s just- sometimes we’re into the same girl? So, yes, I’ve seen his dick, but we’re also just athletes so that’s part of the gig-”
“Mingyu,” you interrupt him. “Take a breath.”
“Fuck.” Mingyu takes a breath as well as a sip of beer. “You think I’m super weird now.”
“Not at all. You’re not the first athletes to admit to sharing girls. I hear it’s a pretty common thing actually.”
“It is?” Mingyu asks in shock.
“Apparently,” you shrug. “Look up puck bunny confessionals and all sorts of girls will tell you that they’ve been tag-teamed at hockey events, and that’s just hockey.”
Mingyu’s too shy to ask for more details, and he doesn’t even know what a ‘puck bunny’ is, so he decides to switch topics as fast as he can. “Do you uh… have plans for tomorrow?”
You lean back in the lounger. “Was considering going on a snorkeling thing in the morning. The resort offers tours. But… I didn’t really want to go alone. Fancy a snorkeling adventure with me tomorrow?”
“As long as we don’t talk about puck rabbits and double trouble athlete tag teams,” Mingyu chuckles nervously.
You grin. “I’ll be on my best behavior.”
Three (Day)
Wonwoo hadn’t been super excited when Mingyu convinced him to go snorkeling with you, but now that you’re all on the boat, he realizes it’s not the worst thing in the world.
“This alcove is well known for its whale sharks,” the tour guide says. “I know what you’re all thinking, sharks! Oh no! But rest assured, whale sharks are completely harmless to humans. I got a tip from one of my fishing friends that there’s a whale shark here today, how do we feel about getting in the water?”
Wonwoo looks at Mingyu immediately, and the larger Olympian doesn’t seem very enthusiastic about the prospect of diving with sharks.
“Let’s do it!” you say, surprising both men as you stand up.
The guide is as enthusiastic about it as you are, and soon the two of you are getting into the water while Mingyu and Wonwoo wait on the boat.
“She’s quite adventurous, isn’t she?” the captain of the small vessel asks.
“It would appear that way,” Wonwoo sighs.
“She a friend of yours?”
“We’re friends with her brother, he’s here for his wedding, at the resort,” Mingyu explains.
“Ah, I see. You’re both being good friends making sure his sister is okay while he gets ready for his wedding,” the captain nods.
“We’re not taking very good care of her from here,” Wonwoo frowns.
The captain looks out at the water, letting out a breath. “I assure you, whale sharks are perfectly safe.”
“Fuck it.” Wonwoo strips his shirt off, grabbing a snorkel and some goggles.
“Seriously?” Mingyu asks in shock.
“They’re harmless,” Wonwoo points out. “We’ll regret it if we don’t go in.”
Mingyu sighs, but he nods, agreeing with Wonwoo.
They both get ready, and then, they slowly lower themselves into the warm water.
For someone who spends so much time on the water, Wonwoo doesn’t spend a lot of time looking in the water. He’s immediately taken by the beauty of everything, the fish, the reefs- and he can see you and the guide in the distance next to a massive shape.
Giving a nod to Mingyu, the two of them begin to swim over to you. Wonwoo can feel his heart beginning to thump wildly in his chest at the sight of the whale shark.
He keeps telling himself that the shark is harmless, but it’s hard to keep even breathing when you’re next to such a massive animal.
Taking his eyes off the whale shark, Wonwoo turns his attention to you.
You look so happy, and fearless. It’s as if this is the first time Wonwoo’s seeing you in your element. Your walls aren’t up, it’s not all family politics and saving face- no, you’re being completely yourself, and it’s a beautiful sight.
The three of you all surface, and Mingyu immediately starts gushing to you about how amazing this whole thing is.
The both of you are like two peas in a pod, and Wonwoo, who has a harder time joining conversations, decides to stay out of it.
He simply watches, noting how good you and Mingyu look together… which kind of sucks, since Mingyu always gets the girls.
Wonwoo wants someone too, he wants someone fun, someone who brings out the wild side in himself- but he knows his greatest failing is being shy.
He was the odd kid in high school, a nerd- but at the same time, he was an athlete who no one would guess to be athletic just by looking at him.
Wonwoo still finds himself stuck in this limbo place at times. He knows who he is inside. He knows he’s a good person, with values. He knows he’s good at his sport. But he just can’t find it within himself to be the most social person, and sometimes, like now, that fact comes back to bite him in the ass.
Three (Night)
You hadn’t expected Seungcheol to ask you to come get post-dinner drinks with him, and you reluctantly walk up to the bar to meet your brother. “Hey, Cheol.”
“Hey. Didn’t see you all day.”
“I went snorkeling, saw a whale shark, it was super cool,” you smile.
“Didn’t see Mingyu or Wonwoo all day either.”
“They came with me,” you sigh. “I didn’t want to go alone.”
“I guess that makes sense.” Seungcheol looks down at his drink. “So… you trying to steal my friends now?”
“What?”
“They’re my friends, and you also can’t have both of them.”
You can’t believe the words coming out of his mouth. “Cheol, we’re on vacation-”
“Yeah, but when I go home, these aren’t just some randoms. These are my friends, the guys I see all the time. This isn’t some innocent ‘hey I’m flirting with two guys at a resort, sort of thing,’ and we both know it.”
“Even if I was flirting with both of them, which I won’t admit to, it’s the twenty-first century, I’m pretty sure people are allowed to date more than one person.”
“You won’t admit to it, but you think it’s okay to date both of them,” your brother counters.
“Look, I thought you invited me for a drink, not an interrogation.”
“I’m just trying to look out for you,” Seungcheol defends himself. “We’re here in Thailand, I’m getting married- and you’re considering dating two of my friends. What if you want to get married one day, what then?”
“Then I get married?”
Seungcheol lets out a groan. “But if you’re dating two guys-”
“Like I said, I’m on vacation.”
“So you’re not thinking long-term with Wonwoo or Mingyu?”
“I just met them!”
“Okay, so we’re in agreement, no dating Wonwoo or Mingyu.”
“Seungcheol.” You shake your head, already exhausted with this conversation.
“What?”
“I’m so tired.”
“Hitting on two men will do that to you.”
“I’m going back to my room,” you decide. “And just so you know, I’m an artist. I’m not exactly a traditionalist the way you are, and what I choose to do with my love life is my business.”
Four (Day)
Today isn’t going exactly the way Seungcheol had planned. He’d woken up with this sinking feeling after his discussion with you last night, and he’d decided then and there to get Mingyu and Wonwoo away from the resort for the day.
So here he is, clambering up a mountain on a hiking trail with his workmates, and Seungcheol can’t find the words to converse with the two men who have seemingly been hitting on you.
Wonwoo and Mingyu always find a way to chat though, and Seungcheol listens to them behind him as he forges the way up the mountain.
“Oh, Seungcheol! Did we mention we went snorkeling with your sister yesterday?” Mingyu asks.
“I heard about that,” Seungcheol sighs.
“Did you talk to y/n?” Mingyu questions.
“Yeah, she told me there was a whale shark or something?”
“It was the coolest thing ever!” the puppylike surfer exclaims. “It was the biggest animal I’ve ever seen!”
“We couldn’t let your sister go off on some boat with strangers alone,” Wonwoo says bluntly. “And we knew you were busy with wedding stuff, so we figured we’d tag along with her.”
Seungcheol doesn’t even know what to say.
Logically, it makes sense that Wonwoo and Mingyu would go with you to make sure you were safe- but Seungcheol can’t help this sinking feeling that they’re the men he should be worried about you being around.
Not that Wonwoo or Mingyu would ever do anything bad to you- perhaps Seungcheol worries about your man-eating ways.
Mingyu had been terrified of ‘man-eating sharks,’ but he’s ignoring the clearest danger; you.
Seungcheol has seen the way you date. Flings here and there. You capture men with your mysterious artist allure, and they fall head over heels for you, only for you to leave them on the curb with a new muse for your canvas.
He doesn't want Mingyu and Wonwoo to be just another inspiration for emotional painting in your next art installation.
But how does he even say that to them? How does he tell Mingyu and Wonwoo that you’re practically a love witch, who has very little care for the men you toy with?
Seungcheol bites his tongue. Maybe this is just a lesson they have to learn. But fuck, at what cost?
Four (Night)
“So…” Mingyu sighs, sitting on his bed as he stares at Wonwoo on his own mattress. “Cheol is onto us.”
“Huh?” Wonwoo looks up from his phone.
“Seungcheol was being so weird today on that hike, and he was even weirder when we talked about his sister. I think he’s onto us.”
“Onto us about what?”
Mingyu lets out another deep breath. “About us both being into y/n.”
“Hmm?”
“Come on, it’s the elephant in the room.” Mingyu rolls his eyes with exasperation. “We haven’t talked about it, but we both know what’s happening. It’s not the first time.”
“It’s the first time the girl we’re into has been a friend’s sister,” Wonwoo points out. “Of course, Seungcheol is weird about it.”
Mingyu lays down on his bed, staring at the ceiling. “I really like her.”
“You really like every girl who’s cute, a little artsy, and up for adventure.”
“As if you’re not into the same thing,” Mingyu scoffs.
“Never said I wasn’t.”
Mingyu turns to look at Wonwoo, who is back to staring at his phone. It looks as if he’s given up on this whole thing, and Mingyu’s not quite sure what to make of it. “So… are you like… not going to try anything because she’s Seungcheol’s sister, or…?”
“It’s probably best if we keep her off limits.”
“Where’s the fun in that!? We wouldn’t be the first sports friends to tag team a girl!” Mingyu points out, thinking back to the discussion the two of you had about puck bunnies, which he has since looked up.
“We’re not going to tag team Seungcheol’s sister,” Wonwoo states, but he doesn’t sound too convinced, and neither is Mingyu.
