Everything humanity has ever wanted is now at reach with the touch of a button, yet, the world is as empty as ever. Most prefer to live their lives in the digital reality, where you can be cities away in the blink of an eye and where the sun shines uninterrupted. The only ones left are those who first developed the idea, stuck in an abandoned world and cursed to watch as their families deteriorate inside machines. When a malfunction opens up the possibility to break the system, they seize the opportunity to make those who used a falling city as the stepping stone for their empire pay once and for all.
pairing: rebel!jeonghan x fem!reader
word count: 7,7k
genre/au: cyberpunk, dystopian future, rebellion.
content warnings: corporate control, government surveillance, propaganda, virtual reality, depression, suicidal idealization (once), guns, future explicit sexual content.
note: this is for the Cyberpunk: Reload collab hosted by @studiosvt ! you guys are the best and it's always a pleasure to do collabs with you <3 i'm sorry i'm doing tihs again and posting in parts! i promise i'm working on everything
don't forget to check out the collab masterlist! ♡ check out my main masterlist ♡ dividers by omi-resources
These streets are as familiar as the feeling of being followed by eyes you can't see.
Your work card digs into the muscles of your hand, its corners eroded from all the times you've walked the same path with the same fear. It stopped hurting months after getting it, the scars on your palm long cured. You've never once needed to show it, no one to question you is ever around, but they know who you are and where you're going.
It'd be completely silent, save for the buzzing of the blueish green and purple screens that surround every other building. Shining white teeth smile at you from the billboards, promotions of Cerebrum's latest update flashing one after another beside happy customers.
The LED lights mask the colorless reality in Prism. Below the gray smog that covers the sky and every building higher than three floors up, very few apartments seem lived in. You pass by them every day, every lifeless day, and they never change. Shoebox-shaped apartments got popular after the rise of Cerebrum's new life mode. Why have expensive, big, homes when the digital world gives you everything you need? Your bed stuck by your sister's is the everyday proof, yet you're the only one bothered by it. She and your mother never wake up from the cable-induced slumber, they don't see how the real world turned out to look like.
The company spent months, money and seemingly endless resources recreating every pixel to match everywhere in the country. And then spent more months blaming the state of the cities on the population, with Prism's government's support. Water, food, jobs, all went scarce at the same time as the digital world became available for anyone who owned any of Cerebrum's technology.
You don't blame those who prefer to spend their lives plugged in. Why spend your days in dead streets when you could be cities away in the blink of an eye, where the sun shines uninterrupted, where jobs don't risk your life, where time doesn't show on your skin and changing your appearance is as simple as choosing your new feature from a menu. The digital world seemed to satisfy the population's needs, and the Government's. It seemed to solve working families' issues while they got ignored by those who vowed to protect them. Once the devices to enter the digital world were well spread, jobs and housing for the population kept raking down priority lists.
It should be 7 am according to your analog clock. You haven't seen the sun in years. Would it be up by now? Or would your journey in the dimly lit streets be dark anyway?
You hear your workplace before you see it. The tall building buzzes so loudly its sounds echo even a street away. Then, the only building powerful enough to shine through their smoke comes to view.
The skyscraper is undeniably beautiful, with glass windows and delicate light arrangements on the sides. The one time you plugged yourself in and strolled around the digital world, you thought its pixels were underwhelming in comparison. It's a shame only few people choose to see it in real life. It's a shame that, everyday you come into work, the marvel disappears each second you spend downstairs.
The front door beeps in warning as you come close. Once upon a time, before you were of age to work, there used to be a real life guard at the door to check everyone's work cards. At least that's what your mom says. Now there's just a laser scanner that matches your card to your retina scan.
"Cerebrum's happy to have you," the AI voice welcomes you with its eerie happiness.
You used to smile back at the cameras, sure that someone real had to be monitoring the employees. You don't have it in you to be polite to machines anymore.
Inside, three elevators come to view behind the receptionist's hologram. Its green hand points to the one you're supposed to take. The metal doors open for you without pressing a button, and next thing you know, the elevator takes you down to where it knows you go every day of the week.
There are days you spend without hearing your voice, or any voice. There are wild days when you wish one of the soldiers roaming the streets finds you so you had an excuse to say something longer than a sentence. There are others, the rarer ones, when you dare to wish your family would unplug from Cerebrum and you could spend a normal day. Never once do you wish to become a pixel, even when your responsibilities need you to.
Working seems more and more like the only thing you wait for, the only place where being alone with people permanently on mute doesn't drag your will to live through the mud. Sad, really.
The metal doors open to let you through, but the sight before you is not what you expect. For a second, you view the monitor room. Computer screens show flashes of green tapes, streets all across the city with someone walking by. Your suspicions were correct, someone is watching the streets. Only a chair is occupied by a uniformed, who slowly turns back to catch your eyes through his black leather mask before the elevator dings once again and closes its doors.
Damn it. All the time you spent following the rules for you to get in trouble for a once in a lifetime malfunction. Cameras are never seen, not even in the office, yet you now have confirmation that they're real, and they are recording. A security guard caught you peeking at the security footage. You don't know what floor that was or what they do with the information, only that the next time the doors open, you see familiar rows of cubicles across the room. There's only one thing you can do, and it's pretending nothing happened. Your security now depends on one man who you trust doesn't want to get in trouble for allowing a security breach.
You're not the first one to arrive on your floor. Multiple stares find yours from their desks, the small wrinkles by their eyes the only greeting you get. You smile politely and walk to your desk with your head down.
Keyboards tick from every booth, yet you doubt any of them have a real assignment, it's been months since you got one yourself. You spend the time reviewing old algorithms and updating them to the current system, small fixes that you're probably the only one to notice their purpose, but that make daily devices faster to use.
Three taps on the floor from the cubicle by your left perk your ears up. Morgan gets up and walks to the bathroom. You don't look her way, maintaining your hands in place as you type nonsense onto an empty code sheet and delete it right after. You know what it means when you steal a glance and notice her red pen missing.
As long as your computer shows itself active, she shouldn't have problems, otherwise, someone would've caught up to the task-less team you're a part of.
Her walk back to the desk disrupts the silent office, but you can't do anything more than waiting. Everyone knows. The air gets tense. Every tap of your foot signals another second has passed. You can't do anything yet. It's too early.
But you need to warn someone before it's too late.
You get up at the ninetieth tap, over ten before you're supposed to. The imprints of her feet are almost visible on the green hairs of the carpeted floor. She didn't take long there. She couldn't have known what happened before you got in. And no one else came in here.
The skin of your back flares with goosebumps as you open the restroom door. You can't be visibly upset. You force your face to seem calm as you turn so the cameras don't notice anything unusual.
You don't take a normal breath until the door closes shut.
One of the stalls is closed. That's where Morgan wanted you to go.
You enter the one on its right and crawl under the side-wall to find where the note awaits.
Meet at the Park later. Storm warned of bad news.
Bad news.
The note system has its limitations, being detailed is out of limits. But Morgan didn't write about anyone in particular. Her inside contact either didn't tell her about your encounter, or preferably, they didn't hear about it. She's not your friend, she relays important information the company doesn't want the workers to know. If you were in trouble, she'd tell you. There's a 50/50 chance your ass isn't on the line. Not bad odds, taking in account Cerebrum's history.
You take the note, drop it in the water and flush. If there were other coworkers Morgan wanted to tell, she'd find another way.
Making sure nothing sounds out of the ordinary, you wash your hands a respectable amount of time and walk back to your seat. In a few hours you'll meet Morgan in the Park and find out what she knows.
As long as your computer stays active, it won't ring any alarms.
Pretending to work around the plugging codes, the sheet takes you to a string of numbers you've familiarized with since the new normal made its appearance. You shouldn't risk checking in on your family, wasting time on codes you make sure again and again don't harm their well-being.
They're okay. You make sure of that.
The company's (and the population's) focus slowly shifted to the pixel world once the people ultimately started depending on it. Pixel jobs and pixel money and pixel lives became the substitute to a reality pushed to fail.
It's been almost two months since the last time your mother and sister spent time unplugged. Not the longest that has ever passed. You wish you had an excuse to bring them out, to say that it's unhealthy, that something's wrong and it's not safe, but you can't prove it.
They don't know how much you work for them to live as they please. For all they care, you spend your days stuck in Cerebrum's basement, which may not be far from the truth, but really is a naive conception when you can do unimaginable things with a computer and little supervision. They can't know. They won't. Ever.
Do they think about you? When they're roaming around the perfectly set up parks and going to their instant Looks appointments? When they come back to a home bigger than you could ever imagine and find your room empty? The chances are low.
You barely talked the last time they unplugged to charge their cells. You don't have anything in common anymore. They hate the real world, and you can't blame them.
You don't blame them. You've done more to keep them there than anyone else. They didn't even have to charge their cells the last time, you had already made sure they're always plugged in and with multiple backup batteries just in case.
The codes running in front of you look like they do every day: perfect. Not one line break, not one error, not one fixable thing. You can't see their lives, their pixel jobs and pixel hobbies, and now, there's not even a thing you can do to make sure they don't get in trouble. You can only watch their bodies sleeping inside your shoebox apartment, listening to their breathing and trying to remember their voices.
The pavement, hard and wet, strains your leg muscles with each step. Your lungs struggle to catch up to the pace, but you have to arrive fast. If the cameras see you—which they will, because they exist and someone is always watching—everyone will be busted.
You arrive at the Park not ten minutes after clocking out.
Beyond the pavement horizon, the abandoned mall just outside Prism was supposed to be the big expansion, the bridge to connect the city with its neighbors, before every connection got forged over pixels. The unfinished building first got swarmed with groups who couldn't afford the newest technology, spending their nights inhaling Blue Smoke, until the government realized it wasn't profitable anymore.
The dark gray walls contrast everything you walked past; no led lights, no Cerebrum propaganda, no scanners or holograms to welcome strangers, just a fossil representing what life was supposed to be like.
You slide your black beanie over your head, put on your face mask and tech glasses to hide your face, and enter through an empty window shop. Glass shards and broken Smoke bulbs dig under your feet, announcing your entrance to the ghosts, but the intrusion ends unwelcomed. You grab the last reflecting gear on the only rack in use and put it on as fast as possible.
Through the glass of the never-to-be clothing shop, the dim lights that always stay on let you see into the patio. A decent sized group talks in unheard whispers, all with undistinguishable matching gears. You couldn't pick out Morgan from the group even if you tried, and the rest of them you've never seen without the gear.
The building got abandoned since the Government cleaned the streets from Smoke. They gave them something else to be addicted to, something with no trace in real life, something that isn't real. Frostbite regularly met there, far from the cameras, where no interest was shown, out of reach from the power houses that held everyone's life in their cables.
Someone nods in your direction and everyone acknowledges you as they open their standing circle to let you in.
You'd hoped to meet Morgan alone. Frostbite's plans always sound foreign to you, as you're barely a source from Cerebrum, not an organizer, and whatever Morgan warned you about felt personal. You're lucky they trust you enough to let you in, let you listen, but chances of bothering Cerebrum enough to act are always slim, and you just want to hear the bad news.
They're muttering about the best way to recruit the few people left on the street when the building shakes and a deafening buzzing sound paralyzes you whole.
There's only one thing that'd result in an unimportant building's bombing. They found you. They finally found you and the others. You don't hear any shooting sounds, you don't see any raised guns, but the air stills with their search for Frostbite. It's cold, silence trickled with the building crumbling down. You won't hear them coming. Their uniforms were made to take any rebels by surprise.
You follow Morgan and find the back of the clothing shop. Everyone knows what to do, and, in silence, you search for the planned way out. Behind dusty common clothes and empty fashion racks should be a door you wished you never had to use.
The underground tunnel is dark and empty, the sound of the door closing shut following each step everyone takes. There's nowhere to hide down here, no walls to shield you, no other doors to unknown rooms, only an endless liminal space in which the lack of lighting only works against Frostbite. But it's the only way out.
An echo should reach you of any following parties, but there's nothing. Maybe they hadn't reached the clothing store when you left. Maybe you were being paranoid, yet you don't stop running.
Run straight ahead, that's what Morgan had told you once, when forcing you to learn their protocols against your will. Run straight ahead and don't get caught. Forcing your legs to follow the reflecting gears ahead of you, you swallow a chuckle. It wasn't supposed to be serious. You listened to Morgan, hoping to calm down her paranoid spirit. Rebel attacks were unheard of. No one dared, and neither the Government or Cerebrum cared enough. But the building shakes again, and you barely miss a piece of ceiling falling on top of you, and you understand it.
Attacks were unheard of because they happened in this way. Away from the city, away from anything that could mess with Cerebrum's databases, in places no one cared about.Frostbite will end without accomplishing their goal, without making any noise, and without a goodbye.
Someone trips far behind you. You don't look back, but hear them struggling to get up. The tunnel crumbles all the way around, falling dust and pieces of cement clouding your sight and hearing.
Far ahead, a gray ray of sun makes its way though the smoke. The fallen person wails in pain, now so far behind only the echo makes its way forward. A red dot dances on the side of the tunnel, searching for an unmoving target. It doesn't give you time to thank the reflecting gear. The shot of a gun overwhelms any worries of the tunnel falling down on you. You hear no gunmen, yet the red dot lingers after the screams behind you quiet down.
As the end of the tunnel gets clearer, you sprint faster. A few Frostbite run past you, none of them looking back. You follow the dim light with as much hope as you enter your home every day—the shot was enough warning. You're being either run off the city or killed.
Is there even a plan after this? You failed to listen to what was being talked about when you arrived. You don't really know anything, do you? You were never in on the plans, you just followed the simplest orders, got the information they needed and went back to work. And, most probably, Cerebrum had a target on your back after your peek at the surveillance room.
Work.
Cerebrum will never take you back. You can't go back, even if you wanted to. You'll be dead, exiled, or searched for on every corner of every city under its power. You can never check on your family again. Your mom and sister will be left there, somnolently hooked into Cerebrum's machines. It'll be months before any of them wake up, you made sure of that. They won't worry if they don't see your pixel self, because you're never there. The longer you spent working, putting up excuses whenever they insisted on being there with them, the less they cared when you didn't. It's just another one of your disappearances.
You look back with terror, seeing nothing more than countless red dots waiting for you to fall. They won't leave anyone alive. The ceiling shakes once more, and you know they brought as many bombs as they needed to erase every trace left of the mission.
Bigger and bigger pieces of the tunnel fall to your sides, and your legs, starting to give out, barely help you dodge them.
What are you going to do if you escape? Your new life would consist of nothing. You'll must become no one. Maybe Frostbite would let you be one of them, if they make it. You'll be away from home, with a family that won't look for you, surrounded by capable people that you don't know, holding them back because you can barely run in a tunnel before starting to give up. You're not made for it.