Five (Day)
The close wedding party is doing a wedding rehearsal today, and Mingyu’s kind of shocked to run into you at the pool bar before dinner. He hadn’t expected to see any of the Chois today, and it’s a welcome surprise as he comes to sit with you.
“Hey,” he smiles.
“Hey yourself,” you grin, turning in your seat to get a better look at him.
“How's the rehearsal going?”
You take a deep breath. “As you’d expect it to. Lots and lots of details.”
“And you’re here… having a drink.”
“I don’t have a speech, so it’s not like I needed guiding on anything for this hour of the rehearsal,” you muse.
“No speech?” Mingyu can’t hide his surprise. “But you’re the sister of the groom! And you’re an artist!”
“I'm guessing Seungcheol doesn’t want me taking any… artistic liberties if you know what I mean,” you laugh.
“Artistic liberties like…?”
“You know,” you flip your hair over your shoulder, “talking about the time he used a straw to spit boba pearls in my hair when I was seven and told me they were fish eyes, and how he used to be so immature, now he’s a man, and slightly more adult. That I’m so happy his wife found him because he’s always needed a Mommy’s approval and that’s exactly what she gives him. That sort of thing.”
“Ouch,” Mingyu lets out a whistle. “Definitely wouldn’t want that in a speech at my wedding.”
“Exactly, which is why I’m here, getting my… third drink in the past hour? Just want this whole night to be over.”
“Are you happy for Seungcheol at least?”
“Of course, I’m happy for him, he found a woman to put up with his bullshit.” You shake your head, releasing another sigh. “I am happy for him, I am. Just… family events make me a little neurotic.”
“I guess that’s understandable.”
“It doesn’t help that the one meaningful conversation I’ve had with Cheol since I got here was him warning me not to be a whore who sleeps around with his friends.”
“Huh?” Mingyu freezes.
“He didn’t use those exact words, per se, but, the general connotation was he’ll think I’m a whore if I’m interested in two people at once. I think he forgets about the time in high school when he was stringing along two girls at the same time. At the start of relationships, there’s often overlap, and I think he’s been with his fiancee so long that he forgets about that.”
“It’s also… you know, the twenty-first century.”
“That’s what I said!” you laugh, reaching out to push Mingyu’s shoulder. “It’s the time of sexual liberation, of threesomes and polyamory and whole planned orgy events in speakeasies.”
“I don’t know what a speakeasy is.”
“That’s okay, hot shot,” you grin. “I could always take you to one sometime.”
“Yeah?”
“If Seungcheol doesn’t forbid me completely from being interested in you, I’d love to maybe go out once we’re all back in the city.”
“What about Wonwoo?”
“He can come too,” you say lazily, waving your hand, and it’s clear at that moment that you’re a little tipsy.
“So… you’re interested in two guys.”
“And you both seem to be okay with it,” you point out.
“We are,” Mingyu states, deciding to speak for Wonwoo. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
“I knew it!”
Five (Night)
The rehearsal is finally done, and you can’t get Mingyu out of your head. You find yourself stumbling to his room, and it’s only when you knock and Wonwoo answers, that you remember the two of them are shacking up together.
“Oh,” you blink at the tall, stoic man.
“Hi.”
“I’m uh… looking for Mingyu.”
“He’s probably doing laps at the pool,” Wonwoo tells you, leaning against the door frame. “I could walk you down there, or you could wait here till he comes back.”
“I…” You swallow thickly, too drunk to make decisions.
“Looks like you need some water,” Wonwoo muses, looking you up and down. “Come in.”
He pushes the door wider for you, and you stumble into the room, collapsing onto one of the sofa chairs. Wonwoo grabs a bottle of water for you from the small mini fridge, handing it over.
“Looks like the rehearsal was a shit show,” he chuckles.
“All family events are shit shows,” you sigh, taking a huge gulp of water.
“So… you and Mingyu.”
“What about me and Mingyu?” You narrow your eyes at the pretty man.
Wonwoo shrugs, laughing to himself. “I guess I’m just not surprised.”
“Is he usually the one who gets the girls?”
You can tell from the way Wonwoo sighs and leans back that you’ve hit the nail on the head.
“He’s just more of an extrovert,” Wonwoo says diplomatically. “Girls are into that.”
“Quiet types can be hot,” you point out. “I don’t have a preference one way or the other.”
Wonwoo meets your gaze, and you can feel him trying to assess you, to assess this situation that you’ve brought to his door.
You’re horny when you’re drunk, and you didn’t bring any sex toys on vacation, so it’s safe to say you’re wound up.
“Mingyu told me that Seungcheol had a chat with you about the two of us.”
“He did?” you ask in shock.
“There’s not much Mingyu doesn’t tell me.”
“And this is why I thought maybe the two of you were a couple!”
Wonwoo shakes his head at you, but there’s a smile brewing on the corners of his lips. “Have some more water.”
You roll your eyes at him but you do as you’re told. “So… Mingyu told me you’d be okay with me liking both of you, was he right?”
“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Wonwoo sighs.
“That’s what Mingyu said!” you bellow. “We’re all on the exact same page!”
“It would look that way.”
“So…” you swallow thickly. “Threesome in Thailand?”
Wonwoo laughs, and you love the way he looks when he’s smiling. He’s so pretty, and the entire mysterious, stoic facade falls away.
“Not when you’re drunk.”
“Give me like… half an hour and this whole bottle of water and I’ll be good, I promise!” you insist.
“Not tonight,” Wonwoo says again. “In fact, I think I should probably walk you back to your room right about now.”
“Boring!” you whine.
“Boring, but the right thing to do.”
Wonwoo stands up, and he holds out a hand to you. You accept his offer, allowing him to pull you to your feet. You continue to whine as he escorts you across the resort to your own room, and when you get there, you pout out your lower lip.
“This is going to happen,” you tell him.
“Sure it is,” Wonwoo laughs, using your keycard to open your room. “Goodnight.”
“Do I not get a little kiss?”
Wonwoo sighs, and then he leans in… only for his lips to brush past your cheek. “Get some sleep,” he tells you. “And tomorrow, after the wedding, we’ll all sort this out.”
Six (Day)
Wonwoo can’t stop staring at you. He’d thought you’d been pretty last night, but today, in your full wedding outfit, you’re an absolute vision.
He can’t get you out of his head, can’t get the thought of you asking for a kiss off of his mind.
He’d done the right thing by denying you, he knows that, but fuck- he’s wishing he wasn’t so good of a man.
You’re stunning, even prettier than the bride by Wonwoo’s account.
Despite the differences between you and your brother, you’re awfully good at acting as if everything is alright, as if you weren’t drunk last night. You look like the perfect sister, the Choi family a vision of greatness.
It’s obvious to Wonwoo, as it’s obvious to Mingyu, that sometime soon, you’ll be bedding them both.
It’s been a while since Wonwoo and Mingyu shared anyone, but Wonwoo’s sure the two of them will work the dynamic out.
The only thing he’s unsure about is what comes after.
You’re Seungcheol’s sister, which means, you’re going to be in similar circles for as long as Seungcheol is still in the sport- maybe even after.
Is one night of fun worth the tension on his relationship with Seungcheol?
If Wonwoo cops out, letting Mingyu get all the fun - because Mingyu is very unlikely to back out of this supposed arrangement - will Wonwoo regret it?
Is there a future here with you? Does Wonwoo know you well enough to take the chance?
He’s very distracted for the entire wedding, but Wonwoo can’t help himself.
You’re a risk, and Wonwoo’s never been one to dabble with those- but, something deep inside of him, is telling him you might just be worth it.
Six (Night)
It’s supposed to be the happiest day of Seungcheol’s life, but he can’t help the annoyance that fills him as he watches you and Mingyu dance together at the reception.
Seungcheol is tapping his fingers, considering intervening- when a soft hand places itself on his own.
“Cheol?” his new wife, Sumi, says, drawing his attention.
“Yes?”
“Stop staring.”
Seungcheol had brought the situation up with Sumi a number of times this trip, and it’s clear she’s aware of what’s making him so irate.
“Can they be any more obvious?” Seungcheol groans.
“They’re just having fun.”
“Too much fun.”
Now it’s Sumi’s turn to sigh. “Seungcheol. Is this really going to be our first argument as man and wife?”
Seungcheol pauses.
“This is your sister we’re talking about. I understand you being protective, of her and your friends, but we know how y/n is. This isn’t going to be anything serious. Let her have her fun, and try not to think about it too deeply.”
“How am I supposed to train with these guys knowing they slept with my sister?” Seungcheol counters.
“If you don’t ask for confirmation that it happened, you never have to know,” Sumi says simply. “Just, don’t think about it.”
Seungcheol releases a deep breath. He’s not about to argue with his wife, but the whole situation is still very frustrating.
“For all we know, nothing will happen,” Sumi continues. “Just think about that.”
Seven (Day)
Wonwoo is at his breaking point. Lounging by the pool with Mingyu, watching you swim- watching the water glitter along your body as you move fluidly through the water-
“Fuck me,” Mingyu groans, sipping his beer. “I think I’m going to have to sit here for a while.”
“Huh?”
That’s when Wonwoo turns to realize Mingyu is stiff as a rock in his shorts, using a lounger pillow to cover himself awkwardly.
Wonwoo can’t help the laugh that escapes him. “Really dude?”
“I’m pent up!” Mingyu defends himself.
“We’re leaving tomorrow,” Wonwoo points out. “Maybe it’s best for everyone if we behave.”
Mingyu rolls his eyes. “Okay mister half-cocked.”
Wonwoo looks down immediately, realizing he’s now also sporting a half-chub.
“Fuck.” Wonwoo grabs a pillow from the lounger beside him, placing it on his lap like Mingyu.
“You know, it’s not even just about her being hot,” Mingyu says. “She’s an interesting person. She’s fun and artsy, and there’s emotional depth to her too.”
“I’ve never heard you say the words ‘emotional’ and ‘depth’ together in a sentence,” Wonwoo chuckles.
“Yeah, well, y/n has me thinking about big things.”
Seven (Night)
You head to the bar after dinner with one goal in mind; getting the two hot Olympians into your bed. You’d seen them ogling you at the pool earlier, and after toying with the notion of not sleeping with Mingyu and Wonwoo, you’ve decided the opportunity is too good to pass up.
Mingyu and Wonwoo aren’t hard to find, they’re seated at the bar, thick as thieves. All it takes is approaching them to get their attention.
“Hey, y/n,” Mingyu smiles, looking you up and down.
“Hey yourself, big guy,” you grin.
“Want to join us for a drink?” Wonwoo asks, already waving down the bartender for you.
“Actually, I was thinking maybe you two would want to get three bottles of beer and come to my room to check out my view.”
Mingyu swallows a noticeable lump in his throat. “Your view?”
“You know, my room is west-facing, and the sunset is gorgeous there, but you guys better hurry to decide or we might miss it.” You love teasing with them, and you love the way they both stumble quickly from their chairs even more.
Wonwoo says something to the bartender, and in five seconds flat, he’s holding three beers, intent to follow you to your room.
The walk is quiet, with tensions running high, but you think this is all part of the foreplay.
You have the power, and it’s absolutely dizzying.
The moment the door to your room closes behind the two men, you know you have them, completely, and it’s a wonderful thought.
“Here,” Wonwoo says, holding out a beer for you.
“Thank you.” You walk forward, toward your deck, sliding open the glass door to look out at the setting sun as it traces beautiful reds and purples along the ocean. “Told you the view was amazing.”
“It is,” Mingyu breathes, and when you turn, you find him staring at you.
“So…” You put your beer down on the outside table. “Are we doing this, or what?”
Wonwoo exchanges a look with Mingyu, and although you’re certain they’ve made up their minds, you’re also pretty sure it’s Wonwoo who has the most reservations about this whole thing.
“Look, what happens in Thailand stays in Thailand,” you muse. “Seungcheol never has to know.”
“I won’t say anything if you don’t,” Mingyu notes, looking at his friend.
Wonwoo lets out a sigh. “Fuck it.”
“Fuck it,” you repeat with a grin, joining the men in your room while shutting the door to the deck behind you. “Look, as artsy as I am, I’ve never had a threesome,” you explain. “So… I think I want you both to take the lead.”
“We can do that,” Mingyu nods, setting his beer down.
“And if anything feels wrong, just say something,” Wonwoo agrees, also discarding his drink.
“Okay.”
You look between the men, and shockingly, it’s Wonwoo who moves first. He steps close to you, his hands reaching for your hips. “So… what do you like?”
“What do I like?” you ask.
“Yeah.” He leans closer, his lips ghosting past your throat, sending a shiver through your form as his mouth moves to your ear. “What do you like?”
“Um…” You swallow thickly, already feeling as if you’re in a daze. “I guess, I’m good with rough.”
“Rough?” He nips at your ear lobe and it takes everything in you not to moan from the sensation.
“Like… spanking, choking, manhandling-” You feel like you’re rambling already.
“What else?”
“Clit stuff? I can’t cum without someone rubbing my clit, so, that’s pretty important.”
“Most girls can’t cum without clit stuff,” Wonwoo tells you. “So don’t worry too much about that.”
“What do you not like?” Mingyu asks.
“Well, I’ve never tried anal, and I’m not going to try it today,” you blurt out, causing both men to chuckle.
“Neither of us expected that,” Wonwoo muses.
“Okay, good.” You feel like a weight has been lifted, part of you had been worried anal would be a natural stepping stone for a threesome, but these Olympians seem very devoted to making the experience a good one for you, something new but familiar, still within your area of interest.
“Come on.” Wonwoo pulls away from your throat, grabbing your hand to guide you to the bed. “Mingyu has zero patience, he was hard today just watching you in the pool, so you probably shouldn’t tease him for much longer.”
“I wasn’t the only one who was hard,” Mingyu snaps, and you look between the men. They’d really been hard just from watching you today? You’d had no idea how deep their interest in you has truly run, and it makes confidence flow through you.
Mingyu takes a seat on the bed, and Wonwoo guides you between his friend's open knees.
Your hands find the larger man’s shoulders, and he looks up at you adoringly. He grabs the back of your thighs, pulling you closer.
It only feels natural to get on top of Mingyu, straddling him as your lips meet for the first time.
He lets you control the pace at first, kissing you gently as one hand cups your cheek, his other pressing to the small of your back to help you get seated on him.
Soon, however, Mingyu is getting more and more eager, his tongue swiping across your bottom lip as he moans.
You can feel yourself getting hotter by the second, and you allow the man entry to your mouth, grinding down against him as you make out.
He’s already hard in his board shorts, and that knowledge prompts you to hurry with undressing him. You start with his button-up shirt, working your way to open it up before you can push it from his shoulders.
Mingyu groans louder, allowing you to strip his torso, and then your hands begin to explore his muscular body.
His own hands begin to massage you, both of them moving to your ass, teasing you through your dress. Then, his fingers slip under the fabric, moving up in an effort to get you undressed as well.
Before you know it, you’re both halfway to nudity, with you in only a bikini, and Mingyu in his board shorts.
Then, Mingyu is rolling you onto your back, his kisses descending to your throat, then your breasts-
You can only moan and writhe against the sheets, loving the way his mouth toys over your pussy, his tongue licking at you through your bikini bottoms.
“Take them off,” you tell him, lifting your hips to aid Mingyu.
The bed dips next to you, and you turn to see Wonwoo. “Can I take off your bikini top too?” he asks.
“Yes, please.” You swallow thickly as the two men get you fully naked for them, and it feels amazing to be bare for them both.
Mingyu immediately grabs your thighs, pressing his mouth to your core while Wonwoo begins to massage your breasts, his thumb grazing past your nipple deliciously.
You haven’t had someone eat you out in a while, and the feeling of a tongue lapping at your clit has you crying out. Your hand flies to Wonwoo’s thigh, squeezing him while he chuckles down at you.
“That good, huh?”
“So good,” you whimper.
He pinches your nipple, and you cry out louder.
“Is this the type of pain you like?” he asks.
“Mmmm,” you moan, nodding. “Feels amazing.”
Wonwoo leans down over you, letting go of your breast to grasp your jaw.
You can’t help yourself, you lift your head a little, eager for his lips.
He gives you what you want, pressing his mouth to yours for the first time.
He’s a lot more calculated than Mingyu had been, controlled even. There’s something so sexy about a man who knows how to keep an even pace, and it has you moaning against his lips while Mingyu continues to eat you out as if his life depends on it.
It’s Wonwoo who decides when to deepen the kiss, and you grab at his shoulders, threading your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck.
This feels amazing- two mouths on you at once, worshipping your body.
Wonwoo’s hand slips down to your breast, pinching your nipple and making you cry out even more, your thighs quaking around Mingyu’s head-
Then, Wonwoo breaks the kiss, sitting up again to look down at you.
“Can I touch you?” you ask, noticing the tent in his pants. “Please?”
“Only because you asked so nicely.”
Wonwoo shifts a little, pulling his shorts down just enough for you to wrap your hand around his cock.
He’s big, bigger than you’d expected-
“Needs lube,” Wonwoo tells you, pulling your hand away from him. “Your spit or mine?”
“Yours,” you breathe.
Wonwoo chuckles, then he leans over you again, grabbing your jaw and prompting you to open your mouth.
When you stick out your tongue, he spits into your mouth.
“Now, onto your hand,” he instructs.
Fuck. There’s something so dirty about what he just did- spitting into your mouth, getting you to spit into your hand-
You’ve never been one for spitting, but if Wonwoo’s the one doing it? Fuck it, your mouth is wide open.
You spit onto your palm, bringing it to his cock.
The lubrication makes stroking him easier, and you do your best to focus on both men.
It’s a repetitive motion with Wonwoo’s cock, and it makes it easy for you to lose yourself in the feeling of Mingyu, who suddenly pushes two digits into your wet hole, making you moan even louder.
“Looks like he wants you to cum,” Wonwoo muses.
“I can do that,” you nod, whimpering again when Mingyu sucks roughly on your clit.
He’s pumping his fingers expertly, hitting your G-spot while your pussy loudly squelches around him, betraying how wet and turned on you are.
“Come on, gorgeous,” Wonwoo encourages you, pinching your nipple again and making you moan louder. “Mingyu’s been good for you, hasn’t he?”
“So good,” you whimper, closing your eyes and giving in to the sensations.
“Then cum for us,” Wonwoo tells you, tweaking your nipple again-
The pleasurable pain is enough to send you over the edge, your core clamping down tight on Mingyu’s fingers, your thighs trying to close around his head while he continues to suck roughly on your pulsating clit-
The ecstasy of your orgasm is flooding through you like a tidal wave, taking over every inch of your body and making you delirious.
You’re a gasping mess, but two sets of hands keep you steady, working you through your orgasm until you feel a tear in your eye from oversensitivity.
“Okay, Gyu,” Wonwoo sighs. “I think she’s had enough of your mouth.”
Mingyu lets out an audible whine, but he pulls away from your pussy. You can practically hear him lick his lips, then his fingers.
“You tasted like magic, baby,” Mingyu tells you, and you open your eyes to see him standing up, pushing his board shorts down to reveal an even bigger cock than Wonwoo’s.
“Do we need condoms?” Wonwoo asks.