You trip on a broken piece of gravel and lose your balance. Your hands pillow your stumble against the wall, and you slide to the floor as the walls shake. Whoever you outran passes you without a thought. You can't look back. You didn't do it either when it didn't happen to you.
You hear it then. Between Frostbite's heaving running towards the light and the ground being coated in pieces of tunnel, the red dots find your shivering body, and the soundproof boots march towards their new found victim. The closer they get, the more your fear dissipates. There's nothing more for you to do. You helped build the empire, you helped your family live comfortably, and you helped Frostbite after you realized your mistake.
The light at the end of the tunnel blinks in acceptance. Whatever you did, it's over. The cold of the ground seeps into your veins, holding you close to it, numbing you down. Your muscles don't tense waiting for the shot. If it hurts, you don't feel it.
First, the world goes brighter, white enveloping you. Then, moving ashes coat your face before it all goes black.
Heaven's pitch black when you open your eyes.
Ice cold burns along your back. You were never someone to believe in the afterlife, but it being cold and dark wasn't your first choice.
"Can you walk?"
A voice carries faintly, its owner invisible.
"What?" You reply with a cold throat.
You don't remember the last time you spoke out loud. Alone at home, forbidden at work, your voice was as much of a stranger as the omniscient presence watching your barely moving body. A shadow hovers over you, taking shape into something more human.
"Good. You're awake," it continues. "They can't see us here, but we need to leave if you don't want to be left for dead."
"How—
"Thank me later," it interrupts, sounding arrogant as much as it sounds hurried. "Get up and follow me."
You huff. "I can't see you."
A reply doesn't come, but the barest ray of green light reflects along the person's back, a subtle shimmer that sparks not so old memories. It's the same light Frostbite's tech glasses produce, the same reflection that messes with the Uniformed's infrared glasses.
"Fuck, yours must've dropped when you fell," the person sighs after moving what sounded like pieces of rubble. "Here, take mine."
You feel a pair of hands placing the glasses along your ears and eyes. The glasses were made to level up the field for Frostbite. If yours fell before you were shot, it means your advantage is over.
It takes a few seconds for your sight to get used to the greenness, then the hands drop to grab yours and help you get up. If you're on a rush, the careful touch shows no sign of it.
"We need to get out of here before it collapses," the person urges in contrast.
"How?" However you got to where you are, there doesn't seem to be a way in or out, and with you wearing the glasses, this other person is blind.
The person chuckles, back facing you so you can't see a face. "You should've gone to more meetings."
You follow the pull of your arm through a cave within the tunnel. Even without light, the way out is no stranger to your guide, only using the walls of the cave as a map.
Not a long way ahead, rays of light tamper with your glasses, and when your guide changes course to the right, you know the tunnel is almost over. The closer you get to the outside world, the less you see through the glasses, until the blindness becomes so overpowering you have to take them off.
Sighs of relief welcome the two of you as you finally leave the darkness. Someone without gear embraces whoever saved you. Morgan sits at a distance, on the curb on an abandoned street so far away from the Park that it looks like another city entirely. As she recognizes you, she jumps in surprise, walking in your direction with her arms spread wide.
All that you were ready to leave behind, what you thought you didn't need to see again, comes back to hit you in the face.
The world you lived in for years incapacitated people from making meaningful relationships, all technology led until hearing someone's voice in reality was as intimate as a kiss. Since the second you started running through the basement, you knew. Going back isn't an option.
"I was so worried when you didn't come out after me!" Morgan's voice wakes you up into her hug. Another thing you haven't lived through for some time. "I knew there was trouble when Jeonghan didn't come out after me."
Finding your voice costs even more when you have to admit what you almost let happen. Her smile is so bright you wonder how much it took her to hide it while in Cerebrum. You'd break it further if she knew.
"I had to use the trap we set weeks back to block their view," the voice of your savior, Jeonghan, sparks a different grin from Morgan. "I already told Storm."
The person that appears into view is nothing like you expected. You'd seen the long hair at the back of his neck in the darkness of the cave, his hands had been the first touch of skin you felt in months, you'd spoken to him after being in silence every day, yet his attitude mismatches the little idea you formed of him.
Tall, slender, and unusually cocky, his smirk almost makes fun of your fall. Now out in the open, you remember him from the few meetings you had to attend, with the snarky comments he always had at hand. You should remember his codename. Even if you didn't want him to, he saved you from the Uniformeds' quiet misery.
"We would've used it anyway." Morgan pats your shoulder, relieving you of a guilt you're supposed to be feeling. "Glad you got out before we had to."
Someone calls out to her close to the cave entrance, leaving you alone with the smirk and suspicious eyes watching you. Whatever he sees, it doesn't impress him. He sits on the curb Morgan was waiting for earlier, dusting off his reflecting gear with a chuckle.
You pay no attention to him, instead, the view you came out to takes protagonism.
The Park is a minuscule gray cube on the foreground of an endless cloud of dark smoke. If you squint, you catch the light of every Cerebrum ad being broadcasted on the buildings of Prism. From the outside, it may look like a storm about to pass, but after years of pollution, you stopped seeing the marvel of the clouds. The real sun became the greatest privilege.
The city limits were loosely guarded, giving the illusion of choice. But, when most preferred to give up their minds to Cerebrum, and cameras followed the few people who decided to stay behind, no one really dared.
"Where are we?" You ask into the air.
You had gotten used to depending on the LED ads to see on the street. While smoke still covers the sky, the wind welcomes fresh air that the tall shoebox buildings forbade you of.
"On the outskirts of Devil City," Jeonghan answers without looking up.
After thousands of cities began to join Cereburm's plans, land became a valuable source of space for the power centers that fueled the pixel world. Devil was one of the few cities that fought back to not turn into an electricity wasteland. They refused to join the pixel revolution, and a while later, a series of suspicious fires were reported all along its limits that extended to the center. The smoke never cleared, and the air pollution just made it worse. Devil's fight resulted in a burned down city and a never seen again sun for kilometers, but their spirit fueled the rebellion for years.
"Devil City was destroyed by the fires."
Jeonghan chuckles, acknowledging you again. "What do you see? Because I see buildings covered in green, and high floors that we can see without smoke being a little shit. We discussed this."
You refuse to feel bad for not remembering every single detail. You didn't want this.
"I was at the meetings because you wanted information, not to be made aware of all your plans. You know that." You didn't mind being a pawn in their game. You had reasons to stay, but reasons to help someone end Cerebrum's reign as well. You never pretended to be something else.
"If you listened instead of refusing to try, you would've known we had a trap door to escape and you didn't have to play hero."
"I didn't play the hero. I couldn't get up, and they were about to shoot me!"
He chuckles again. You're beginning to hate the sound. "If this is your way of thanking me—"
"I didn't ask you to help me. I don't even know you!"
You don't remember the last time you had a long conversation with someone that wasn't your sister or your mom. Exchanging words on a post-it with Morgan was as far as you went. You forgot how to filter your inner thoughts, though Jeonghan doesn't seem to mind your screaming.
He bites his lip hiding a laugh, looking at something behind you. You realize then that he took off the reflecting gear entirely, sensing that if you looked back, you'll find every Frostbite member in the same situation, just waiting for you to get a move on.
Taking a deep breath, you begin to take off the vest. The damage is done if everyone already sees you and hears you screaming nonsense.
"No, don't stop the hissy fit on their account! We should know who we're dealing with!" Jeonghan can barely get the words out between his laughs.
"Okay, you can stop annoying her now," Morgan comes back with Storm on her side. Jeonghan immediately straightens his posture. "We need to move forward, so here are a few things we need to let her know."
"Are you sure this is Devil City?" You take the chance to speak to the only person that understands why you wanted to get left behind on the planning. "I handed you the footage of the destruction. I saw it myself."
"You did. And it really helped to get us here today," Storm answers instead of Morgan.
He's one of the few who you could never forget about. He has a face you struggle to imagine smiling, a presence that takes the joy out of everyone around him, but, most importantly, he has everyone's trust and respect. He listens to concerns and trusts each Frostbite member to follow with their tasks. Even with the small amount of meetings you attended, you'd feel safe to put your safety in his hands.
"There's a lot they hide from us. More than you imagine."
Before the events of the day, you would've tossed the thought aside. You were always more aware than most about Cerebrum's deal, willingly or not. While everyone wasted their life becoming an ageless pixel, you saw the destruction of the city in real life, the things the Government did to help the rise of Alternate Reality, not even lies, just plain hiding until people stopped questioning the missed information. You worked inside Cerebrum itself! What more could they possibly hide?
"I think I know what they do pretty well." You saw in real time how they developed their tactics, how they ran people off the streets only to get them addicted to a false life. "I've been at Cerebrum since the development stages."
You don't miss the look on Jeonghan's face.
"We believe," Morgan starts with Storm's nod of approval, "that they ran off Devil's citizens to use the city themselves."
"They wouldn't risk killing thousands that could be persuaded into buying their A.R.," Jeonghan continues, as cynical as always. "And by making us believe they can bomb a city, they made sure we never checked it out."
"So, we're…" you struggle to connect the dots.
"We have reason to believe that the heads of Cerebrum live in Devil, so we're going in." Storm doesn't explain further. He doesn't have to. "But we have to be careful. Only address each other by our code names."
"I don't have—"
"You're Lurk," Jeonghan jumps.
"You're Lurk, yes," Storm repeats after elbowing Jeonghan. "You know the rest of us only by our codes, but be careful with the real names you know. We have a safe building in the city, but the closer we get to our target, the less we know about the surveillance. We need to be prepared."
You doubt Cerebrum bothers to reinforce Devil if what Frostbite believe it's true. No one should dare to even think about Devil City. Cerebrum isn't afraid of people finding out. You just hope they believe you're dead.
Frostbite's safe building is located close to one of the fire sites, near the city limits, but not far enough that traveling towards the center would take more than half a day.
You weren't many. The meeting that was found out didn't require for everyone to be there, luckily. The ten of you that escaped moved in groups of five, walking with almost a block of distance in between. Storm took the lead on the group walking behind. Jeonghan, or rather, Carpool, was the only one who knew the way, so he led the first group. Morgan was in charge of possible traps, so she was the second to join Jeonghan's team. You didn't want to leave Morgan's side.
The night in Devil city wasn't different from Prism. You couldn't see the stars in the sky, or the shape of the moon, but you also couldn't see the building across or the street below, and that type of darkness was much more welcomed.
"Are you not attached to the hip anymore?"
The carpeted floor silenced the steps all across the hall, the only reason why Jeonghan managed to surprise you.
"I don't want to be in the room if Rain is also there."
You and Morgan were unable to sleep, retracing both of your steps in Cerebrum to try and figure out if the two of you were at fault for the attack. You had to tell her about the surveillance room you accidentally saw, but excluded the fact that there was someone there. It didn't make a difference. Seen or not by a human, they would've caught you regardless.
She was about to tell you what the news she talked about on the post-it when Vernon knocked on the door and she let him in, struggling to contain her giggles.
"I should've guessed that's where he went. Sorry about that, you won't be able to sleep." You don't answer him. There's nothing to say, but he won't take it.
Jeonghan sits down by your side, unprompted.
"I want to be alone for a second, if you don't mind." You don't have it in you to pretend.
"I do mind," he chuckles, "so, no. Plus, we have to talk about the plan for tomorrow.Yet, he doesn't keep talking, waiting for a reply.
Your head rests against the wall, eyes closed so your senses can slow down for the day. Sleeping is not a viable option, you'll dream and dream about the day, about what could've happened, about your mistakes. The least you can do is protect your side of the building, make sure Morgan can have a minute of happiness with Vernon.
But an eager breathing pattern disrupts any possible rest. Jeonghan's eyes burn holes on your side. What image of you has he made up by now?
"You don't have to babysit me."
"I have to be there in case you trip into an abyss."
"Ha, funny."
You're not ashamed about what happened in the caves. If anything, it hasn't changed anything about life at all. Seeing a future as you live through a world that does nothing more than lift up the powerful at the expense of those who they vowed to protect, is hard. No one will ever realize the length to what you started years ago, the first grain of sand that built a desert that dried out what you most loved.
Jeonghan fights against it, like Morgan, like Storm and all those who follow him. They have trust in a system that never once worked for their favor, but they learned the loopholes, the ways around the manipulation, hoping to change it from the inside.
If you've done something more than sending Cerebrum after Frostbite, you hope the information you fed them the last few months changes something. You won't be able to see it, especially if the myth about Devil City is true, but it'd be nice to help do some good for once.
Jeonghan doesn't accept another one of your silences. "Get up. Come."
"We're not supposed to leave our post." If anything happens on this side of the building, it'll be your fault. Another thing will be your fault.
"You'll regret hanging out by the door later, trust me." Jeonghan gets up and extends his hand down for you to take. "I know this building like the back of my hand, I have it covered."
He gives you no other choice.
You get up on your own, not wanting another one of your first touches in years to be with him again. Jeonghan chuckles but says nothing more, walking slightly ahead for you to follow.
The abandoned office building wasn't the biggest around, it was a little more deteriorated, and less flashy than the others. You guess that's why Jeonghan had chosen it as the perfect spot. No one in their right mind would choose such an endangered place to take cover.
The only reason you're following him is because it's true, he had scavenged every little nook and crevice of the building to find the perfect spots for everyone to rest for the night. Everyone trusted him just as much as Storm when it came to security. Yet, he didn't lead you far from the room you were supposed to sleep in.
Down the corridor to the left, through one of the men's bathrooms, there's a small balcony towering an indoor patio. Loose cables flutter against the railing, and you admire the view from above while Jeonghan turns a flashlight on in the restroom.
You welcome the silence, real silence, without buzzing sounds or humid rain splatter. The world may never recover from the consequences of air and water eating technology, but maybe, if Frostbite is right about Devil City, they can make the people responsible pay for what they've done. You just wish you wanted to be there when it happened.
Jeonghan doesn't care about the silent city. He has been breaking out out of Prism for months, he got used to having somewhere to escape to."I know what you're thinking."
"I hope you don't," you reply with snark.
"You were at Cerebrum today, right?" You nod, hoping he gets to the point fast. "The basement? At 7 a.m.?"
"Everyone here knows my work schedule. Yes, I was. That's when Morgan told me to meet at The Park."
He looks at you blankly. "Did nothing else happen? Just a normal work day?"
Your knuckles turn white along the balcony railing. He knows. Jeonghan knows you fucked up and sent Cerebrum after Frostbite.
At least he had the decency to confront you alone. You can tell the rest of the team, let them decide how to punish you for the betrayal. It wouldn't be the first time you participate in something that fucks up your entire world, you'll get used to it, just like you got used to being alone in reality.