“No, I’m protected, unless you guys-”
“We’re clean,” Mingyu tells you, looking down at your pussy.
“You sure about this?” Wonwoo questions, stopping your hand on his cock so you can give him your full attention.
“Yeah, want you guys to cum inside of me,” you whimper.
“Don’t have to tell me twice,” Mingyu laughs, dragging you to the edge of the bed. He rubs the tip of his length up and down your slit. “Ready, baby?”
“Yeah, fuck me,” you nod, picking up where you left off with Wonwoo’s cock, which you begin to stroke even faster.
Mingyu pushes an inch into you, letting your body adjust to his girth. You groan loudly, turning your head and looking at Wonwoo.
“Can I suck you off while he fucks me?” you ask.
“Are you sure you can manage both of us at once?”
“I’ll do my best,” you promise.
Your honesty must be amusing to Wonwoo because he laughs. “Okay, gorgeous. But I’m not going to have you lying down like this, we’re going to do this right and spit roast you.”
“Spit roast?” You blink.
“Just trust us,” Wonwo says, pulling away from you to stand up. You watch him get undressed, and Mingyu takes the opportunity to sink even deeper into your core, making you both groan.
“Do we have to spitroast?” Mingyu asks.
“It’s the only way that makes sense for her,” Wonwoo explains.
“Yeah but, I’d have to pull out, and flip her onto her hands and knees, and I don’t want to be out of this perfect pussy for even a second.” Gosh, Mingyu’s so whiney, it’s kind of adorable.
“Well, power through, champ,” Wonwoo chuckles, shaking his head at his friend.
“Fuck, fine.”
In one quick motion, Mingyu pulls out of your core and flips you over. His hands grasp your hips, pulling you up into doggy before guiding his cock back into your wet hole.
It seriously only took a second, and you’re groaning from the sensation of being filled again.
“See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” Wonwoo asks.
“It almost killed me,” Mingyu says dramatically.
Wonwoo gets onto the bed in front of you, and you push up onto your hands, looking up at him.
Wonwoo strokes your hair. “Sure you’re ready for this?”
“Why do a threesome if you’re not going to try double penetration of some kind?” you counter.
“Little miss overachiever here,” Wonwoo chuckles affectionately.
“This pussy feels so good,” Mingyu groans behind you, landing a gentle smack to your ass that has you whimpering loudly.
“Let's see how your mouth feels.”
Wonwoo grabs the base of his cock, holding his length up for you. You eagerly move forward, wrapping your mouth around the tip.
It’s hard to move forward and get more of him in your mouth with Mingyu fucking you gently, but as his pace increases, his thrusts getting rougher, it gives you more leeway to sink onto Wonwoo’s cock.
You suck him eagerly, closing your eyes and enjoying the double-stuffed feeling.
“You’re definitely an overachiever,” Wonwoo groans, beginning to move his hips a little to meet your motions, making it easier for you. “Sucking me so good.”
You groan around him, loving the praise.
Wonwoo had struck you as so shy when you met him- but it’s always the quiet types who are the dirtiest fucks with the most sinful mouths.
You love having both of them. Mingyu, who’s so enraptured by you that all he can manage are moans and whimpers, and Wonwoo, who’s controlled enough to praise you and keep a handle on the entire situation.
They balance each other out very well, and this whole thing feels like heaven.
Mingyu is fucking you roughly now, and there’s something so oddly sexy about the force of his balls against your clit with each thrust- these men have you cock drunk, have you thinking about shit that’s never even crossed your mind before.
Another gentle smack against your ass has you moaning lewdly around Wonwoo’s cock, and pain blossoms across your skin deliciously.
“You get so tight when I spank you,” Mingyu groans.
“Then keep spanking her,” Wonwoo suggests.
“I don’t want to hurt her.”
“She said she likes it rough, I doubt it will be an issue.”
God, you love a man who listens, a man who takes note of your kinks. With your mouth full, you can’t exactly advocate for yourself, but you don’t have to, Wonwoo will do it for you.
Another smack has your eyes rolling into the back of your head, your pussy clenching tightly around the large intrusion.
“Fuck,” Mingyu groans, landing another smack.
The man behind you has slowed his thrusts now, too focused on spanking you to be cohesive, but Wonwoo takes the opportunity to fuck your face harder.
If he’d tried this when Mingyu was going wild, he would have risked making you choke on his cock, but now, he’s in control, and you love the way he dominates your mouth.
You do your best to suck Wonwoo well, and the groans that begin to tumble from his lips are affirmation enough that you’re doing your job.
Mingyu’s finished with the spanking, and one of his hands slips around your body, fingers finding your clit.
“Want you to cum on my cock,” Mingyu tells you.
You moan a confirmation sound, and Mingyu begins to slowly fuck you again, rubbing your still sensitive clit harshly.
Wonwoo abruptly pulls out of your mouth, and you look up at him in confusion. “Want to watch you come undone for us,” Wonwoo tells you, his fist now wrapped around his length.
You watch him pump his cock, and fuck- it looks so good.
There’s a lump in your throat, and you swallow it thickly, overwhelmed by everything in the best possible way.
“Fuck,” you whimper, closing your eyes-
“Look at me,” Wonwoo instructs.
It’s hard to do as he commands, but you do as you’re told, gazing up at him.
He continues to pump his cock, one hand in your hair to keep your neck arched so your eyes are on him.
Mingyu’s beginning to groan behind you again and the sounds turn you on even more.
You can feel the coil building in the pit of your stomach, and the whimpers escaping you are notice enough that you’re getting close.
“That’s it, gorgeous,” Wonwoo groans. “Cum for him, then you get to cum for me.”
God, his words are perfection, and the tension builds even more-
Mingyu rubs your clit harder, and you whimper loudly, hands beginning to shake as you hold yourself up.
“Fuck her harder,” Wonwoo instructs. “She’s close.”
Mingyu does as he’s told, and the roughness is all you need, a moment later, you’re gasping loudly, your core clamping down on Mingyu’s cock, clit throbbing deliciously.
“Fuck!” Mingyu groans, his thrusts becoming erratic as he begins to fill you up with his cum.
His hands are rough on your hips, but you love it, love the way you can feel his cock pulsing as he shoots deep inside of you.
When Mingyu finally finishes, you can feel his breath against your shoulders, and there’s something erotic about that too.
“Still ready for more?” Wonwoo asks, stroking your cheek.
“Yeah, want your cum too,” you tell him.
Mingyu chuckles, pulling out of you with a grunt.
He gets off the bed, moving to the bathroom, and leaving you alone with Wonwoo.
“Do you want to be on top?” Wonwoo questions.
“I’m tired,” you whine.
The man above you laughs. “Then I’ll do all the work, get onto your back.”
You do as you’re told, releasing a sigh of relief as you lay down on the bed. Wonwoo gets between your thighs. “Mingyu always makes such a mess,” he tuts. “We’ll have to clean you up after this.”
As much as he’s made a remark about Mingyu’s cum, the substance doesn’t seem to bother Wonwoo, who immediately drags the tip of his cock across your pussy lips, pushing in gently.
You groan, reaching up to grab Wonwoo’s shoulders. You tug him down on top of you, threading your fingers through his hair as you press your lips to his own.
Wonwoo kisses you back, beginning to thrust as he does so.
Mingyu is girthier, but Wonwoo is longer, and the tip of his cock hits deep inside of you, making you moan immediately.
Now that he’s inside of you, it’s clear Wonwoo’s not as much of a talker. He gives you his entire focus, his lips not leaving yours as he works you open, finding the perfect pace.
You know he wants you to cum with him, and you’d bet that he’s close after the blow job you gave him, so you sneak your hand between your bodies, gently rubbing your clit.
You’re super sensitive after two orgasms, and you can feel your pussy clench desperately from the stimulus.
Wonwoo groans against your lips, adjusting so he can wrap one hand around your throat. He doesn’t apply a lot of pressure, just enough to make your body tingle with delight.
There’s something so erotic about knowing this man is stronger than you, knowing he could easily hurt you- but he won’t. He’s giving in to your desires, your kinks, in an effort to make this sex as good as possible for you.
A little more pressure has you whining, and Wonwoo breaks the kiss to look down at you. “Good?”
You whimper, nodding. “Good!”
His lips attack yours again, but there’s more ferocity this time, and as you rub your clit as roughly as you can stand, you know you won’t be able to hold out very long like this.
The bed dips next to you and you know Mingyu has returned, but Wonwoo doesn’t break the kiss to allow you to give his friend any attention.
Mingyu’s hand glides up your arm, and he’s able to push it between your chest and Wonwoo’s, fingers pinching at your nipples.
You whine even louder, overcome by the pleasure that’s beginning to surge through you again.
Wonwoo’s fucking you roughly now, his hand still on your throat as he kisses your breath away, Mingyu’s playing with your sensitive nipples, and you’re rubbing your clit- this is definitely heaven, and you give yourself over to the feeling of it.
God, to be worshipped by two people- how can you ever go back to regular one-on-one sex after this?
You can feel your pussy clenching, getting closer and closer to the edge-
Wonwoo breaks the kiss, his lips seeking out your throat. “I can feel that you’re almost there, gorgeous,” he groans.
“Yes!” you whimper.
“So do it, cum for us.”
He tightens his grip on your throat and your entire body fizzles with hot erotic energy.
You clench your eyes shut, focusing on the pressure in your abdomen-
One more tweak of your nipples has you gasping, exploding around Wonwoo, who groans lewdly in your ear, fucking you even harder in an effort to reach his high with you.
A moment later you can feel him filling you up too, and it feels so good to be this full.
Mingyu relents on your nipples, and you pull your hand away from your clit in favor of wrapping your arms around Wonwoo, holding him close and panting while you both enjoy the last seconds of your highs.