"It was my fault, okay? Are you done? I sent Cerebrum after us because I saw something I shouldn't have. Just go and tell Storm, I don't care. I can be the bait while you go ahead with the plan.
"I knew that," he smiles. "Ask me how I knew that."
So, he likes to play games, even when you're being vulnerable in front of him, again."I don't think I like you very much."
He shrugs. "I get that a lot. Ask me."
You sigh. "How did you know? You saw the camera footage?"
"You said someone saw you. What did they look like?"
And he's not making it easy either. "I don't know. It looked like a man, all covered up in the Uniform. There was no one else there, but he was pretty much surveilling everything."
"Let me find something, hold on." Jeonghan digs into the pockets of his pants, the only part of the gear he left on. "Did he have something like this?"
In his hand, a black leather mask lay crumbled. He chuckles at your gasp, putting it over the lower part of his face.
"It was you!" You punch Jeonghan in the arm, and your lungs treasure your first deep breath in weeks.
"I can tell the guys you're fine being the bait if—
"Oh, fuck you!"
"—you're still down."
You weren't in any danger. Your mom, your sister, they're still safe in their pods, blissfully unaware of the damage you nearly caused. It wasn't your fault everything almost failed.
In the darkness, by the light only on for you two to see the way inside, a little comfort makes its way to you. Jeonghan isn't aware of the load he took off your shoulders, and you don't care that he'll take it as another thing to tease you for.
"How did they find us today? If it wasn't me."
"Someone always gets caught," he replies, somber. "We can't know for sure, but it wasn't because you saw the security cameras. I wanted to let you know that."
His voice reminds you of his touch in the caves, in the cold and the dark, but maintaining a softness you're not used to anymore. Every one of your moves is always calculated, because letting the cameras see an emotion outside of your home means something worse than losing those who you care for.
The rise of Cerebrum slowly drove everything that makes us human into the alternate reality. First, the creative games and hobbies were made easier to access, less expensive if you already had a Cerebrum pod. Creativity was the thing that allowed humans to survive thousands of years ago, and they took that away first. Then, as more and more cities joined the craze, you could travel anywhere anytime. Schooling was next, you didn't have to carry things around if you could read and write with your mind. Without anyone realizing, each thing taken into the Pixel World became extinct in reality. It almost seemed like every piece of enjoyment was taken from those who chose to remain free of a false world. You couldn't be seen enjoying something, Cerebrum would just take it away in weeks. The last thing you had left was work. And no one dared to chat, to like a cup of coffee more than once a day.
No one ever imagined Cerebrum to take over the very bare characteristics that built communities, families, personalities, but the less they cared, the more it took.
"How did they end up being a thing?" Ignoring Jeonghan's niceness seems the best. You can't get used to something no one can have.
"She's too smiley, and latched on to the cool and mysterious guy. Happens all the time." He stares at his feet. "I think he really loves her. I've known him since before… everything. When she joined us, it was like the light was back on in him."
"That's nice." What more can you say? People managed to build relationships when you just gave up. You only exchanged words with Morgan through post-its, maybe after the few meetings you cared to join. "She's a good person."
It didn't take much for her to convince you to pass information to Frostbite. She'd left a post-it on your desk one day, telling you to go to the bathroom after 2 p.m. She'd found out you used company time to work on your family's safety, and figured you disliked Cerebrum just as much as her.
The first time you heard her voice, you knew she wasn't just fighting for the right cause, but managed not to lose her spark. You couldn't let yourself know her further, but she cared for you, more than anyone else. It's sad, but true.
"She cares for you," Jeonghan repeats, as if hearing your thoughts. "Did you tell her what happened back there?"
"You don't know what happened." He saved you because he thought you were being left behind and didn't want to trigger a ton of rocks on you. That's what he thinks happened.
"I saw it all, Lurk."
"I tripped. They had their guns on me."
"You gave up."
One thing about giving up, it makes you not want to argue about it.
"So what? I can't do anything for Frostbite anyway. I'm here now, I won't set you back on your quest, but just know you saved someone who can't do anything more for your cause outside Cerebrum."
If you had anything left in you, your eyes would fill with tears admitting such things to a stranger. You've become numb to it all. Acceptance, you called it. Accept what you've done. Accept you can do nothing about it. Accept Jeonghan's hand over yours.
His fingers are warm in the night. You haven't forgotten how they felt leading you out of the cave. If it all happened sooner maybe you'd let him reach further.
You take your hand away, getting up without skipping a beat.
"I'll talk with Storm about the plan," you whisper, more into the wind than towards Jeonghan. You see him shake his head from the corner of your eye.
He follows you until you reach the restroom door. The hallway's still the same as before, but now you can't wait to hug Morgan to sleep. Vernon be damned.
"That's what they want, you know." Jeonghan can't scream, the city silence would give out your location, but his whisper travels to your ears. "They take your hope away, make you believe it's the end and make you either give in or give up."
You hear no more. Words of rebellion are not what you need, nor a friend or the warm ouch of a stranger. You'll see his fight until the end, but the end will take you with it, whether Jeonghan wants it or not.
heeey *awkward*
i hope you guys like this more than i do :) love u
Summary: Jeonghan played a role he was never meant to keep. Until he finally found a place to call home—where the performance ended, and he could simply be himself..
Jeonghan was so fucked.
Completely, utterly, irreversibly fucked.
When he stepped out of the car, one he borrowed from Seungcheol, because no way was he pulling up to a charity event in his own, he expected something… intimate.
A modest gathering of well-dressed elites, or maybe… a quiet dinner with polite applause between speeches. That made sense. It fit the image he had pieced together of you—humble, grounded, refreshingly normal.
Oh, how wrong he was.
The moment he looked up at the grand entrance, lined with press and security, his stomach plummeted. Cameras flashed as reporters whispered among themselves. Then, right by the entrance, he spotted a display showcasing the event’s purpose—complete with a blown-up image of the host.
The prime minister.
Your father is the prime minister.
Jeonghan went rigid. The weight of realization crashed down on him like a damn tidal wave. His mind scrambled, trying to recall every conversation he had with you, every small clue he should have picked up on. The ease with which you carried yourself, your careful yet casual way of speaking, your quiet but unmistakable air of authority—it all made sense now.
Ji Y/n. Ji Jaekyung.
He should’ve connected the dots. He should’ve questioned why someone as well-educated and sophisticated as you chose to teach at a cram school. Instead, he had been too preoccupied judging your practical outfit and your unpretentious behavior during your first date. Now, he was standing in front of a nationally broadcasted event, fully aware that he had walked straight into the lion’s den.
And he still had time to run. He always ran.
Running was easy. It had saved him more times than he could count. But as his feet itched to turn back, he hesitated. Because now that he knew who you really were—now that he had seen you not as the prime minister’s daughter, but as someone warm, self-assured, and unexpectedly real—walking away felt... wrong.
He had promised you he’d come.
Jeonghan was no one. Just a man who navigated the world of the elite through charm and carefully crafted interactions. His life revolved around dating the daughters of the wealthy, women whose mothers he conveniently befriended in art and culinary classes. A charming conversation, a well-placed compliment, and he’d find himself indulging in designer gifts, chauffeured rides, and exclusive experiences. It was a delicate game—one he played flawlessly.
When the relationship inevitably fizzled out, he stayed just long enough to soak in whatever luxury he could before moving on. It wasn’t about love. It was about survival.
He had never met you before, only your mother, who had gushed about you during a cooking class.
"My daughter is really pretty! She's also a very intelligent woman. You two would get along well!"
And then that night, you stood before him—dressed in a crisp yet simple blouse and slacks. Your hair was slightly disheveled, and the faint sheen of sweat on your forehead suggested you had rushed to get here.
"Thanks for waiting," you said, a polite smile on your lips as you caught your breath. "The commute was a nightmare."
Jeonghan blinked. Commute? His past dates never commuted. They arrived in sleek black cars with drivers waiting outside.
With a deep breath, Jeonghan climbed the ballroom stairs, nodding at the suited staff by the door. He gave his name, expecting them to glance at a guest list and wave him through. Instead, they barely checked before stepping aside with smooth efficiency, as if he were someone important.
It wasn’t until he caught a glimpse of the guest registry that his breath hitched.
His name was written under the family list.
Not as a guest. Not as a friend.
Ji Y/n’s plus one.
A sudden weight settled onto his shoulders. His fingers twitched at his sides. He was no stranger to high society, but this was an entirely different league. A world of power, scrutiny, and unspoken rules.
He schooled his expression, squared his shoulders, and walked inside. If he was already in this deep, he might as well make it look like he belonged.
Your mother was the first to greet him, her poised smile barely masking the subtle scrutiny in her gaze. She wasted no time in informing him that you hadn’t arrived yet, her tone carrying a hint of exasperation as she sighed.
"That daughter of mine," she muttered, shaking her head. "Always prioritizing those students of hers over her father’s business. She should be here already."
Jeonghan hummed in response, unsure whether he should agree or defend you. He had barely opened his mouth when she looped her arm through his, effortlessly pulling him into the crowd.
Before he knew it, he was being paraded around the room, introduced to your mother’s circle of socialites. Wealthy figures, business moguls, and politicians—each one scanning him with polite curiosity, trying to place him in their world. Jeonghan smiled when necessary, nodded at the right moments, but his mind was elsewhere.
Then he saw you.
The moment you stepped through the entrance, the noise around him faded.
Gone was the casual, practical look from your date. Tonight, you carried yourself with quiet elegance, dressed in a modest but effortlessly stunning gown. The soft lighting of the ballroom caught the delicate shimmer of your makeup, accentuating the natural beauty he had already memorized.
For a second, Jeonghan forgot to breathe.
Because this—this poised, graceful version of you—was the one that belonged in this world. And he was just starting to realize how many time you had surprised him just by tonight
"Jeonghan," you called, your voice smooth yet carrying a warmth that was out of place in such a formal setting.
He straightened up instinctively, feeling more exposed than he ever had. You looked so different, so composed—so belonging in this world. And yet, your smile when you reached him felt exactly the same as the one from your date.
"You actually came," you said, tilting your head slightly, amusement flickering in your eyes.
"I did promise," Jeonghan replied, trying to appear unfazed. But the weight of his name being listed under your family’s guest list was still pressing down on him. "Though, I’ll admit, I wasn’t expecting… all of this."
You laughed softly, leaning in just enough that only he could hear. "You thought it’d be a small charity gathering, didn’t you?"
He exhaled, shaking his head with a lopsided smirk. "I really should’ve done more research on you."
"Probably," you teased, then slipped your hand through his arm with ease, guiding him further into the event.
"Come on, my father would like to meet you."
Jeonghan stiffened. Meet your father?
Yeah, he was so, so screwed.
*
"Your dating game has officially reached Ji Jaekyung level."
Seungkwan slid a file across the café table with the kind of flourish that made Jeonghan’s stomach twist. He knew that look—pure mischief, the kind that ended with him either losing money or losing his dignity. Probably both.
Jeonghan didn’t touch the file. Instead, he took a slow sip of his coffee, giving Seungkwan a blank stare over the rim. "You couldn’t possibly be threatening me. I practically rescued you in college, remember?"
Seungkwan scoffed. "Rescue? Please. You groomed me, hyung."
Jeonghan choked on his drink. "Don’t say it like that, you little menace." He set his coffee down with a thunk, glaring. "That makes it sound illegal."
Seungkwan only grinned, completely unbothered. He tapped the file again. "Go on. Open it. I promise it won’t explode. Just a little light reading. Oh, and a delightful photo of a power couple moment.."
Jeonghan sighed but flipped it open anyway, already bracing himself.
There it was. A nightmare in high resolution.
A perfectly timed shot of him and you, walking arm-in-arm out of the event, looking like a picture-perfect elite couple. Elegant. Respectable. Utterly fabricated.
Jeonghan tapped his finger against the page, then flicked his gaze up to Seungkwan.
"This—"
"Yes?"
"Burn this before I burn your entire journalism career."
Seungkwan burst out laughing. "Hyung, you can’t even burn calories properly. What makes you think you can burn my career?"
Jeonghan sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. He hated that Seungkwan had a point.
"You know," Seungkwan continued, stirring his drink with exaggerated nonchalance, "people are very interested in the life of the mysterious son of Yoon Group. And now that you’re linked to the prime minister’s daughter? Oh, the clicks, the engagement, the public fascination—it’s all very compelling. The media lives for this kind of narrative, and you, my dear friend, are the perfect headline."
Jeonghan let out a long, suffering groan, rubbing his temple. "You are insufferable."
"But I’m employed, though," Seungkwan shot back with a smug grin.
Jeonghan scowled. He knew where this was going, and he already hated it.
Seungkwan leaned in, lowering his voice to something much more devious. "How about a deal?"
Jeonghan really didn’t like the way that sounded.
"Help me get some inside details on the election," Seungkwan said smoothly, "and I’ll make sure this never sees the light of day. I can be very discreet. Your name? Wiped clean. No suspicions. No drama."
He paused, letting his words settle before adding the final blow.
"Especially from your family."
Jeonghan stiffened. His fingers curled slightly on the table, the weight of the threat pressing down harder than he wanted to admit.
Seungkwan just smiled knowingly.
Jeonghan exhaled slowly, narrowing his eyes. "You think I’d trust you with something this sensitive?"
For the first time in the conversation, Seungkwan’s expression turned serious. He met Jeonghan’s gaze without his usual playfulness, leaning forward until their faces were inches apart. Then, with all the dramatics of a third-rate romance drama, he reached across the table and placed a hand over Jeonghan’s.
"You can trust me this time, hyung," he whispered, eyes glinting.
Jeonghan stared at him for a long moment.
Then, with a heavy sigh, he muttered, "I hate you so much."
Seungkwan beamed, squeezing his hand like they’d just exchanged vows. "Love you too," he chirped before casually swiping a fry from Jeonghan’s plate.
Jeonghan sighed, yanking his hand away from Seungkwan’s grip like he had just touched something contaminated. He picked up his coffee and took a long sip, as if the caffeine could somehow prepare him for the rest of this conversation.
“For the record,” he muttered, “I just found out about her father last night.”
Seungkwan blinked. “You just—hold on.” He set down his drink, looking utterly baffled. “You’ve dated the prime minister’s daughter and you just found out?”
Jeonghan rolled his eyes. “I don’t Google people before I date them, Seungkwan.”
“You should start.”
“Noted.”
Seungkwan leaned back, still trying to process it. “But, she's like… I don’t know, humble?”
Jeonghan huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “That’s because she is.”
Jeonghan exhaled slowly, staring into his coffee like it held all the answers to his problems. “I might have to end things with her.”
Seungkwan raised an eyebrow. “You want to end things without ghosting her?”
He tapped his fingers against his cup, gaze softening for just a second. “She’s not caught up in all of it. She teaches because she wants to, not because she has to. She doesn’t use her father’s name to get ahead, doesn’t expect special treatment. She’s just… her.”
Seungkwan eyed him, a slow smirk forming. “You sound suspiciously fond right now.”
Jeonghan shot him a look. “Shut up.”
“I won’t shut up,” Seungkwan said gleefully. “Because this—” he gestured between them, “—this is very interesting. Yoon Jeonghan, the guy who never gets emotionally involved, actually likes someone?”
Jeonghan groaned, rubbing his face. “I will burn your career.”
Seungkwan leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. “Alright, hyung. Let’s make this easy for you.”
Jeonghan narrowed his eyes. “I doubt that.”
"Stay with her for a little while," Seungkwan said, his tone almost too casual. "Just long enough to get some information about her father’s election plans. I mean, she’s his daughter—she must know something useful." He tapped the file on the table, the sound deliberate, calculated. "And in return, I’ll make sure this never sees the light of day. Your family stays blissfully unaware."
Jeonghan exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. This was getting way too complicated.
Seungkwan, ever perceptive, leaned in, resting his chin on his hand. "Come on, hyung. You’re already halfway in. Might as well make it worth your while."
Jeonghan shot him a look. "You make it sound so easy."
Seungkwan grinned. "Because it is easy. You charm people for a living. Just do what you do best—stick around, ask a few innocent questions, and when it’s over, you walk away. No harm, no foul."
No harm. No foul.
Jeonghan exhaled through his nose. “So you want me to spy for you?”
Seungkwan grinned. “Oh, spy is such an ugly word. I prefer exchanging favors.”
Jeonghan clicked his tongue. “You’re a little monster.”
“And you like it.” Seungkwan shrugged. “Look, you’re planning on leaving her anyway, right? Might as well get something out of it. Once you give me what I need, you can walk away, clean and easy. No drama, no messy emotional entanglements. Just another chapter closed.”
*
“You’re Yoon Jeonghan, right?”
After the meeting with Seungkwan, there had been no real conclusion—no agreement, no refusal—just Jeonghan leaving with the weight of a choice he wasn’t ready to make. Not yet, anyway.
Then fate, in its twisted sense of humor, shoved him a little closer.
He’d crossed paths again with your mother during one of his classes, her arrival as poised and deliberate as everything else about her. Without much preamble, she handed him a neatly wrapped package—an assortment of meticulously prepared, nutrient-balanced meals from the town’s most exclusive chef. The kind of thing that cost enough to pay someone’s monthly rent.
It wasn’t just food. It was… an opening.
At that moment, Jeonghan realized something dangerous—maybe, just maybe, he could make this work. Keep the charade alive for a while. At least two months, enough time to enjoy the perks before he quietly severed all ties.
So when your mother invited him to her birthday party—completely unprompted, with you blissfully unaware—he accepted without hesitation. He didn’t tell you, of course. This was no longer just about you. The connection was shifting, evolving into something more strategic… a mutually beneficial arrangement between him and your mother.
He told himself it was just another role to play. Another part in the game.
A game he controlled.
Or so he thought.
And then—
“Yoon Jeonghan! Long time no see!”
He froze.
That was Kim Jeni. Senior high school classmate.
And she was standing in the middle of your mother’s birthday party.
Why is she here? Is she related to you?
His mind raced through worst-case scenarios like flashcards. What if she remembered too much? What if she casually mentioned his less-than-polished past to the wrong person? What if she recognized that he didn’t exactly belong here?
And seriously—why did she have to remember him at all? It had been years. People were supposed to blur into the background after high school.
But no. Here she was, smiling like they were about to swap embarrassing memories over champagne.
And here he was, wondering if tonight was about to turn into a very public disaster.
Jeonghan’s first instinct was to look away, pretend he hadn’t heard.
But that was how amateurs got caught—by making the wrong move at the wrong time.
So instead, he smiled. The easy, slow kind of smile that said of course I remember you, even though in reality, he barely did.
“Kim Jeni,” he said smoothly, sliding into the familiar rhythm of a man who’d never been cornered in his life. “You look… exactly the same.”
Jeni laughed, touching her hair in the way people did when they weren’t sure if it was a compliment. “I should hope so. Although, I did finally grow out of my bangs phase.”
He chuckled like he remembered it perfectly. He didn’t.
“What brings you here? Are you…?” He gestured vaguely toward the crowd, buying time.
“Oh, my aunt is friends with Mrs. Ji,” she said, tilting her head toward your mother across the room. “I didn’t expect to see you here, though. Still in touch with our old classmates?”
Danger. That question was danger dressed in small talk.
“I move around a lot,” Jeonghan replied lightly. “Not much time to catch up.” Which was true, if “move around” meant hopping from one wealthy circle to another like a very well-dressed nomad.
Jeni’s gaze sharpened—not hostile, just curious. “And here I thought you’d left all this behind.”
His pulse ticked up. “All… what?”
She smirked. “The social scene. The handshakes, the networking, the pretending to care about canapés. You used to hate it.”
Jeonghan gave an easy shrug, as if the question amused him. “Hate’s a strong word. Let’s just say I’ve learned to… appreciate the art of it.”
Before she could dig deeper, your mother swept by with a glass of wine, laying a hand on Jeonghan’s arm.
“Darling, there you are! I want to introduce you to someone.”
Jeonghan flashed Jeni an apologetic smile. “Excuse me. Duty calls.”
And just like that, he was pulled back into the current, leaving Jeni in the eddies of polite conversation.
Still, he could feel her eyes on his back—curious, maybe suspicious.
One wrong move tonight, and she could turn from a harmless blast from the past into a problem he didn’t need.
Jeonghan hated mirrors at events like these.
Not because he disliked his reflection—he’d sculpted that image to perfection—but because they had a habit of showing the man beneath the polish. And tonight, his eyes betrayed him. They were restless.
When Jeni drifted away, her perfume fading into the hum of conversation, a shadow trailed behind her in his mind. She’d been there—at that party, the one after his graduation. The one that ended his place in the Yoon family like a guillotine blade.
It had been a warm June night.
The kind of evening where expensive champagne flowed like tap water, and music bled into the gardens. She was there—the woman—draped in pearls and wearing a smile that could make a man think dangerous thoughts. She was also the second wife of one of his father’s board members, the kind of man who wore power like a tailored suit.
He hadn’t meant to kiss her. Or maybe he had. The line blurred somewhere between flirtation and defiance. But there had been a camera. A flash.
And in a family where reputation was currency, one picture was enough to bankrupt him.
“Leave quietly,” his father had said, not even looking at him. “Before you take our name with you.”
That was six years ago.
Since then, the Yoon son became a ghost—spoken of in murmurs between wine sips. A scandal in a silk suit.
He learned to live by trading charm for survival. Socialites were his currency now. Wealthy, restless women who wanted a man to make them laugh between luncheons and look devastatingly good on their arm. In exchange, they gave him access—rooms he had no right to enter anymore, deals he could skim a percentage from, networks he could weave into a safety net.
And the first time he’d met you, he’d assumed you were naïve. A daughter shielded by privilege, unaware of the games her parents played. But he’d watched you—just a little—and realized that wasn’t it. You weren’t ignorant of this world. You simply refused to play by its rules.
He couldn’t decide if that made you foolish or dangerous.
It intrigued him, in a distant, intellectual way. Not attraction—Jeonghan had long outgrown such things—but curiosity. The same kind of curiosity that had once ruined him.
So when your mother had invited him tonight, he’d said yes out of calculation. A good connection, a potential ally, a well-placed woman with influence. You were a variable, but not a threat. Not yet.
Except now, as the evening unfolded, you were nowhere to be seen.
Guests murmured your name lightly—something about work, or disinterest, or perhaps distance between you and your parents—but no one seemed certain.
Jeonghan swirled the wine in his glass, watching the room’s glow blur through the deep red.
He didn’t look for you.
But he did wonder—what kind of daughter avoided her own mother’s birthday party?
For a man who’d spent years mastering the art of appearances, that question alone was enough to make him uneasy.
*
By the time the orchestra switched to slower jazz and most guests had migrated toward the dessert table, Jeonghan had already pieced together what he needed to know.
You weren’t coming.
It wasn’t just that you were late—your absence had settled into the air, quietly acknowledged, politely ignored. Your mother laughed too brightly whenever someone mentioned you, deflecting with graceful excuses about your “tight schedule.” The kind of lie polite people told when they were embarrassed.
Jeonghan understood that kind of silence.
He’d lived in it.
He took another sip of wine, watching the reflections ripple in his glass.
He didn’t care where you were. He told himself that twice, just to be sure. You were another variable, a missing piece in a puzzle that didn’t concern him.
And yet—somewhere deep down, under the weight of years and cynicism—Jeonghan wondered what could drive a daughter to abandon a mother who still smiled for her in front of a hundred people.
He stayed until the cake was cut, clapping when everyone else did, smiling at the right moments, before quietly excusing himself.
No one noticed him leave.
The next afternoon, the same corner café buzzed with weekend chatter, the scent of roasted beans lingering in the air. Jeonghan arrived first, as usual, claiming his preferred seat by the window. He liked the anonymity the place offered—dim lighting, a soft hum of conversation, nobody who cared enough to recognize him.
He was halfway through his espresso when Seungkwan arrived, slightly out of breath, a camera bag slung over his shoulder and the same smug grin plastered on his face.
“You look like you didn’t sleep,” Seungkwan said, sliding into the seat across from him.
“I didn’t,” Jeonghan replied, voice flat. He stirred his coffee idly. “You told me to keep an eye on her family. I did.”
Seungkwan’s grin faltered. “And?”
“She didn’t show.”
The journalist’s brows furrowed. “At all?”
“Not a glimpse,” Jeonghan confirmed. “Her mother covered for her all night. Smiled, laughed, pretended nothing was wrong. But people noticed. They just pretended not to.”
Seungkwan leaned back, rubbing his jaw. “Weird. Ji Y/n’s not exactly the rebellious type. At least, not publicly.”
Jeonghan arched a brow. “You’ve done your research.”
“I’m a journalist, hyung. I research before I blackmail.”
“Charming as always,” Jeonghan muttered, setting down his cup.
Seungkwan ignored the jab. “So, what do you think happened? Argument? Scandal? Secret boyfriend?”
Jeonghan scoffed softly. “You think I care about that?”
“Usually, no. But you’re the one who noticed her absence before anyone else.”
He hated when Seungkwan said things like that—too perceptive, too accurate.
Jeonghan leaned back, gaze drifting out the window. “Her parents—both of them—they move like people who can’t afford to blink wrong. Every word, every smile, measured. And then there’s her.”
Seungkwan tilted his head. “Her?”
“She doesn’t fit,” Jeonghan said simply. “She’s polite, grounded, but not… conditioned. You know? Like someone raised in that world but refused to be molded by it.”
Seungkwan studied him quietly. “You sound almost impressed.”
Jeonghan’s lips twitched faintly. “I’m curious, not impressed.”
“Curious,” Seungkwan echoed, dragging out the word like it was an accusation. “That’s how it always starts with you. You get curious, then suddenly you’re knee-deep in something you can’t crawl out of.”
Jeonghan met his gaze evenly. “Don’t romanticize it. I don’t get involved.”
Seungkwan smirked. “You say that now.”
They fell into a brief silence, broken only by the clinking of cutlery and low music playing in the background. Jeonghan’s phone buzzed once—an unread message from your mother, thanking him for attending the party. No mention of you.
He stared at it for a long moment before sliding it face-down on the table.
“Whatever’s going on,” Seungkwan said eventually, lowering his voice, “it’s not public yet. But it will be. If the prime minister’s daughter disappears from a major event, the press will dig. I can’t stop that.”
Jeonghan didn’t answer immediately. He swirled the last of his coffee, expression unreadable. “Then let them dig.”
Seungkwan frowned. “You’re not worried she’ll drag you into it?”
“She doesn’t even know I was there,” Jeonghan said with a shrug. “And I intend to keep it that way.”
Seungkwan hummed thoughtfully. “You’re playing with fire again, hyung.”
Jeonghan smirked, finally standing and reaching for his coat. “Fire’s warm, though.”
“I’m planning to stay out of trouble,” Jeonghan replied smoothly. “But if she keeps disappearing like that…” He trailed off, glancing out the window again. “…I might need to find out why. For safety. Yours, mine, and your precious headlines.”
Seungkwan’s grin returned, slow and knowing. “Sure, hyung. For safety.”
Jeonghan ignored him, dropping a few bills on the table before heading for the door.
But even as he left, that image lingered—the way your mother smiled too brightly, the way your name sat unspoken between everyone.
For a man who didn’t care, Jeonghan found himself thinking about it far too much.
*
By the time Jeonghan returned to his apartment that night, the city outside had quieted. The glow of streetlights painted long shadows across his floor, and the half-finished glass of whiskey on his counter had long since gone warm. He stared at his phone for a long while, thumb hovering over your contact.
He shouldn’t.
You hadn’t texted him since before the charity event. He’d already decided to stay detached, to play this role carefully until he could slip out clean.
But curiosity—it was always his undoing.
He finally typed,
“Are you free tomorrow?”
The message hung there for a moment before he hit send. No greeting, no context. He wanted it to sound casual, like a man with time to waste, not one caught between intrigue and necessity.
He set the phone down and exhaled, running a hand through his hair.
Because truthfully, he didn’t just want to see you—he needed to understand.
A daughter who skipped her mother’s birthday in a family built on image and influence? That wasn’t rebellion. That was strategy.
And strategy always came with motive.
His phone buzzed.
One unread message.
“Depends. Who’s asking?”
A faint smirk tugged at his lips. You hadn’t changed—still sharp, still unbothered by his evasive way of speaking.
“The man who made it through your mother’s party alive.”
“You owe me coffee.”
A few seconds passed before your reply came through.
“I don’t remember owing you anything.
But sure. Tomorrow, 2 PM. Same café.”
Jeonghan set the phone aside, the small, humorless smile still lingering on his lips.
He told himself it was for Seungkwan.
For leverage. For the information that might keep his name out of a journalist’s headlines.
But beneath that, quieter and harder to ignore, was something else—an itch under his skin that demanded answers.
He glanced at the window, where the reflection of his tired face stared back at him.
“If there’s such a rumor like that in the prime minister’s family,” he murmured to himself, echoing Seungkwan’s earlier warning, “it’ll be lunch for the other party.”
And he couldn’t afford to be on the menu.