When it’s all said and done, you can hardly open your eyes, can hardly move as Wonwoo gets off of you.
A minute later, someone is washing your inner thighs, and then, Mingyu is lifting you off the bed. You find yourself in the bathroom, held up by two strong men as they wash your body, pressing gentle kisses here and there.
“Think we fucked her stupid,” Mingyu chuckles.
“Three orgasms can be a lot all at once,” Wonwoo muses.
“I don’t know about you, but if what happens in Thailand stays in Thailand, and this is the only night we get with her, I plan on giving her more than just three.”
“Let her rest a little, we’ll get her some water, and we’ll see how she feels,” Wonwoo reminds his overeager friend.
You can’t muster the energy to speak just yet, but fuck it, you’re not going to miss this opportunity, you’re aware of how fleeting it may be.
Epilogue
Everyone is at the airport, and Seungcheol can’t take his gaze off you, Wonwoo, and Mingyu.
To the untrained eye, you might all just look like travel buddies, sitting together and chatting. But to Seungcheol, he can see right through it.
“They totally fucked,” Seungcheol says through gritted teeth, crossing his arms over his chest as he waits next to his wife for their flight out of Thailand.
“You’re overthinking things again,” Sumi reminds him, flipping through her fashion magazine.
“I’m not overthinking anything,” Seungcheol snaps, but then he takes a second to calm himself. “It’s not going to last.”
Sumi lets out a sigh. “Then you have nothing to worry about.”
Seungcheol can’t exactly explain the emotions he’s feeling, there are too many of them, jumbled together and amplified.
But as he watches you laugh with his friends, he realizes it’s the first time he’s really seen you smile in years.
It’s a thoughtless smile, a smile that’s not forced or trained to keep up with the family image. It’s a smile that says you’re completely at ease with the situation, and upon seeing it, something inside Seungcheol softens.
Your entire relationship as siblings has been competition, and Seungcheol thinks maybe part of this whole issue has been the feeling that he’s competing with you for his friends’ attention. Maybe he shouldn’t be viewing it that way, after all, you deserve to be happy too.
Seungcheol’s pretty sure this love affair between the three of you won’t last, and when it’s over, he can have his friends back. He can pretend none of this ever happened.
But, Seungcheol supposes, as your brother, the best thing he can do is let this all go, and try to just be happy for you.
With one last sight, Seungcheol places his hand over Sumi’s, leaning in to give her cheek a kiss. “You’re my rock.”
“I know.”
☀️ mlist + an. thank you for reading! I haven't written meanie in forever and I'm glad I was able to spend time with them in this fic this month.
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🔮 preview. To celebrate a year or so of being together, you, Mingyu, and Wonwoo are back in Thailand. It feels fitting to be celebrating a relationship that started here, and it’s with newfound appreciation that you enjoy the resort Seungcheol got married at thirteen months ago.
When you’d returned to the city, you’d invited Mingyu and Wonwoo to your art showing. The two of them had come through for you, making the night even more wonderful than it had promised to be.
You’d all gone home after the showing together, spending hours fucking and talking- and things had just continued that way.
No relationship in your life has ever been this easy, and you realize, after almost a year of seeing the two men, that this isn’t a dynamic you ever want to give up.
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🔮 preview. You have an ulterior motive with Mingyu, but you’d bet your right arm he has one too. Most of the guys you’ve met who are into you don’t bother with getting to know you, or having similar interests. Men in this day and age have - for the most part - lost their ability to engage in the nuances of wooing, but there’s something about this cute, beefy art major that tells you he might just have what it takes to build something meaningful with you.
tw/cw. Unprotected sex, masturbation, mention of porn addiction, foreplay, ‘weird kinks’, massaging, breast worship, body worship, oral, pussy eating, blow job, hand job, man handling, multiple sex positions, multiple reader orgasms, mentions of voyuerism, degradation, praise, dirty talk, Mingyu is a switchy simp, big cock Mingyu agenda, fingering, etc… I pet names: (his) puppy boy.
👹 rating.18+ explicit I wc. 5.8k
🍭 aus. Svt cam boy au, frat au, university au, perv!Mingyu, etc…
☀️ mlist + an. This is part 3 of a 3 part cam boy svt au. Each story can be read as a stand-alone, but exists within the same universe :) Wonwoo is April, Seungcheol is May, and this Mingyu fic concludes the series. Find the completed masterlist here.
Prologue:
Mingyu had joined the Sigma Veta Tau frat for brotherhood, and at first, everything had been sunshine and rainbows for the Art major. He’d found friends that he knows will be lifelong mates, and it feels as if his family has truly grown at least another twelve members.
However, things have changed since he joined.
Now, two of his closest friends have started dating, and suddenly, the whole ‘Bros before hoes’ thing has gone out the window.
Mingyu’s not mad about it per se, in fact, it’s kind of nice to see Seungcheol and Wonwoo enjoying life- but there are other factors to consider.
The first factor is that Mingyu no longer seems to have gym buddies. Turns out that tonight, instead of their usual Monday workout, Seungcheol and Wonwoo are at a double date business meeting.
Which leads to factor number two. Wonwoo is a notorious camboy, and Seungcheol’s girlfriend is as well, in fact, Seungcheol’s girlfriend is BabyDoll246, who, up until recently, Mingyu used to watch religiously every time he needed to get his rocks off.
Mingyu doesn’t even know what this whole ‘buisness meeting’ thing is about- Seungcheol is probably doing a presentation for everyone about numbers and aesthetics and how to make a ‘brand,’ because that’s what Seungcheol does. Even though the whole scenario sounds boring, for some reason, Mingyu wishes he was invited.
So things are a little complicated.
Mingyu feels jealous, and left out- and horny… there’s only so much distraction free weights can provide, so in order to distract himself, Mingyu begins to look at the people around him.
Since the gym is on university property, there are a lot of cute girls his age. Most are scantily clad in booty shorts and sports bras, and Mingyu thanks god for feminism and the right to bare skin.
Then his eyes find you.
You’re a frequent gym goer, like him, and Mingyu would be lying if he said he wasn’t attracted to you.
You’re in one of those oversized tshirt and booty short combos that drive Mingyu wild- after all, what does your body look like under the fabric?
He’s got a pretty good imagination, and Mingyu finds himself practically drooling as he watches you do some sets on a shoulder machine.
When you’re done, you stand up, reaching for your water. You turn to look at the gym as you drink, and your eyes meet.
Mingyu is quick to avert his gaze, his skin flushing with embarrassment at having been caught staring.
In an effort to further distract himself, Mingyu moves to the lying barbell section, where he begins to put weights onto either end.
“Hey.” Your voice draws his attention, and Mingyu’s heart almost leaps out of his chest to find you standing right next to him.
“Hi.”
“Where are your friends?” you ask, taking another sip of your water.
“My friends?”
“Yeah, those two guys you’re always here with.”
So you’ve noticed him too. “Oh, uh, they’re on a double date tonight,” Mingyu says shyly.
You nod. “Looks like you need a spotter then.”
“I’ll be okay-”
“The girl I usually come with broke her wrist at volleyball last week, so I’ll need a spotter too,” you tell him. “Maybe we can help each other out?”
Mingyu swallows thickly. “Yeah, uh, okay.”
It feels awkward for him to lie down on the bench, adjusting his hands on the barbell while he looks up at you.
He wonders how well you’d actually be able to spot him if something was to go wrong, but he supposes that’s not the point. In reality, he’s going to be helping you while you’re doing your sets more than you’ll be helping him, but Mingyu doesn’t really mind.
He’s never dropped a barbell in his life, and he’s not about to drop it now with a gorgeous girl looking down at him.
“I’m y/n, by the way,” you say.
“Mingyu,” he responds.
“What’s your major?”
“Art, you?”
“Funny, you don’t look like an artist,” you laugh.
Mingyu cracks a smile. “What do I look like?” he asks.
You shrug. “I don’t know, but not an artist.” Mingyu continues his set and after a moment you speak again. “I’m in nutrition.”
“That explains it,” Mingyu says under his breath.
“Explains what?”
That you’re sexy as fuck.
“Uh, that, well, you know, you work out?” Mingyu stumbles over his words. “I mean, if you’re into nutrition, it makes sense you’re into the gym too.”
“I guess.”
Mingyu can tell from your smirk that you can probably guess his real reasoning, and he can feel his palms getting sweaty- suddenly, holding onto the barbell isn’t as easy as it usually is.
Mingyu realizes he may have overestimated his ability to keep things cool while you’re watching over him, and he pauses his set.
“You good?” you ask.
“Yeah, just uh, need water.”
One:
It’s been a couple of days since you met Mingyu at the gym, and you’re surprised to see him during a trip to the pool.
Once again, the beautiful man is alone, and you wait for him to finish swimming a lap so you can talk to him.
“Hey, stranger,” you grin. “Fancy seeing you here.”
You watch the way he swallows thickly, and you can practically see him fighting the urge to look at your swimsuit.
It’s nothing flashy, after all, you’re here to work out, not to show off. But you know Mingyu’s probably wondering what you look like under your baggy gym shirts, after all, he’s a man, so it’s not like he’s hard to predict.
“Hey,” Mingyu says. “Uh, how have you been?”
You shrug. “Been okay. Do you come to the pool often?”
“Sometimes, if my muscles are sore. You?”
“My kinesiology buddy suggested I implement swimming into my routine, a similar thought pattern to you, better for the muscles and the body.”
You see Mingyu’s attitude shift. “I guess a kinesiology buddy would know a lot about that.”
It takes you a moment, but you realize that Mingyu must think your ‘buddy’ is a man, and that maybe you’re taken or on the precipice of a relationship.
God, Mingyu is so easy to read.