*
Jeonghan hadn’t meant to care about what he wore.
At least, that’s what he told himself as he buttoned the crisp white shirt that fit a little too perfectly across his shoulders. The navy trousers were pressed to a sharp line, his hair neatly styled back, and his wristwatch—an heirloom he rarely used—gleamed faintly in the café light.
He looked like a man who belonged somewhere better. Someone who hadn’t been exiled. Someone who still mattered.
The watch on his wrist pointed to ten minutes past the agreed time.
His other hand held his phone, thumb scrolling absently through old headlines, articles, and photos of you.
Ji Y/n — The Prime Minister’s Daughter Chooses a Life of Service
From Politics to Education: How Ji Y/n Stays Grounded Amid Power and Privilege
Each headline painted the same narrative: the ideal daughter, the humble prodigy, the perfect contrast to her family’s glittering political image.
Seungkwan was right. He needs to do some research before saying yes to a date.
Seungkwan’s voice echoed in his head.
“You’re too tempted by all the money and glory. You might be the most materialistic conglomerate son in the world.”
And Jeonghan had countered without hesitation.
“I was kicked out of the family, remember? I’m technically nobody’s son.”
It had shut Seungkwan up, but the words lingered even now—an echo of something he’d never quite recovered from.
The low hum of the café faded when he saw you.
You entered in a rush, phone pressed to your ear, brows furrowed, your expression tight with focus. You muttered something into the receiver, nearly colliding with a customer before catching yourself. The moment you hung up, you exhaled deeply—then your eyes found him.
Jeonghan stood automatically, hand lifting in a small wave. For a fleeting second, something unfamiliar flickered in his chest—relief, maybe. Or recognition.
You crossed the room quickly, still slightly out of breath.
“I’m so sorry, Jeonghan,” you said, sliding into the seat across from him. “One of my students fell from the stairs and broke his leg.”
Your voice carried that same calm warmth he remembered, even under stress. No embellishment, no dramatics. Just quiet concern.
Jeonghan’s brows lifted slightly. “Is he alright?”
You nodded, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “He will be. I just came from the hospital.”
Of course you did. The prime minister’s daughter, tending to an injured student instead of attending a political luncheon. It didn’t make sense—and that’s exactly why Jeonghan found it so hard to look away.
He leaned back in his chair, studying you with the cool composure of a man who pretended not to care. “You’re quite dedicated, aren’t you?”
You smiled faintly, eyes weary but genuine. “Someone has to be.”
Jeonghan hummed, gaze dropping briefly to the faint ink smudge on your wrist, the kind teachers always had from grading papers. You didn’t belong to the world he’d seen in headlines. You didn’t fit the image. And that mismatch—it fascinated him.
He studied you a moment longer, curiosity tugging harder now. There was something in your tone—an edge beneath the politeness, a shadow behind the smile.
Jeonghan didn’t know yet if you were someone he could trust, or someone who could destroy him.
But for the first time in a long while, he wanted to find out.
The conversation had begun to flow more naturally than either expected. Between sips of coffee and light bites of cheesecake, Jeonghan found himself watching you more than he should—how your expression softened when you talked about teaching, how you smiled politely even when dodging questions about your family. You weren’t evasive, exactly. You just knew how to draw a line.
He liked that.
“You don’t talk much about politics,” Jeonghan remarked, stirring his coffee lazily. “That’s unusual for someone who grew up surrounded by it.”
You shrugged, lips curling slightly. “I prefer things I can actually change.”
A quiet laugh escaped him before he could stop it. “You sound idealistic.”
“I sound tired,” you corrected, smiling faintly.
Before Jeonghan could respond, a familiar perfume hit him—a sharp mix of jasmine and expensive regret.
“Jeonghan?”
The voice was sweet, practiced, and far too loud for the cozy café. Both of you looked up to see a woman in her forties approaching the table, dripping in luxury—diamond earrings, a glossy handbag that cost more than a small car, and a smile that belonged to someone who’d never been told no.
For a second, Jeonghan froze.
What should he call her?
A past companion?
A benefit from a darker time?
A victim of his own charm?
Whatever she was, she wasn’t supposed to be here.
“Wow,” she breathed, eyes raking him over with unhidden satisfaction. “You look more handsome than last year.”
You glanced between them, curiosity flickering behind your calm expression. Jeonghan straightened slightly, the easy mask sliding over his face. “Good to see you,” he said smoothly, voice stripped of warmth.
She leaned closer, manicured fingers brushing his shoulder. “I need to go, but call me if you need some entertainment, okay?”
Her wink was quick, practiced—too public to ignore, too intimate to explain.
Then she was gone, heels clicking like a punctuation mark on his past.
Jeonghan exhaled slowly, but before he could say a word, you let out a small, amused chuckle.
He looked at you, brows lifting. “What’s so funny?”
You shook your head, biting back a smile. “Nothing. It’s just… you didn’t strike me as someone who’d need entertainment.”
His mouth twitched. “I don’t.”
“Mm,” you hummed, unconvinced. “You just look like you used to.”
Her words, your tone—it all tangled somewhere in his chest. He leaned back, forcing a smirk to cover the discomfort. “You talk like you’ve known me longer than a week.”
You met his gaze evenly. “Maybe I’m just a good observer.”
That silenced him. For a moment, neither spoke—just the faint clink of spoons against porcelain, the quiet tension threading between curiosity and judgment.
And Jeonghan realized that for the first time in a long while, someone wasn’t dazzled or intimidated by him.
You were simply watching—reading him.
And that unsettled him more than any scandal ever could.
*
The relationship between you and Jeonghan had begun to bloom—unexpectedly, almost naturally. The two of you talked more often now, your texts weaving into his days like quiet background music. He wasn’t sure when it started, but he found himself looking forward to your messages.
It was ironic, really. Because when he wasn’t speaking to you, Jeonghan was living a life that couldn’t be further from yours.
His nights were spent drifting between yachts owned by bored socialites, women who craved charm more than truth. He knew exactly what they wanted and how to deliver it—a smile, a word, a presence. It was easy. Meaningless.
And yet, in between champagne laughter and the clinking of glass, his thoughts would always circle back to you.
What were you doing right now?
Had you eaten?
Were you still awake, reading, or lost in thought like you always were?
He hated how natural it felt to care.
“You look distracted, honey.”
A woman’s voice pulled him back. She was beautiful—of course she was—dressed in silk, her manicured fingers tracing the rim of her glass.
Jeonghan blinked, forcing a smirk. “Do I?”
She tilted her head. “You’re not feeling well?” she asked, recalling what he’d said last night about being under the weather—an excuse to avoid following her to her room.
The ocean breeze rolled over the yacht deck, soft but cold, brushing his hair and cooling the drink in his hand. He looked at her, sitting on his lap with the practiced ease of someone used to being wanted.
And suddenly, he felt sick.
Because in that flicker of a second, he imagined you there instead.
Crazy.
Absolutely insane.
You, with your clear eyes and deliberate words, would never set foot in this world. And even if you did, you would never look at him the same way again.
You were the Prime Minister’s only daughter—an emblem of grace, the family’s shining jewel.
And he…
He was the son who had been exiled.
Cast out after a scandal that nearly ruined his father’s reputation. He’d paid for it with his name, his home, and every shred of privilege he once had.
“How about going back to your family?” Seungkwan asked one night, his voice echoing through the line.
Jeonghan sighed, eyes fixed on the dark waves outside the yacht window. “It’s complicated.”
“Too complicated, or too cowardly?”
He chuckled dryly. “I’m still a man, Seungkwan.”
“Yeah?” Seungkwan shot back. “Then act like one. A man keeps his promises. You promised me a cup of tea and the full story about Prime Minister Ji.”
Jeonghan leaned back, running a hand through his hair. “And you promised to stop nagging me.”
“Not until you tell me why the Prime Minister’s daughter texts you at midnight.”
Jeonghan’s lips curved into a faint smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Because she doesn’t know who I really am.”
And maybe, he thought quietly, that was the only reason you still did.
The morning broke harshly—sunlight slicing through half-drawn curtains, the faint hum of the city seeping into the luxury suite he’d fallen asleep in. Jeonghan’s head ached faintly from the night before; too much noise, too much pretending.
His phone wouldn’t stop buzzing.
One call after another, a stream of names he didn’t want to see—women he barely remembered, old acquaintances from the club scene, and one from Seungkwan.
He rubbed his face, groaning. “What now…”
Then his screen lit up with a notification from a news outlet.
And his world stopped.
‘The Yoon’s Mysterious Son Revealed — Never Leaving the Scene: Living a Life Among Socialites’
The headline sat above a collage of photos—him on a yacht, laughing beside women in designer dresses, champagne in hand. The shots weren’t just candid—they were curated. Deliberate. Someone had been watching him for months.
The phone rang again.
“Jeonghan!” A familiar female voice burst through the line. It was one of the women from the article, her tone both scandalized and gleeful. “You didn’t tell me you were that Yoon! Do you have any idea how many reporters called me this morning?”
He hung up.
Another call came. Then another. Each voice brought the same mix of curiosity and accusation. His pulse quickened with every word, the weight of exposure sinking into his chest.
And then—Seungkwan’s name flashed on the screen.
Jeonghan answered immediately. “You wrote about me?” His voice was low but sharp, every word laced with accusation.
“What?” Seungkwan sounded genuinely startled. “No—Jeonghan, I would never!”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“I’m not!” Seungkwan’s voice cracked slightly, the sound of hurried typing in the background. “I just saw it too! It’s everywhere! Someone leaked your pictures. The article’s not even signed—it’s a ghost drop, probably from an independent outlet.”
Jeonghan stood up, pacing across the room, the floor cool beneath his bare feet. His thoughts spun faster than he could control.
He’d worked for years to stay off the radar. To bury the name Yoon Jeonghan under layers of half-truths and fleeting company.
And now, everything was out.
His hands clenched. “You told no one about me?”
“Of course not,” Seungkwan shot back, indignant. “You think I’d ruin my own source? Jeonghan, listen—this isn’t my doing. But someone knew where you were and who you were with. Someone’s feeding this.”
Jeonghan’s jaw tightened. He turned toward the window, the city sprawling beneath him, glittering and cold.
He hadn’t even finished processing the article when another call came through.
This time, the caller ID froze him mid-step.
“Secretary Min — Father’s Office.”
Jeonghan’s pulse kicked hard against his ribs. It had been years since anyone from that number dared to call him. For a moment, he considered letting it ring out, pretending he hadn’t seen it. But curiosity—or maybe masochism—won.
He answered.
“Kim— I mean, Jeonghan speaking.”
The secretary’s voice was clipped, businesslike, but there was a tremor beneath the tone.
“Mr. Yoon. The Chairman would like to have a word. It’s urgent.”
Jeonghan’s throat felt dry. “About what?”
There was a pause, then the quiet rustle of papers.
“About the news. Not only the one from this morning.”
His heart sank. “There’s another one?”
“Yes, sir,” the secretary replied. “Apparently, the Prime Minister’s daughter was mentioned. You were seen together at an event. The headline reads—”
Jeonghan could almost hear the man hesitate, as if choosing the least damaging way to say it.
‘Disgraced Yoon Heir Seen with Prime Minister Ji’s Daughter — A Scandal in the Making?’
He went still.
Completely still.
The ocean outside, the faint hum of the city, even his own breathing—all of it faded into a dull, buzzing silence.
“I see,” he said finally, his voice even, detached—like a man already used to ruin.
“The Chairman requests you come in immediately,” the secretary added, his words precise but cautious. “He said… if there’s even a grain of truth in this, it could cost both families dearly.”
A bitter laugh escaped before Jeonghan could stop it. “He cares about the family’s name now?”
“Sir, I’m just relaying the message.”
“Of course you are.”
He ended the call before the man could say another word. For a long moment, he stood in the middle of his room, the phone still in his hand.
It wasn’t just about him anymore.
Your name was in it.
You—who had nothing to do with his past, who had only shown him quiet kindness—were now tangled in his chaos.
And that realization hit harder than any headline ever could.
*
You swiped the incoming call from Jeonghan to the left without hesitation, the screen dimming just as your reflection caught in the polished surface of the dining table.
It wasn’t the first call you’d ignored tonight. Or this week.
You had done it deliberately, under Mrs. Ji’s strict orders.
“Don’t you dare mess this up,” she had said earlier, her voice carrying that cold, commanding edge she never let her socialite friends hear. The kind of tone that could freeze air.
Now, sitting across from her and the Prime Minister, you kept your hands neatly folded in your lap. You hadn’t touched the food. The clinking of silverware and the low hum of polite conversation between your parents filled the silence that wrapped tightly around you.
Mr. and Mrs. Ji looked perfectly composed, pleased even. They were savoring their dinner, their expressions calm and satisfied—the unmistakable faces of people whose plans had unfolded exactly as intended.
“With his son’s scandal, Yoon Daemun will never be able to enter politics,” Mr. Ji said, cutting through the air with calculated satisfaction. His tone was casual, but his words were sharp, deliberate. “The timing couldn’t be better.”
Mrs. Ji dabbed the corner of her lips with an embroidered napkin, her expression softening with the kind of smile she reserved for strategy. “We’ve prepared a statement for your response, Y/n. Make sure you show up in public looking… a little heartbroken, perhaps?”
You stared down at your untouched plate, the gleam of silver cutlery blurring in your vision.
‘Victim of manipulation.’ That was the phrase they’d chosen for you. The headline they had already fed to the press.
You—the fabricated daughter of the Prime Minister—were to be portrayed as the naïve woman deceived by Yoon Jeonghan, the disgraced heir.
It was all theater. Every word, every tear, every silence rehearsed. And just like every performance before, you would play your part. Because that was the role you had been chosen for.
It had been ten years since you first met Mr. and Mrs. Ji. Back then, Mr. Ji was merely a Seoul mayoral candidate, still polishing his image. They were looking for a bright, idealistic student from the National Seoul University to elevate their campaign—someone with a clean past, a sympathetic story, and a face the public could love.
They chose you.
A parentless girl raised in a foster home. No blood ties. No history. No one to ask questions. A perfect daughter for a perfect family.
“You’re Ji Jae Kyung's daughter? Woah…”
You could still remember the awe in their voices—the way their eyes gleamed with admiration. Compliments came easily, falling like confetti around you. Some went to him, the respectable politician who raised such a brilliant daughter with perfect manners and flawless grades. The rest went to you—the quiet, low-profile daughter of a man everyone wanted to impress.
But none of it was real.
It was all staged.
Every smile, every headline, every carefully constructed image.
And behind it all stood Ji Jaekyung and his wife—the masterminds who turned you into what the public wanted to see.
You were never their daughter.
You were the performance.
The story they wrote to complete their picture-perfect life.
Ten years later, the role still clung to you like a second skin. You’d played it so long, you weren’t sure where the lie ended—or where you began.
*
You were just about to put on your coat when a voice stopped you near the cram school gates.
“Excuse me—Miss Ji?”
You turned. A man you vaguely recognized from Jeonghan’s circle stood a few meters away, his expression unsure yet determined. The streetlight above flickered faintly, painting both of you in amber.
“I’m sorry for showing up like this,” he began, hands tucked into his coat pockets. “I’m Boo Seungkwan. I’m… Jeonghan’s friend.”
Your fingers tightened around the strap of your bag. “I know who you are.”
He nodded, a faint sigh escaping him. “Then I’ll be quick. I just—wanted to ask if what the news said about him was true.” His voice softened. “That he manipulated you. That he used you.”
You said nothing.
Seungkwan studied your face for a moment, as if searching for a flicker of the girl Jeonghan used to talk about—the one who laughed too easily, who didn’t care about names or titles.
“I don’t mean to be disrespectful,” he continued carefully, “but… Jeonghan doesn’t deserve this. He might have his flaws, but that’s not who he is.”
You looked down at your shoes, at the way the shadows of the streetlight split across the pavement. Every word he said pressed against the guilt you had tried to bury since dinner.
“He hasn’t been the same since the article came out,” Seungkwan said quietly. “He keeps saying it doesn’t matter, but we both know it does. That kind of lie—” He paused, catching himself. “Sorry. I shouldn’t assume it’s a lie.”
You finally met his gaze. His tone wasn’t accusing—just heavy with confusion and the quiet plea of someone who wanted to believe the best in his friend.
“I didn’t write it,” you murmured.
“I believe you,” Seungkwan replied almost immediately. “But maybe you can tell the truth. Even a little of it. It might help him stand again.”
His words lingered in the cold air long after he bowed politely and walked away. You stood there for a long while, watching his figure fade down the street, your throat tightening.
You wanted to tell him that it wasn’t Jeonghan who manipulated anyone.
It was you—
or at least, the version of you that the Jis had created.
You glanced at Seungkwan’s face — he looked too sincere, too out of place standing in front of a cram school after hours, holding nothing but good intentions. That made it worse.
“I think there’s a misunderstanding,” you said finally, voice calm but distant. “Jeonghan and I… we were just friends.”
Seungkwan blinked, as if trying to make sense of it. “Just friends?”
“Yes.” You tightened your scarf. “We met a few times, talked about work, shared coffee. That’s all.”
There was no tremor in your voice, but something in your eyes must have betrayed you, because Seungkwan’s expression shifted—disbelief shadowed with pity.
“I see,” he said slowly. “Then the pictures, the dinner, the event—”
“Coincidence,” you cut him off. “The press twisted it.”
He looked at you for a long moment, weighing whether to push further. But there was something in the way your gaze avoided his—composed, but fragile—that made him stop.
He exhaled softly. “I didn’t mean to bother you. It’s just… Jeonghan’s been through a lot. I wanted to understand what really happened.”
You froze for a fraction of a second.
But before he could say more, you bowed politely, murmured, “Good night, Mr. Boo,” and walked past him into the drizzle-soaked street.
He stood there for a while, watching as you disappeared into the blur of city lights. Something about your words didn’t match your expression—the kind of contradiction that Jeonghan had mentioned before.
When Seungkwan finally pulled out his phone, he hesitated before typing.
“She said you were just friends.”
*
The chauffeur’s eyes in the rearview mirror said everything Jeonghan didn’t need to hear. Pity. Disgust. Fear of being associated with the wrong Yoon. The mansion hadn’t changed — white pillars, too much marble, the smell of money and order. Yet when Jeonghan stepped inside, he could almost hear the echo of that night six years ago, the one that tore his name from the family register.
The housekeeper didn’t greet him. She bowed, eyes lowered, and walked away. In the dining room, his father was already seated, posture like a statue carved from ice.
Yoon Daemun, the man the country admired, the man Jeonghan could never please. “Sit,” his father said, without looking up from the newspaper.
The headline lay sprawled across the front page:
THE YOON HEIR SCANDAL CONTINUES — LINKED TO PRIME MINISTER’S FAMILY. Jeonghan took the seat across from him, his movements deliberate, controlled.
“So,” Daemun began, folding the paper neatly. “You managed to humiliate me again.”
Jeonghan’s lips quirked upward. “I’d say the timing was convenient for you. The Prime Minister’s name on the same line—good distraction for the party board, isn’t it?”
Daemun’s gaze sharpened, the kind that used to make Jeonghan feel twelve years old again. “Still the same. No shame. No sense of consequence.”
“You taught me that, didn’t you?” The silence that followed was heavy. Only the faint ticking of the antique clock filled the room.
His father finally leaned back. “Do you know what happens when your name appears next to a politician’s scandal?”
Jeonghan didn’t answer.
“It ruins both sides.” Daemun’s tone was calm, almost too calm. “But it’s not you they’ll remember. It’s me. The man who couldn’t control his own son.”
Jeonghan clenched his jaw. “I didn’t ask to come back.”
“No. You were summoned because I’m still cleaning up after you.” His father’s voice rose a fraction. “And this time, Jeonghan, there won’t be a next time. You’ve already cost this family enough.”
“I stopped being part of this family six years ago,” Jeonghan said quietly. “You made sure of that.”
Daemun stood. The air between them felt sharp enough to draw blood. “You’ll fix this,” he ordered. “You’ll meet with the press, issue a statement—say you lied, that it was all fabricated to harm the Prime Minister’s reputation. They’ll buy it if it comes from you.”
Jeonghan let out a humorless laugh. “You want me to destroy myself for your seat in Parliament?”
His father’s lips tightened. “For once in your life, do something useful.”
The words sank deep, the same as they always had.
When Jeonghan left the mansion, the night air hit him hard. He stood by the gate, hands trembling around a cigarette he didn’t light.
He had promised himself never to come back here again. And now, he realized, nothing had changed — not even the way his father still called him son only when it served a purpose.
Across the street, reporters were already gathering, their cameras flashing faintly in the dark. He straightened his collar, tucked his hands into his coat pockets, and walked away from the house without looking back. This time, he wouldn’t run. He would play the game his father started — but on his own terms.
*
An exclusive interview with Yoon Jeonghan appeared on the front page of The Daily Standard, written by none other than Boo Seungkwan — a name the political and corporate world had learned to both admire and fear.
The article was a masterpiece of restraint and precision. Seungkwan had fought tooth and nail with his editor-in-chief to have it published uncut. It wasn’t a defense piece, nor was it an attack. It was simply truth, stripped of bias — and that made it all the more dangerous.
“He was just a man looking for love one night,” the article began, “and somehow became a family scapegoat by morning.”
Through Seungkwan’s words, Jeonghan’s story unfolded not as a scandal, but as a slow dissection of how narratives were manufactured by power. The way a single whisper could become a headline. How a name could be tarnished to save another.
Every paragraph carried Seungkwan’s voice — calm, analytical, and sharp as glass. He wrote about Jeonghan’s fall from grace, about the exile that followed his first scandal, and how his father’s silence had been louder than public condemnation.
But what caught everyone’s attention wasn’t Jeonghan’s tragedy — it was the twist.
“Mrs. Ji herself had insisted Jeonghan meet her daughter,” Seungkwan wrote. “Even sent gifts, meals, and handwritten notes — tokens of gratitude, or perhaps, persuasion. Who does that for a stranger?”
It was phrased like a question, but the implication was clear. The spotlight had shifted — subtly, cleverly — from Jeonghan’s so-called manipulation to the Ji family’s orchestration.
By the second half of the article, Mrs. Ji was no longer the grieving mother of a deceived daughter; she was a woman who had played the public like a symphony.
The nation devoured the story. News anchors repeated excerpts with caution, as if afraid the words themselves might bite. Political commentators speculated whether Boo Seungkwan had overstepped, or whether he had just cracked open something no one dared to question.
And Jeonghan — sitting alone in his dim apartment with the paper spread across his coffee table — couldn’t decide how to feel.
The world was finally hearing his side of the story.
But the irony was, it didn’t feel like victory. It felt like standing in the eye of a storm that was only beginning to turn.
After the article, Jeonghan disappeared again — not in shame this time, but in pursuit of something real. For the first time in years, he stopped attending events with rich women's names printed on the invitation. No more charity galas where everyone smiled with their teeth clenched. No more private dinners where the wine was expensive but every conversation was a transaction.
He sold all of his luxury things and moved into a smaller apartment on the edge of Mapo. The windows were cracked, and the heater worked when it felt generous, but it was quiet. His kind of quiet.
He started from the bottom — as a project consultant for a small local architecture firm that took contracts no conglomerate would touch. His job wasn’t glamorous: long meetings, stubborn clients, coffee that tasted like burnt wood. But there was a strange comfort in it. Each blueprint, each rejected proposal, each late-night revision — it all belonged to him.
He refused to take calls from people who once claimed to be friends. When invitations from the “rich circle” arrived — networking parties, art auctions, political birthdays — he left them unopened. He no longer wanted to be someone’s favorite scandal, someone’s well-dressed pawn.
For months, Jeonghan worked in silence. He kept his hair shorter, his words simpler, his gaze level. He didn’t try to charm anyone anymore. He didn’t need to. People at work found him odd — polite, reserved, sometimes intimidatingly composed. They whispered about his past, about the man who once made headlines. But they couldn’t deny his efficiency. He had a way of solving problems others didn’t even see.
And when a construction site mishap almost cost the firm a major deal, Jeonghan was the one who stayed overnight, reorganizing the logistics report by hand. The next morning, his boss found him asleep on the office couch — tie loosened, pencil still in hand, a faint trace of graphite on his jaw.
For the first time, Jeonghan’s value wasn’t built on his last name. It was built on effort. Still, every now and then, he caught himself looking at the city skyline — the one his father’s empire had helped shape — and wondered if redemption meant cutting ties completely, or learning how to stand on his own without hating where he came from.
“Do you want to hear what I just found?”
Seungkwan’s voice came through the phone one quiet night. Jeonghan answered without much thought, assuming it was another late update — a joke, a story, something light to end the day.
But Seungkwan’s tone was different. Too steady. Too careful. “There was a report that Ji Jaekyung’s daughter had passed away.”
The words didn’t register at first. They hung in the air like smoke — shapeless, heavy, unreal. Jeonghan froze, the pen in his hand slipping onto the desk.
“What?” His chest tightened. His mind went blank — except for the image of you: laughing behind a cup of coffee, brushing your hair from your face, the way you used to hum when you thought no one was listening.
“Y/n… had passed away?” The words barely escaped his mouth, trembling, as if speaking them might make them true.
“It’s not what you think,” Seungkwan said quickly, his voice low. “It wasn’t her. Not Ji Y/n. The report says a girl — eighteen years old — died by suicide ten years ago. The attending physician confirmed it.”
Jeonghan’s pulse roared in his ears. “What are you trying to say, Seungkwan?” He spun in his chair, the room suddenly too small, too bright.
“I’m saying,” Seungkwan breathed out, almost afraid to finish, “Ji Y/n isn’t Ji Jaekyung’s real daughter.”
Silence. The world seemed to tilt — slow, then all at once. Jeonghan sat there, hearing nothing but the echo of that sentence. Every moment he’d spent with you — every glance, every half-truth, every piece of you he thought he knew — cracked open in his mind.
If you weren’t Ji Jaekyung’s daughter… then who were you?
*
“I wake up every day thinking I’m nobody’s child. Just myself, doing the things I’m best at — teaching, meeting my students, seeing my friends. That’s the real me.”
That’s the real you…
Jeonghan could still hear your voice — soft, certain, echoing in the quiet of his memory. It had started as a casual conversation, one of those late-night talks that drifted aimlessly until he’d asked, almost teasingly, “What’s it like to be Ji Jaekyung’s daughter?”
You laughed faintly before answering, “Whosever child you are won’t define you. Your own work will.”
Those words had stayed with him longer than he expected.
He’d spent years buried under the weight of his family name, letting it dictate who he was supposed to be. When the burden grew too heavy, he rebelled — escaping through decadence, luxury, and fleeting attention. Drowning himself in everything that dulled the ache of being a Yoon.
But none of it had ever defined him.
“Hyung, you’re one of the smartest, most quick-witted people I know,” Seungkwan once told him. “You just need to use it for yourself — not to prove anyone wrong.”
And that was what he finally did.
He started small — late nights, small contracts, learning the bones of the business from the ground up. Day by day, Jeonghan built his own name, one that carried no trace of his father’s shadow.
“This,” he murmured to himself one morning, staring at the blueprint on his desk, “this is what defines me.”
A few months later, his phone rang. It was Seungcheol.
“I need your help with a new building for our firm,” he said.
Jeonghan didn’t know it then, but that call would change everything — the first stone on the path that would carry his name further than his family ever imagined.
Katalk …
Seungkwan: You need to see this.
He frowned, clicking the link. The screen opened to a live stream — a press conference, crowded with reporters and flashing cameras. And there you were, standing behind the podium, composed but pale under the harsh light. The banner above you read:
Your voice trembled at first, but you steadied yourself, eyes gliding across the sea of cameras.
“I was raised under the Ji family for ten years,” you began. “But I am not Ji Jaekyung’s biological daughter. The truth is—” you paused, swallowing hard, “the real Ji Y/n passed away ten years ago. I was… chosen to take her place.”
A low hum of whispers rippled through the room. Cameras clicked like rain. Jeonghan leaned forward, his heart pounding, his hand gripping the edge of the desk.
You exhaled shakily before continuing, “I was an orphan. I didn’t have a family or a name that mattered. I was offered a home, an education, a life that didn’t belong to me. And I was too young to understand what it truly meant.”
Reporters began raising their hands, their questions overlapping into chaos.
“Who orchestrated this?”
“Was the Prime Minister aware?”
“Why are you revealing this now?”
You didn’t flinch. “Because the lies have gone too far. And someone else has paid the price for them.”
Jeonghan could feel his chest tightening. You didn’t mention his name — but everyone knew who “someone else” was.
He could barely hear Seungkwan’s voice over the call when it came seconds later.
“She’s doing this for you, hyung.”
But Jeonghan couldn’t answer. His mind was spinning. You — the woman who once told him not to let his family name define him — were now standing in front of the world, tearing down the false identity that once defined you.
The screen flickered as the conference ended, replaced by a headline that felt like a scream in his chest:
“Prime Minister’s Daughter Admits to False Identity — Public Shock Ensues.”
The room was silent after the live broadcast ended.
Jeonghan sat still, staring at the frozen image on his screen — your bowed head, your shoulders straight despite the weight of everything you’d just confessed.