“She’s pretty smart,” you note, “my kinesiology buddy.”
Again, an entire emotional shift in Mingyu, and it would almost be laughable if it weren’t so cute.
This man has a schoolboy crush on you, that much is obvious.
“So… where are your friends?” you ask.
“They’re with their girlfriends,” Mingyu sighs, and you get the sense that he’s not too happy about his workout buddies being more loved up than juiced up.
“Maybe we should just be workout buddies,” you suggest.
Mingyu’s eyes light up. “Yeah?”
You shrug. “Why not? We have similar work out schedules already, it wouldn’t be that difficult to sync them.”
“I’d actually love that,” Mingyu admits, and you love how pretty and glowy he looks.
You have an ulterior motive with Mingyu, but you’d bet your right arm he has one too. Most of the guys you’ve met who are into you don’t bother with getting to know you, or having similar interests. Men in this day and age have - for the most part - lost their ability to engage in the nuances of wooing, but there’s something about this cute, beefy art major that tells you he might just have what it takes to build something meaningful with you.
It’s not that you’re necessarily looking for a relationship, but you wouldn’t say no to one either.
Overall, you just want a connection with a man that’s not solely built on him pressing you for a one night stand, and as horny as Mingyu clearly is, there’s a shyness to him too, a shyness that draws you in.
Two:
Mingyu’s at it again. He’s found a new camgirl to jerk over, but even as he watches the pretty brunette stroke her pussy, his mind keeps wandering to you.
You’ve been workout buddies for two weeks now, and God, there are so many instances and interactions that have gone straight into Mingyu’s spank bank.
There’s something about the way you look when you’re sweating- fuck, Mingyu could just lick it up if that wasn’t such a taboo thing to admit.
Mingyu can’t help himself, he puts his computer to the side, closing his eyes and imagining that you’re the one whimpering and moaning.
Mingyu is man enough to admit that he’s a bit of a pervert. He knows it, he accepts it- he’s ashamed of it sure, but in that shame is something that only arouses him further. A certain type of obsession with self-degradation. He’s a bad boy, and being sinful only makes him harder as he strokes his cock.
He imagines you in the pool with water glistening on your skin- and that image turns into you in the gym doing dumbbells, sweat on your brow.
Mingyu groans, pumping himself harder. He can feel the tension building in his balls, the tingling sensation that’s beginning to brew.
He thinks about the way you encourage him to do more sets, the way he teases you that you’re his ‘drill sargent’ and you’ll sometimes aquiesce by telling him to drop and give you twenty-
Fuck, why are you so sexy?
Why does he want you to tell him what to do all the time?
He imagines what it would sound like if you told him to be a good boy and cum for you- and just like that, he pops.
Mingyu cums hard, a groan escaping him as he fist fucks himself through it, his hips shaking, sweat on his brow-
Mingyu can’t even bring himself to care that he’s cum all over his own chest, and as he finishes, he lets out a sigh, his hands falling to the bed next to him.
He’s so into you, and it’s not just your body. You’re an interesting person, and you’d sensed he needed a gym partner. Your presence has made the lack of Wonwoo and Seungcheol feel better, and that’s not something Mingyu will undervalue.
The only problem is… Mingyu’s one of the horniest men he knows, and he’s aware that his extreme sex drive may just be a problem.
Three:
In the three weeks you’ve been working out with Mingyu, you’ve had enough situational awareness to see how other women in the gym stare at him.
And it’s not like you can blame the other girls, after all, you also used to look at him when he wasn’t going to notice.
Mingyu is hard not to look at, he’s just so big and pretty, and his muscles bulge like nothing else when he’s doing sets.
The two of you are going hard today, and you’ve come to an agreement that for every ten sets you complete, Mingyu gets to ask you a question, and vice versa.
He’s asked you some regular run of the mill things, like your favourite movie, what inspired you to do the degree you’re working on- but then, out of knowhere, Mingyu asks, “Why are you single?”
Mingyu must notice the way you falter, your grip adjusting on the machine, and he’s quick to try to remedy it.
“I just mean, you’re pretty, and nice, and all that sort of stuff, so, I’m just confused,” he says.
“Honestly?” You let out a sigh, trying to tailor your response to intrigue the pretty man. “I have a pretty big drive for physical sensation, if that makes sense. It’s why I gym a lot, and it can be intimidating for guys. Also, I’m not into the whole one-night stand thing, and that seems to be all men want these days.”
“Wait, you’re saying, you’re uh… your sex drive is too big for most guys to handle?” Mingyu chokes.
“I’m just a girl with needs who doesn’t put out unless we’re actually dating,” you shrug.
Hook, line, and sinker.
You can see Mingyu getting hard through his gym shorts, and he coughs awkwardly.
“Uh, let’s switch,” he suggests, and you almost want to laugh.
You acquiesce, and in his newly seated position, Mingyu is able to hide his boner from you, but you’ve already seen it, and confidence is now surging through you.
Mingyu does his first ten reps, and you don’t bother to start with easy questions.
“Like what?” you ask, and to your annoyance, Mingyu makes you wait for another full set before answering.
“I guess it’s the sort of thing you kind of have to see for yourself, I don’t know how to explain it.”
“But we’re talking about weird tastes in bed, right?”
Mingyu nods, his ears turning red.
“Look, I just told you I don’t fuck around unless it’s going in the direction of something more than fuck buddies or one night stands,” you tell him. “So, I’d love to see these ‘weird tastes,’ but only if you’re actually interested in something with me.”
It’s been three weeks of getting to know each other, if Mingyu’s not sure what he wants yet, then that’s on him. You’re being direct, and you’re not going to feel bad about that.
“I’m interested,” Mingyu confirms quickly.
“Are you free tomorrow night?” Tomorrow is usually your rest day, and you’ve never really asked what Mingyu gets up to when you’re not at the gym or pool.
“Tomorow would be great,” he confirms.
“Then it’s a date,” you conclude. “Tomorrow you can show me these weird tastes that apparently make it hard for you to find a woman.”
“And maybe you can show me about this whole ‘drive for physical sensation’ thing you have.”
God, your panties are wet just thinking about it.
Four:
It feels a little odd to have Mingyu in your one bedroom on campus apartment. This is uncharted waters, and the usual social map that you use at places like gym and pool is no longer here to guide you.
The two of you know what you’re here to do, but it’s clear you’re both shy about it as you go to sit on your bed.
Being shy isn’t usually something you experience, but you also haven’t had a legitimate dating prospect in a while, especially not one as handsome as Mingyu, so you’re being careful not to mess anything up.
You find yourself lying next to Mingyu, both of you looking up at your ceiling.
“So… tell me about your weird tastes?” you suggest.
He swallows thickly. “What if you tell me some of yours first?”
You laugh. He’s even more shy than you are. “I guess, manhandling is fun. Feeling small and being able to be thrown around is hot.”
Mingyu nods. “I like that you’re smaller than me too. But… I also kind of like that, when we’re at the gym, you get bossy with me.”
This is an interesting development, and you sit up, resting your elbow against the pillow so you can look at Mingyu while you brace your head with your palm. “So you’re not very dominant?”
“Not really,” Mingyu says shyly.
“More into the whole ‘good boy’ thing.”
You note the way Mingyu reacts, his gaze meeting yours, his breath catching. “Yeah.”
“What else?” you prompt. “There has to be something else for people to consider your tastes ‘weird.’” He stays quiet and you lean forward, letting your lips ghost past his ear. “Be a good boy and tell me.”
Mingyu swallows thickly, and you note the way he’s begun to fidget with his fingers where his hands are resting on his chest.
“I guess… I’m really into porn? Which is horrible, I know it’s bad for your brain and stuff, but I really just can’t help myself. There’s this word for it, where you like to watch people-”
“Voyeurism.”
“Yeah, voyeurism,” Mingyu nods. “I don’t know, it’s like… watching other people, and, you know, touching myself while I watch-”
“Lots of people like porn,” you assure him.
“Yeah, but, I watch it a lot.”
He’s looking at you now with an expression you’ve never seen on Mingyu’s face. It’s as if he’s waiting for something, and after a moment, you realize what it might be.
“You like the way it makes you feel,” you note, “how it makes you feel dirty, but you’re also eager to redeem yourself by being a good boy.”
“Exactly. I think it’s also because I’ve been single for a while, I mean, if I’m in a relationship with someone, I don’t think I’ll need to watch as much.”
It’s definitely an interesting kink.
Sinning by watching porn, then proving yourself to be a good boy by doing sexual favours- or at least, that’s what you assume he means.
Mingyu is really just a puppy boy, and there’s something so adorable and endearing about this large, beautiful man, admitting these things to you.
Well, he’s told you he likes when you take control, so you muster up your confidence to take the reins.
“A lot of people in this university make sex videos,” you note. “If you do well tonight, if things go well between us, maybe one day we can make our own videos.”
Mingyu makes a choked sound, and you note the way his cock is starting to rise in his sweatpants. “Really?”
“Maybe, if you do well,” you repeat. “Why don’t…” you trail your finger across his cheek, “you show me what you’ve learned from all these educational videos you’ve watched?”
Mingyu swallows thickly, and then he sits up a little. “Can I kiss you?”
“You can do anything you want.”
Mingyu is slow about it even though he now has permission. His hand reaches out to cup your cheek, and he leans forward, eyes double checking you’re actually okay.
Even though you’d both known you were meeting up to fuck, he’s still being careful about it, and that makes you like him even more. A man who respects boundaries? Husband material for sure.
You appreciate that he’s testing the waters, but you’re eager to dive right in, so you make the final move.
You lean forward, pressing your lips to his eagerly.
Mingyu groans, cupping your face to kiss you back.
He tastes good, and he’s not too forceful with his tongue, which gently strokes your lip to ask for entrance.