You didn’t defend yourself.
You didn’t accuse anyone.
You simply told the truth.
And somehow, that humility hit him harder than any scandal ever had.
He leaned back, running a hand through his hair, the city lights flickering against his tired eyes. For the first time, Jeonghan realized how small his own pride had been — all those years spent hiding behind charm, rebellion, and fleeting company. He’d called it freedom, but it was just fear wearing expensive clothes.
You, on the other hand, had stood in front of the nation stripped of everything — your name, your protection, your image — and yet you looked freer than he ever had.
“She doesn’t owe them anything,” he murmured under his breath. “And she still chose to be kind.”
It humbled him.
It changed something inside him that no lecture or consequence ever could.
That night, Jeonghan opened his window to the chill of the city air. The same wind that once carried gossip about his downfall now felt strangely cleansing. He poured himself a drink, not out of habit, but to think.
He replayed your words in his head, line by line.
“I’m just myself, doing what I’m best at.”
He understood it now.
It wasn’t about running away from a family name. It was about building a life so honest that no one could ever take it away again.
A small smile tugged at his lips. “You win, Y/n,” he whispered, half amused, half proud.
For the first time in years, Yoon Jeonghan didn’t feel like the son of anyone — not Daemun’s mistake, not society’s scandal. Just a man finally ready to start living right.
*
Jeonghan swore he wasn’t imagining things when his eyes landed on a woman he hadn’t seen in years, running across the school field with a group of children. His client—perhaps the principal, or maybe the chairman of the school foundation—kept talking, explaining how they wanted to preserve the school’s historical character.
“This school was founded before the war. We’d be grateful if your team could— Jeonghan-ssi?”
The two of them stopped walking. Jeonghan remained still, his gaze fixed on the field. His client probably assumed he was simply watching the children.
“Who’s that woman?” Jeonghan finally asked.
The chairman followed his gaze before smiling, seemingly misunderstanding the reason for the question.
“She’s new here. She moved from Seoul. Oh—aren’t you from Seoul as well?”
Jeonghan nodded absentmindedly. “Yes…” But he couldn’t tear his eyes away. He had seen it all unfold.
The media had talked about it relentlessly—and perhaps they still were. Ji Jaekyung had fallen from his political pedestal. It had become the nation’s biggest headline. Questions spread everywhere—from conversations between neighbors to comment sections and online forums.
How long had Ji Jaekyung replaced his real daughter with another girl to play the role of the perfect daughter?
Seungkwan had made sure to send Jeonghan countless articles and conspiracy theories. Some claimed the real daughter had been assassinated. Others insisted she had escaped years ago.
Jeonghan had eventually called him. “Isn’t a journalist supposed to be busy?” Seungkwan had stopped sending them. At least for a few days.
If Jeonghan was being truthful, he had been terrified for you. Proud—but terrified.
What you did was incredibly risky, especially so close to Ji Jaekyung’s election campaign. It wasn’t because you could ruin his chances of winning. It was because it could cost you your life. Ji Jaekyung had turned out to be a complete psycho—someone who wouldn’t even spare his daughter.
So Jeonghan had tried to find you. To contact you. Maybe offer whatever help he could. But he couldn’t. You had disappeared. And that frightened him even more. Because he had no idea whether you were safe or not.
Now, you were only a few strides away. Yet Jeonghan couldn't find the courage to walk over and say something as simple as hey.
Because hey was never simple when it came to you. It could never be, not after years of searching, asking around, following every lead he could find… And, perhaps, missing you.
Maybe Seungkwan had been right all along. Jeonghan really was a great pretender whenever your name came up.
"You know," Seungkwan had once said, "you deny it better when we talk about her than when your neighbor asks you to fix their toilet."
"She thought I was a handyman!" Jeonghan had shot back immediately. Another denial.
His phone rang while Jeonghan was driving home.
It was the grandmother from next door—the one who particularly adored, or perhaps nagged, him so much that he had started wondering whether she genuinely liked him or simply pitied him. Somehow, she had convinced herself he was a handyman with no real job, just a man who stayed home all day.
"Yes, Grandma?"
He was greeted by a suspiciously sweet voice. Too sweet. Not the usual one that told him to eat more or complained that he worked too slowly, but the gentle voice she reserved for her own grandchildren.
"There's a young woman who just moved in next door, and her gate isn't working properly. Could you help fix it?"
She continued, enthusiastically explaining what a reliable handyman he was.
For heaven's sake. He had studied engineering, not so his elderly neighbor could recruit him as the neighborhood repairman.
Jeonghan sighed. "I'll take a look. I'm on my way home anyway."
He heard her chuckle. She must be in a good mood, he thought. She had been oddly pushy yesterday while handing him containers of side dishes. Kind, as always—but with an unusual edge to it.
"Go check on her," she insisted. "She looked worried because the gate won't lock properly."
Very pushy.
By the time Jeonghan reached the house next door, he immediately crouched to inspect the gate. The lock was rusted beyond repair. It had needed replacing for quite some time. Pulling out his phone, he ordered a replacement lock online. He'd rather spend the money now than endure another week of the grandmother pestering him about it.
He was still standing by the gate, scrolling through the order confirmation, when the sound of footsteps behind him pulled his attention away from the screen. He turned, expecting to see the new homeowner. He was already rehearsing what to say—that the lock would hold for tonight, that he had arranged for someone to replace it in a few days, and that there was nothing to worry about.
But the words never came. His mouth went dry. His eyes widened. God really had a twisted sense of humor.
"...Jeonghan?”
*
After getting help from a very reliable lawyer, you finally received the compensation you had demanded from the Ji family.
It was finally time to find a place of your own instead of continuing to stay in the tiny studio apartment Minseo had generously lent you. You had been her unexpected roommate for almost three months now, and although she had never complained, you knew you couldn't impose forever.
Or maybe she didn't mind. Her boyfriend, on the other hand...
So, after weeks of searching, negotiating, and stretching your budget as far as it could go, you finally found a place at a reasonable price. A house, even. You can only afford a detached house in this economy if something's terribly wrong with it, you thought. The suspicion was confirmed the moment you saw it in person.
It definitely needed a lot of work.
...Or maybe your eyes needed fixing too, because standing in front of your new house was a figure you never expected to see again.
"Y/n?"
He sounded just as surprised as you were. Thank goodness.
"You're the handyman Grandma from next door was talking about?"
Jeonghan immediately shook his head. Then nodded Then shook it again, waving both hands in surrender.
"No—I mean... she thinks I'm a handyman."
You nodded thoughtfully. "That makes sense. She told me all about how you fix things around her house."
Jeonghan let out a defeated chuckle. He glanced between you and the old house before asking quietly, "So... you live here now?"
You stepped closer, following his gaze toward the weathered building. "Yeah." You sighed. "The listing forgot to mention it's one strong wind away from collapsing."
He studied the house for another moment, hands tucked into his pockets. "It's surprising someone actually bought this place."
"Because it's me, or because it's the house?"
The question escaped before you could stop it. The moment the words left your mouth, you wanted to take them back. Obviously because of the house. What a strange thing to ask.
Jeonghan looked at you. Then back at the house. Then at you again. "...Both." A beat passed. "But mostly because it's you.”
That night, your phone buzzed just as you were unpacking another box.
"Hello?"
It was your lawyer. Or rather, your old junior high school friend. Choi Seungcheol. He called to check on your settlement after the case had officially concluded, but mostly to give you an update on the Ji family's situation following the trial and the media storm.
"I'll send over the final documents," he said. "Legally, you're Choi Y/n now."
You laughed softly. "So... we share the same surname now."
"Hey, I don't mind." Seungcheol chuckled. "I told you before—it's an honor to handle your case. Having you share my surname? That's just a bonus."
Despite the joke, his voice carried genuine warmth. Seungcheol had been the first person to reach out after your televised confession. The moment he saw the broadcast, he called. The next day, he was standing at your door with a briefcase in one hand and coffee in the other.
"I'm taking your case."
There hadn't even been room to argue.
Known for his razor-sharp arguments and quick wit in court, Seungcheol had built quite a reputation as one of the country's most formidable young lawyers. And just as he had promised… He won.
You still weren't sure how to thank him properly.
"You helped me first," he said, as if reading your mind. "I'm just returning the favor."
Back in junior high, Seungcheol had been the stereotypical chaebol heir. Spoiled. Reckless. Completely convinced that money solved everything.
Until one afternoon, when a group of older students cornered him behind the gym.
You hadn't been strong enough to fight them. So you'd done the next best thing. You blasted a fake police siren from your phone. The bullies scattered before realizing it wasn't real. Seungcheol had laughed until he cried. Then he decided you were the coolest person he'd ever met.
"I also have a friend living near your new place," Seungcheol said, pulling you back to the present. "He's an architect."
"Oh?"
"Want me to introduce you?"
You glanced around the old house, where peeling wallpaper practically waved at you.
"He might actually faint when he sees this place."
"He'll probably renovate it for free."
You raised an eyebrow. "...For free?"
"Sure." His grin was audible through the phone. "If the two of you end up dating."
You sighed dramatically. "We both know I already have enough on my plate after everything that's happened."
"Fair point." His teasing faded, replaced by the quiet sincerity that had always made him such a dependable friend. "Then just focus on settling in."
You smiled to yourself. "I will."
"I have a feeling good things are waiting for you there."
*
Definitely not a good thing.
Seungcheol burst out laughing the moment he saw you and Jeonghan freeze like statues. His plan to visit his college friend, Jeonghan, and check in on his client, You, a week after you moved in had somehow turned into his favorite comedy show.
"How do you two know each other?" he asked, feigning innocence.
The moment Seungcheol had mentioned that his client lived nearby, Jeonghan's expression had changed ever so slightly. That was all Seungcheol needed.
Interesting.
He knew Jeonghan's history. He knew Jeonghan's "game." And judging by that reaction… Maybe you weren’t just another woman from Jeonghan's past.
Jeonghan let out a quiet sigh. "We met years ago."
"Yeah..." you echoed with a polite smile.
Neither of you elaborated.
Seungcheol looked from one to the other, a knowing grin slowly spreading across his face.
"Well then," he said, clapping his hands once. "Since we're all here, how about lunch?"
You smiled apologetically. "I'd love to, but I already promised to meet someone."
"No worries," Seungcheol replied easily.
After exchanging a few more polite words, you excused yourself and walked away. The moment you disappeared around the corner, Seungcheol slowly turned toward Jeonghan.
Then, with the biggest grin imaginable. "So..."
Jeonghan already knew what was coming.
"...Who was she to you, Yoon Jeonghan?"
He sighed so deeply it almost sounded painful before casually draping an arm over Seungcheol's shoulder.
"Let's get you something to eat first." He gently steered him toward the opposite direction. "You ask strange questions when you're hungry."
Seungcheol frowned in protest as he was dragged along.
"I do not."
"You do."
"I absolutely don't."
"You once asked a judge if he'd skipped breakfast."
"...He looked hungry."
Jeonghan laughed despite himself. "Exactly my point.”
Once the food arrived, the conversation drifted into comfortable silence. Jeonghan absentmindedly stirred his stew before finally speaking. "Do you remember lending me your car a few years ago?" he asked. "I told you I had to attend some political event."
Seungcheol frowned, trying to remember. "The one where you made me pick it up the next morning because you said you were 'emotionally exhausted'?"
Jeonghan let out a quiet laugh. "That one."
A beat passed.
"It was her."
Seungcheol froze, his chopsticks suspended halfway to his mouth. "...You're kidding."
Jeonghan shook his head. "I met her there. Mrs. Ji introduced us herself and invited me to the Prime Minister's event. I met her parents."
For a long second, Seungcheol simply stared at him. Then he slowly lowered his chopsticks onto the table. "Not her parents," he corrected quietly.
Jeonghan's smile faded. "I know." His gaze dropped to his bowl. "I only found out after everything was over."
A heavy silence settled between them.
Then Seungcheol's eyes widened as another thought struck him. "Wait..." He leaned forward. "So she was the woman from the scandal."
Jeonghan answered with nothing more than a small nod. He still remembered those headlines.
The photos of the two of you standing side by side. The articles that turned a few dinners and conversations into a fabricated romance. One picture after another, each one adding more fuel until the entire country caught fire.
"It didn't end well, then?" Seungcheol asked carefully.
Jeonghan gave a small shrug. "I don't even know if there was anything to end." He smiled bitterly. "Her mother was the one who insisted we meet in the first place."
Seungcheol leaned back in his chair, arms folding across his chest. "...That's strange."
Jeonghan looked up.
"What's strange?"
"I was her lawyer." His voice became noticeably more serious. "I know almost everything that happened inside that house."
He paused, choosing his words carefully. "Her relationship with Ji Jaekyung and his wife wasn't normal."
Jeonghan's brows slowly knit together.
"They forced her to become someone she wasn't."
"They dictated how she dressed, what she studied, who she met, what she said in public."
Jeonghan's fingers tightened around his spoon. The words lingered heavily between them. Neither spoke for a while. Finally, Seungcheol frowned, more to himself than to Jeonghan.
"Which is exactly why none of this makes sense."
Jeonghan looked at him.
"If Mrs. Ji controlled every aspect of Y/n's life, why was she so determined to introduce the two of you?"
Jeonghan replayed those evenings in his head. Mrs. Ji invited him to events. Mrs. Ji encouraged you to accompany him. Mrs. Ji smiled every time they talked. At the time, he had assumed she simply wanted her daughter to meet someone.
Now, that explanation felt too simple.
"There had to be a reason," Seungcheol murmured.
"A woman like Mrs. Ji never does anything without expecting something in return."
Jeonghan stared at the untouched food in front of him. For the first time in years, he wondered whether meeting you had ever been fate at all, or just another move in someone else's game.
*
“So,” Minseo began after swallowing a spoonful of soup, “your lawyer came to visit… and the ‘architect friend’ he mentioned turned out to be him?”
She calmly flipped a slice of beef on the grill as though this kind of ridiculous coincidence happened every Tuesday.
You nodded weakly. “Apparently.”
Living with Minseo for three months had stripped away every layer of privacy you once had. She wasn’t even your closest friend from university. Yet somehow, she’d become the one person who knew everything.
Minseo had been there the night you confessed the truth—not to the nation, but to her. That you weren’t Ji Jaekyung’s daughter. Never had been. Just an orphan the Ji family had paid to become one. You still remembered the way she’d stared at you, speechless, before quietly asking only one question.
“Where are you staying tonight?”
When you admitted you had nowhere to go, she’d answered without hesitation. “Pack your things. You’re staying with me.” No pity. No unnecessary questions. Just a spare key pressed into your palm.