As you kiss, he shifts, slowly moving so he can be on top of you. Your legs open for him, and he slots against you.
You can feel how hard he is already, and when you tangle your fingers in his hair, he moans louder against you, rutting gently for stimulation.
Mingyu’s lips move to your throat, and he also teases your ear a little, which sends a shiver through you.
One of his hands slips under your shirt, and he grabs your boob over your bra, massaging you tentively.
“Take it off,” you tell him, arching your back in an effort to do it yourself.
Between the two of you, you’re able to remove your shirt, and you also remove your bra, making yourself bare to Mingyu from the waist up.
“You’re so pretty,” he muses, sitting up and looking down at you. Both of his hands find your breasts, and he begins to massage you. “Do you have any oil or anything?”
In preparation for this, you’d put a few sexy items in your bedside table, so it’s easy enough to reach for the coconut oil you have hidden there.
Mingyu drips some oil onto his hands, and then he begins to massage your breasts again.
The silky sensation of the oil makes you moan, and you relax against the bed, closing your eyes to enjoy it all.
You love a man who takes his time to worship you, and no one has massaged your chest in a very long time.
His thumbs brush over your nipples and you can feel yourself getting wetter by the second.
When you look up at Mingyu, you find his gaze fixed to your chest, as if he’s bewitched by the prettiest sight he’s ever seen.
You love how big his hands are, how soft and warm-
Even so, you’re eager for more.
You haven’t had sex in a while, and your core is almost starting to hurt with anticipation.
This must be what blue balls feels like- or at least, the female equivalent, and you find yourself wrapping a hand around Mingyu’s wrist to make him stop.
“I know what your hands do,” you tell him, “but what about your mouth?”
You’re almost a little shocked at the confidence you seem to have gained, but being confident with Mingyu just comes naturally.
You know he’s man enough to take commands from a woman, in fact, he enjoys doing what he’s told, and something about that is so immensely sexy.
Mingyu shifts down the bed, and he hooks his fingers in your sweatpants, looking up at you for permission.
“Go ahead,” you nod.
The large, beefy man slowly slides your pants down your legs, and then he situates himself between your thighs. He starts by massaging your muscles, pressing kisses along your skin as he slowly works up to where you need him most.
You can feel his breath through your panties, and you shift against the bed, core throbbing already.
Then, Mingyu kisses you through the fabric, and it’s such an interesting sensation.
He begins to lick, pushing his tongue at your panties.
“Just take them off,” you groan.
Mingyu is quick to do as he’s told, and you lift your legs to make the process easier, leaving you completely bare for him.
Upon returning to his spot between your legs, Mingyu begins kissing your thighs again, and this time, as he slowly makes his way up to your pussy, you know there’s nothing standing in the way of him pleasuring you.
He kisses your clit, and the sensation makes you twitch.
Your hands snake down to grab at his hair, and he looks up at you.
Something in his eyes tells you he really enjoys you having a hold on him like this.
“Show me what your mouth can do,” you repeat, body tense with anticipation.
Mingyu wastes no time now, he dives in, and this time, he holds nothing back.
His tongue pushes into you, hot, puffy lips making full contact on your core as he licks and eats and slurps.
He’s a messy eater, and you actually kind of love it.
You love how lost he gets in it, how his eyes close, his hands gripping your thighs on either side of his head as he groans against your pussy.
Then you realize the rest of his body is moving too, his hips are wiggling, as if he’s looking for stimulus while he eats you out.
Fuck, he’s so hot- grinding against the bed, so turned on from giving you oral that he can’t even help himself.
“Just like that,” you tell him, throwing your head back and closing your eyes to focus on the sensation.
You’d been so wet and needy just from him massaging your breasts, and now that he’s eating you out- well, you know you’re not going to last long.
Some men don’t know what to do with a woman’s body, but Mingyu isn’t one of those men.
It looks like he has actually learned a thing or two from watching copious amounts of porn, which is kind of shocking if you’re being honest with yourself.
Mingyu shifts, and then a finger is pushing into your wet heat, his mouth now giving its full attention to your sensitive clit.
He pumps his digit in and out, and you can feel how wet and slick you are by the ease in which he fingers you.
One becomes two, and he adjusts his hand, his digits crooking up toward your g-spot.
You’re practically squelching now, and moans are escaping you without barriers. You want Mingyu to know how good he’s making you feel, and there’s no use in restricting yourself.
You begin to move, wiggling your hips so you can help him pleasure you, and your motions make Mingyu groan. He sucks your clit even harder, his hot tongue flicking the sensitive bud with more force as he fingers you.
“I’m close,” you tell him.
Mingyu only moans in response, his motions getting faster as he worships your core.
You close your eyes, focusing entirely on the ecstasy he’s providing you.
Your muscles are getting tighter, your body preparing yourself for the orgasm that hits mere moments later.
You let out a gasp, your core clamping down on Mingyu’s fingers as pleasure erupts through you. It hits you in waves, making you moan and whimper at each contraction of your pussy around Mingyu’s fingers.
Your clit is ultra sensitive, but fuck, it feels so good-
Mingyu continues to eat you out as you cum, and it almost boarders on being too good- but you’re not about to push him away for being too good.
Your hips are still wiggling, your body unconsciously wanting your orgasm prolonged- you’re a glutton for punishment and pleasure in that way, but you know Mingyu doesn’t mind.
Finally, you begin to push at Mingyu’s head, and he pulls away, looking up at you.
“Do you want another?” he asks innocently.
You laugh. “Want you inside me.”
“I am inside you,” he smiles, his fingers pushing in and out of you again, making an obscene squelching sound that has your skin heating with embarrassment.
“You know what I mean,” you tut.
Mingyu takes his digits out of you, plopping them in his mouth to suck clean while he groans. When he’s done cleaning himself off, he sits up. “So uh… condoms?”
“I’m on birth control, are you clean?”
“I’m clean,” he nods.
“Then fuck me.”
Mingyu starts by taking his shirt off, and you marvel at his toned muscles. This man works out at least four days of the week, and it shows.
He’s so sexy, you’re pretty sure you’re drooling, and you swallow thickly.
“Suck a pretty puppy boy,” you whisper.
“Puppy boy?”
“Yeah, you’re a puppy boy,” you insist.
He looks at you for a moment, and then you note the way his shoulders relax. “I like that.”
“Here,” you sit up. “Lie down.”
Mingyu does what he’s told, like any good puppy boy would, and you take control.
“Lift your hips,” you instruct next, and when he follows through, you tear his sweats and his underwear off with one rough tug.
The biggest cock you’ve ever seen slaps up against his stomach, and your jaw drops.
“Holy shit.”
Mingyu flushes a pretty shade of pink. Leave it to him to be shy about how big his dick is as opposed to turning into a cocky piece of shit like most men would.
You can’t help but wrap your hand around him, bringing your mouth to his tip to suck on it.
Mingyu groans immediately, grabbing at your bed sheets as you begin to suck him off.
It helps that you’re practically drooling, but even so, he’s so large that you really can’t take a lot of him.
After a minute, you sit up. “Pass me the oil.”
He does as he’s told like the good puppy boy he is, and you coat your hand in the slick.
When you return to blowing him, you begin to pump what you can’t reach with your mouth, twisting and squeezing and teasing.
Mingyu groans louder, and you give the act of pleasuring him your all, as he’d just given you.
When a man treats you well, it’s only right that you treat him well in return, and something tells you that if things with Mingyu continue, there are going to be a lot of moments like this one.
You love sucking on his mushroom tip, teasing him endlessly as he groans and shifts below you.
“Fuck, you’re good at this,” Mingyu tells you.
You hum happily around him, and he moans even louder.
Then, you pull your mouth off of him, continuing your motions with your hand. “Part of me wants to just tease you like this for hours.”
“And the other part?” he asks.
“Wants to ride you.”
He swallows thickly. “Can… can you ride me, please?”
“Only because you asked so nicely.”
You sit up fully, straddling him. But you don’t immediately put him inside of you, instead, you lean forward to kiss him, grinding down against his oil slicked cock so you can lubricate yourself.
You know this isn’t going to be easy getting him inside of you, after all, his cock is massive, but teasing both of you like this will make the process smoother.
Mingyu kisses you eagerly, grabbing the back of your neck with one hand and your hip with the other. He applies pressure to help you wiggle against him, and your oiled breasts make the whole situation extra nice and slippery.
Soon, Mingyu’s hips begin to twitch, and you know you’ve teased him long enough.
You reach between your bodies, grabbing the base of his cock so you can line him up with your core.
You’re gentle with yourself as you sink onto him, taking just the tip at first to get used to the stretch.
“Fuck,” Mingyu groans, panting already.
“Be patient for me,” you tell him, taking another inch.
Mingyu decides to distract himself by grabbing your breasts, and he begins massaging you again, making you groan as you do your best to take more and more of him.
He toys with your nipples and a shiver of pleasure runs through you.
Another inch.
It’s good to be on top of him for your first time. You’re sure Mingyu would have been gentle if he was on top, but you’re happy to have full control of the penetration speed. Your core is twitching tightly around the massive intrusion, but you’re not someone who gives up. You take inch after inch until you’re finally fully seated on top of Mingyu.
You both groan desperately from the sensation, and you begin to swivel your hips.
“So deep,” you whimper.
“So tight,” he echoes back.
You lean over him again, pressing your lips to his so you can bounce up and down. Mingyu’s hands find your hips and he kisses you back desperately.
God, he feels absolutely unreal.
You pride yourself on being someone with a lot of stamina in bed, so you’re prepared to ride him until your thighs are burning- but then Mingyu begins to thrust up to meet you, and suddenly he’s hitting even deeper.
You let out a deep moan, staying still so he can fuck up into you.
And that’s when you decide you want to know what doggy with Mingyu feels like.
“Shit, okay, fuck,” you swallow thickly. “Want you to fuck me from behind.”
“Okay,” he pants.
You pull off of him, adjusting on the bed while he sits up to get onto his knees.
Your ass is in the air, but your lower body is close to the bed, back arched.
Mingyu brings his cock to your wet hole, and he slowly pushes in. Your core is absolutely soaked, and it’s easier for him to enter you now than the first time.
Soon, his front is flush to your back, and he grabs your hips.
“Okay, fuck me,” you tell him.
Mingyu doesn’t waste any time, he begins to rut into you. His grip is tight on your skin, and he pulls you back to meet each thrust.
He’s so deep that you’re seeing stars. Sounds are leaving your mouth that you’ve never heard come from you before.
Each thrust is magic, filling you unlike anything else ever has.
You’d mentioned you like manhandling, and this is what you were talking about.
You can feel Mingyu’s power in the way that he’s pulling you back and forth like a rag doll. There’s something so sexy about allowing a man the chance to use you, about being the one in control even while he decimates your pussy.
You can feel your orgasm begining to bubble up inside of you again, and you know from the sounds Mingyu’s making that he’s probably close to- after all, you’ve got to cum once, but so far, all of this has been foreplay for Mingyu.
“I’m getting close,” you whimper.
“Me too,” Mingyu admits. “Lay flat for me.”
It takes a moment to resposition, but now you’re on your stomach. Mingyu’s still fucking you, but now he’s laid over your back. His breath is hot against your throat and you turn your head so Mingyu can press his lips to yours.
He’s straddling your closed legs, but your back is still slightly arched so he can enter you easily.
This angle has him hitting spots you’ve never had touched, and it feels like heaven.
Your bodies are fully pressed together, there’s no distance like in doggy, and you love that this will be the position you both come in.
It’s close, but your back is still to him, so it’s not as vanilla and domestic as something like missionary.
Mingyu’s groaning more and more, and you echo his sounds with whimpers of your own.
“Shit,” Mingyu cusses. “I want to cum with you.”
“Then cum for me, I’m so close,” you whimper.
“Fuck,” he groans again, fucking you even harder.
The whole bed is rocking, but that only turns you on more as you get closer and closer to the edge.
“I’m almost there,” you whimper, body tensing on the verge of ecstasy.
“Me too, me too,” he moans.
He presses his lips to yours and that sends you over the edge.
Your core clamps down hard on his cock and Mingyu moans desperately, his cock twitching inside of you before he explodes.
The orgasm is all-consuming, and every sensation is Mingyu.
He does his best to fuck you through it, but you know that he’s overwhelmed like you are.
No orgasm has ever felt this good, and your core continues to milk Mingyu, filling you up unlike anything else.
“Shit, shit-” he groans, breaking the kiss to rest his forehead against your shoulder, panting desperately as you both try to come down from your highs.
He lays on top of you like this for a while as you both recollect yourselves, and then, he lets out a sigh.
“Give me like, five minutes, and some time to massage you again, and I’ll be able to do round two.”
He’s as insatiable as you are. Sure, he’s a little weird, but who isn’t. You’re kind of weird too, but at least your weirds seem to work together, and you kind of love it.
☀️ mlist + an. thank you for reading! If you're interested in Wonwoo's chapter about No Face, find it here, and Seungcheol's chapter is here.
🍭 support me by. sending a tip here or here - or become a patron to access monthly bonus content and extensions for fics like this one :) find the Patreon teaser below!
🔮 preview. Mingyu had told you about some ammature porn videos where there’s some ‘sir pussy licker’ or something, and how a bunch of his content is just eating out his girlfriend and making her squirt- so of course, Mingyu wants that to be a major part of the content you make.
cw/ tw. Unprotected sex, sex tape, multiple reader orgasms, oral, pussy eating, blow job, hand job, overstim, squirting, breast worship, body worship kink, dirty talk, praise, mentions of self inflicted edging, mentions of cock rings and other things, big dick Mingyu agenda, etc… I petnames. (his) Puppy.
👹 rating. 18+ explicit I wc. 2.7k I teaser wc. 150
🌙 starring. Kim Mingyu x afab!Reader
bonus
You’ve been with Mingyu for about six months now, and true to your word when you’d started seeing each other, the two of you have made a few sex tapes for your eyes only.
Mingyu’s absolutely obsessed with you, and you’d be lying if you said you didn’t feel the same way.
The two of you are lying in bed after filming a new thing for the two of you, and Mingyu releases a breath. “Maybe… maybe we should start actually doing the whole cam thing,” he suggests.
“Yeah?”
“You know, make money.”
“How much do you think we could make?” you ask, not fully opposed to the idea.
“I have two friends who do the whole solo cam show thing,” Mingyu admits. “They both bring in a lot of money, but they also do solo stuff. If we made stuff together, our target audience could be bigger.”
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OT13 Reaction -- to you reading fanfic about another member
masterlist | cyana's masterlist
SCOUPS: sulky baby mode x 100 when he finds out you're reading fanfic- and it's not even about him, it's about jeonghan??? he's upset because like he's right here?? why do you even need words on paper?? why are you giggling and kicking your feet when he's right here?? grabs your phone and throws it away from you - complains that you're basically cheating on him with jeonghan. shuts up real fast when you tell him he's basically cheating on you with jeonghan too.
JEONGHAN: very very very flabbergasted and betrayed. makes fun of you for even reading fanfic in the first place - ahhh i didn't know you were dElusiOnal like that (¬`‸´¬) mood switches up real fast when he finds out its literally a fanfic about dino. what the fuck man. dino????? his mind malfunctions at the mere thought of it. asks you what you see in him besides dino being the maknae. will read over your shoulder as you attempt to push him away.
JOSHUA: flushes and does not know what to say. gets all shy and giggly thinking its a fanfic about him and is stunned when you tell him- No! it's about mingyu! whines that he's literally your boyfriend and you're still reading about mingyu?? starts threatening to call mingyu up and expose you.
JUN: blinks in confused cat. asks you to explain why there's a fake story online about joshua and why you liked it?? is still very confused when you explain to him the online culture of fanfiction. will not talk to you when he finds out its a romantic story and you're reading as Y/N. joshua?? really?? i'm right here?? can hold a grudge for a loonngg time, jun stans beware.
HOSHI: finds it absolutely hilarious that there's even fanfiction about vernon existing in this world. finds it even more hilarious how invested you are. pesters you until you send him the link so he can forward it to vernon. will sit next to you and begs you to read it out loud like a bedtime story - cackles whenever Story Vernon does something he knows Real Vernon would die before doing.
WONWOO: judges you HARD until he researches more and finds some fanfics that are actually really well written. sends you ones about him as a poor attempt to distract you from reading ones about other members. will side-eye poor writing and acts like a writing critic. gets fed up if you continue to read fanfics about other members and tries reporting every fanfic not about him so you can't find it. (spoiler alert: he fails)
WOOZI: shrugs. understands everyone has their little quirk. he's a little weirded out that its fanfics about people he knows personally but he doesn't mind. looks at you when you start ranting about a "really good story" and asks you point blank if its another piece of fanfiction. finds it cute that you try to hide it from him. just say it's a really good fanfic plot, love. you're not fooling anyone with the "it's an amazing book i read online."
THE8: asks if you need to start meditating again. does not support the amount of delusion (sorry guys but have you guys seen the the8 anti fan service clips) chides you that he's literally right here and you don't need an online version! will tell you to just go find the member you're reading about if you want them so bad. (¬`‸´¬)
DK: giggles as he reads over your shoulder. gags at mentions of kissing. turns bright red if it's smut. looks at you with wide eyes and asks if you're really into kinky shit like that because he did not know. calls up seungcheol to tell him you're reading naughty things about him and dies at how mortified you look.
MINGYU: ego boosted 100% when you tell him its a seventeen fanfic. starts rolling his shoulders about to show off, telling you of course you're reading abt meeee ik im hot jeez im right here ( ˘͈ ᵕ ˘͈ ). is offended and perplexed when you tell him you're acc reading about woozi. sighs really loudly everytime he sees you on your phone - even if you're not reading fanfic (╥‸╥) will work extra hard at the gym just to prove to you he's the best one.
SEUNGKWAN: supports your interests 100%. admits to you months later that he acc also sometimes scrolls through their fanfics, just to see what their fans are up to. trades good fanfics with you sometimes - he stays solely with fluff fics though, will throw you the nastiest sideeye if you send him a smutty one.
VERNON: bro does not care! he just kind of nods, telling you that its cool. you can tell he's a little awkward about it though cause he doesn't bring it up ever again. will occasionally ask you for fic updates to see if you found anything funny or weird.
DINO: does not mind the fanfic reading itself but is super super annoyed that you're reading about someone else. WONWOO?? he'll yell, grabbing your phone to take a better look cause he cannot believe his eyes. what does hyung have that i don't?? threatens to expose you to wonwoo if you don't stop and read dino fics instead. tells you to screenshot anything that's remotely embarrassing so he can send it into the svt gc.
BONUS ౨ৎ ───
MINWON: mingyu sees it first - you kicking your feet and giggling over something on your phone. completely speechless when you turn it around and he sees its a mingyu x wonwoo fanfic and you're thoroughly enjoying it. gives you a disgusted look and calls up wonwoo, who looks equally disgusted. the two avoid each other for the next two weeks because everytime they see each other they're reminded that their fans ship them.
VERNON!COLLEGE: confused af when he sees how many fanfics are about him as a college frat boy. rants to you cause he literally didn't even go to high school?? more confused when you explain he just has frat boy energy. ends up taking it as a compliment.
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