“It isn’t supposed to be a big deal, is it?” Minseo said, pulling you back to the present. “Meeting him again, I mean.”
You rested your forehead against your palm, your elbow nearly knocking over your glass of water.
“I know…” You sighed.
“But I still can’t shake the guilt. I dragged him into all of this.”
Minseo looked at you for a moment before laughing softly.
“Girl, you told me he used to be a player with no direction in life.” She pointed at you with her chopsticks.
“And now? He’s an established architect. From everything you’ve told me, he rebuilt his entire life after the scandal.”
“If anything…congratulations?” She shrugged.
You stared at her. “What kind of conclusion is that?”
“My conclusion is that you accidentally gave the man a character-development arc.”
Despite yourself, a laugh escaped. Minseo smiled triumphantly. “There she is. You’ve been making that guilty face ever since the trial ended.”
The smile quickly faded from your lips. “I still ruined his life.”
Minseo shook her head. “No.”
She spoke so firmly that you looked up. “Your mother did. That woman intentionally introduced the two of you because she knew exactly who Yoon Jeonghan was.”
You lowered your gaze. “She was trying to get rid of his father.”
“Exactly.” Minseo pointed her chopsticks again, this time for emphasis.
“She leaked your photos together and controlled the narrative. She made him the villain. Every single step was planned.”
You quietly stirred your soup. The words settled between you.
“You weren’t the one calling the photographers.”
“You weren’t the one writing the headlines.”
“And you certainly weren’t the one trying to destroy a political rival.”
You remained silent. Minseo sighed before reaching across the table to nudge your bowl toward you.
“Eat.”
You obediently picked up your spoon. After a few bites, Minseo spoke again, much more gently.
“You know what I think? I think Mrs. Ji underestimated the two of you. She expected you to keep playing the perfect daughter forever.”
She smiled to herself. “But she never imagined her ‘perfect daughter’ would bring down an entire political dynasty with one press conference.”
A small smile tugged at your lips. “She definitely didn’t see that coming.”
“No.” Minseo grinned. “And judging by the way you described your reunion… I don’t think she expected you two to become neighbors either.”
You groaned, dropping your head onto the table. “Please don’t remind me.”
She raised her glass. “To the terrible house…and even more terrible coincidences.”
*
On his way home, Jeonghan noticed a few familiar faces working on your house. They were contractors he had hired before—people whose work he trusted enough to recommend without hesitation. Seeing them there, he couldn’t help wondering which developer you had chosen. Apparently, it was one he knew well.
The fact that the two of you still hadn’t spoken since Seungcheol’s visit last month proved just how hopeless you both were. Or perhaps it was just him.
Every morning, Jeonghan rehearsed countless conversations in his head. A greeting. A joke. Maybe even an apology. Yet the moment he saw you, all he managed was a polite bow and a small smile. Pathetic.
Night fell.
He had just finished dinner when rain began hammering against the windows. Within minutes, the entire neighborhood was swallowed by darkness as the power went out.
Jeonghan didn’t even have to think. He opened a kitchen drawer, took out a few candles, grabbed an umbrella, and stepped outside.
“Grandma? I brought some candles.”
The old woman shuffled carefully from her room to answer the door, smiling as she welcomed him inside. While Jeonghan lit the candles one by one, she complained nonstop about the blackout.
“Is it already the rainy season?” she grumbled. “Why didn’t they announce it on TV? If it rains this hard every day, I’ll go crazy!”
Jeonghan laughed quietly. “I think the TV is the least of your worries right now, Grandma.”
“Hmph. Easy for you to say.”
As she continued talking, his eyes drifted toward the window. Your house stood completely dark. Not a single light. He glanced down at the few candles still left in his hand.
“Grandma, you’re all set.” He picked up his umbrella again. “If you need anything else, just call me.”
The old woman nodded.
“Nari? Are you home?”
A few seconds later, the door opened. “Jeonghan?”
You blinked at the sight of him standing on your porch, rain dripping from the edge of his umbrella. “It’s pouring. What happened?”
He held up the candles in his hand. “I brought these.”
It took you a second to realize the entire house was dark. “Oh…” A sheepish smile crossed your face. “I completely forgot the power went out.”
Jeonghan chuckled quietly. “I noticed.”
You stepped aside, opening the door wider. “Come in before you catch a cold.”
He hesitated for only a moment before stepping inside, carefully folding his umbrella near the entrance.
Your house looked even older from the inside. Half-unpacked boxes lined the living room. Rolls of wallpaper leaned against one wall, while paint samples and renovation sketches covered the dining table. It was messy—but lived in.
“I’m sorry,” you said, noticing where his eyes wandered. “I’m still unpacking.”
“It’s fine.” His gaze settled on the exposed ceiling beams. “They’re in better condition than I expected.”
“You can tell just by looking?”
“I’m an architect.”
“…Right.”
The corner of his lips lifted.
“So…”
You rubbed the back of your neck. “I guess you’re not actually a handyman.”
He let out a laugh. “I’ve been trying to convince Grandma of that for years.”
You laughed too.
For the first time since meeting again, the silence between you no longer felt heavy.
You took one of the candles from his hand. “Thank you.”
“It’s nothing.”
He lit the candle with a lighter from his pocket, shielding the small flame with one hand until it steadied. The warm glow slowly spread across the room, softening the unfinished walls and the distance that had lingered between the two of you for weeks.
Rain continued to drum against the roof. Neither of you seemed in a hurry to break the quiet.
“You’ve done a lot already,” Jeonghan said after a while, glancing around the room.
“I’ve had help.”
“The contractors outside earlier?”
You nodded. “They’re good.”
“I know.”
You looked at him curiously. “You’ve worked with them before?”
“A few times.” A small pause followed. “I trust their work.”
You smiled. “Good.”
The room settled into silence once more, but it no longer felt empty.
Between you, the candle gave a small, wavering pulse of light, its flame bending whenever the wind pressed against the old windows. The glass panes gave a soft, uneven rattle in their frames, as if the house itself were listening in. Outside, rain moved steadily over the roof and down the eaves, a constant hush beneath the occasional sharper tap of a branch against the siding.
Jeonghan’s gaze drifted toward the windows, his expression thoughtful in the candlelight.
“You should replace those before winter.”
You followed his line of sight, watching the faint tremor in the glass.
“I know. I've been telling myself that for the past two weeks.” A sheepish smile touched your mouth, small and apologetic.
He let out a quiet chuckle, the sound low and warm in the dim room. “I can make you a list.”
“You’ll charge me, won’t you?”
“I thought I was the neighborhood handyman.”
“Right.”
You tipped your head, pretending to consider it, though the corner of your mouth was already giving you away. “So… free?”
Jeonghan laughed, a little more openly this time, and for a moment the tension in the room loosened with it. “I walked right into that one.”
The laughter faded as naturally as it had come, leaving behind something gentler. For the first time, the quiet between you didn’t feel strained or careful. It simply existed, soft and unhurried, the kind of silence shared by two people who had run out of things to say and found they didn’t mind. The rain filled the spaces around you, and the candlelight moved over the table in slow, trembling gold.
“You’ve changed,” you said at last, your voice quieter than you intended.
Jeonghan looked up from the candle, his eyes catching the light. “I have?”
“You smile differently.”
He blinked once, as if turning the words over in his mind.
“I used to think you smiled because you enjoyed teasing people.”
“And now?”
“Now…” You hesitated, searching his face for the right shape of the thought. “It feels quieter.”
His gaze dropped to the candle flame, and for a moment the light softened the line of his mouth. “I got older.”
“I suppose we both did.” A faint smile crossed your lips, brief but real.
“You still bow every morning.”
“You never miss returning it.”
Another pause settled between you, but this one carried no sharp edges.
“I wasn’t sure if I should talk to you.” The confession slipped out before either of you could stop it, and once it was spoken, it seemed to hang there in the warm, dim air.
Jeonghan lifted his eyes to yours. “…Neither was I.”
A small laugh escaped you, half relief and half disbelief. “So we’ve been greeting each other like strangers for an entire month.”
“Apparently.”
“That’s embarrassing.”
“It is.”
Outside, the rain thickened, drumming harder against the roof. Somewhere beyond the windows, the lights remained dark, the world reduced to weather and shadow. You traced the rim of your mug with your thumb, the ceramic cool beneath your skin.
“I thought you hated me.” The words came out so softly you almost wished the rain had swallowed them before they reached him.
Jeonghan didn’t answer right away. He looked at you for a long moment, his expression unreadable at first, then slowly shifting into something more honest, more tired.
Then he shook his head. “I did.”
You went still.
He seemed to notice your reaction and continued before the silence could harden into misunderstanding. “For a while.”
His fingers tightened slightly around the mug, the warmth of it lost beneath the tension in his hand. “I blamed you.”
“I blamed myself.” His eyes lowered for a second, then lifted again, steady and clear.
“It was easier than accepting I had no idea what had really happened.”
You swallowed, the weight of his words settling somewhere deep and quiet inside you. “I wanted to apologize.”
Jeonghan’s gaze sharpened, as if that had reached him more than anything else you’d said. “I looked for you.”
Your breath caught.
“I couldn’t find you. I asked people. I even asked Seungkwan if he’d heard anything. He worried too, you know.” A small, reluctant smile tugged at his lips, softened by memory.
The room fell silent again, but this time the quiet felt different. It wasn’t the silence of distance or uncertainty. It was the silence of two people standing at the edge of something old and painful, finally beginning to see it clearly from both sides. The candle burned lower between you, its flame smaller now, but steadier somehow, as if it had settled into the shape of the night.
Outside, thunder rolled across the sky in a long, distant rumble. Inside, neither of you seemed to notice that the candles had already burned halfway down.
*
The final school bell rang just as Jeonghan and the principal finished their last inspection of the newly restored building. Jeonghan couldn’t help but chuckle every time a fourth grader came running over to complain.
“The tiles near the stairs are too slippery!”
“The sink by the football field is too tall!”
The principal immediately shooed them away with a laugh. “Off to class. You can file your complaints later.”
Jeonghan watched the children disappear down the corridor before turning to the principal. “They’re definitely the toughest clients to please.”
“They always are.”
“Teacher Y/n.” At the principal’s call, Jeonghan turned.
You stepped out of your classroom, your bag slung over one shoulder, clearly finished for the day. You bowed politely to both of them before smiling at Jeonghan.
“Amazing work, Architect Yoon.”
The principal blinked in surprise. “Oh!” He laughed. “I was just about to introduce the two of you.”
He looked between you and Jeonghan. “So… you already know each other?”
Jeonghan smiled and nodded. “Yes, sir. We’ve known each other for years.” He glanced at you before adding, “We’re neighbors.”
The principal’s eyes widened. “Neighbors?” He looked genuinely delighted.
“Then the two of you should’ve been going home together this whole time! No need for Teacher Y/n to take the bus anymore.”
Jeonghan smiled. “That works for me.”
You nodded, unable to hide a small smile of your own. “Then let me grab my things from the teachers’ room first. Excuse me.”
As you walked away, the principal let out a quiet sigh of relief before turning to Jeonghan. “To be honest, I still don’t understand why someone like Teacher Y/n chose our little school.”
Jeonghan raised an eyebrow.
“Her résumé is remarkable,” the principal continued. “We’re lucky she even accepted our offer.”
Jeonghan smiled to himself. “She’s always been like that.” He remembered the woman who had once told him that a person’s work—not their family name—was what truly defined them.
The principal nodded enthusiastically. “Exactly! She just came back from volunteering in Africa, and this was the very first school she applied to.”
He shook his head with an admiring smile. “Sometimes I wonder what kind of life she’s lived.”
Jeonghan watched as you disappeared down the hallway. A quiet smile settled on his face. “…An amazing one.”
The principal followed Jeonghan’s gaze before smiling to himself. “I suppose so.”
After parking the car, the two of you still had to walk another five hundred meters to the neighborhood. Jeonghan carried the box of materials you had brought home from school while you explained they were your students’ art projects.
For most of the walk, neither of you spoke. Then you turned to him. “I read it. Seungkwan did a good job.”
Jeonghan looked over and smiled. “He did almost too good of a job. My father must be pleased.”
“Your father is a good politician,” you murmured.
“He is.” A small smile lingered on his lips. “Not a very good father, though.”
You nodded. “That’s true.”
He looked ahead as the afternoon breeze rustled through the trees. “But… thanks.”
You turned to him.
“Because you were willing to tell the truth—even knowing how much it would cost you—my relationship with him finally got better.”
You smiled faintly. A month ago, Seungkwan had visited to ask for an exclusive interview for his feature, The Fall of Ji Jaekyung’s Legacy. It told the whole story. How the Ji family’s real daughter had been hidden. How you had been forced to take her place. How they had manipulated the media and used both you and Jeonghan in their attempt to bring down Yoon Daemun and several other political rivals.
“That was the least I could do,” you said quietly. “After everything I put you through.”
Jeonghan let out a small laugh. “Didn’t we agree to stop feeling guilty about that?”
You smiled apologetically.
“Besides,” he continued, “your mother was unbelievable.” He shook his head in disbelief. “How she even found out I was Daemun’s estranged son is still beyond me.”
You laughed. “I have no idea either. The whole family was… something else.”
Before either of you could continue, a familiar voice called from across the street.
“There you are!”
Grandma waved excitedly from her front yard. “I’ve been waiting for you two to come home!”
She pointed at Jeonghan. “Jeonghan! Help me with the plumbing. It stopped working again.”
Jeonghan groaned dramatically. “Grandma… I’m not a plumber.”
“You’ll figure it out.”
“I’m not a handyman either.”
Ignoring his protest entirely, Grandma grabbed his wrist and started pulling him toward the house.
You couldn’t hold back your laughter.
Jeonghan sighed in defeat before handing you his bag.
“Which pipe is it this time?”
As he rolled up his sleeves, Grandma happily led him inside.
“He complains every single time,” she whispered to you with a grin. “But he always fixes it.”
You smiled. “Grandma… He’s not a handyman. He’s an architect.”
Grandma blinked before breaking into a sheepish smile.
“I know.”
You looked at her in surprise.
She pointed toward the house next door. “There’s a big sign in front of his house.”
You laughed. “So you’ve known all along?”
Grandma simply shrugged. “Architects know how to fix things too.”
You glanced toward the kitchen window, where Jeonghan was already crouching beneath the sink, muttering to himself while trying to figure out the plumbing.
Maybe Grandma had been right after all. Some people didn’t just build houses. They made them feel like home.
THE STORY OF YOU AND JEONGHAN was something out of romance novels. He was the love of your life and you were his. Keyword: was. When you pack up and leave without another word, Jeonghan is left to pick up the petals of your relationship and thought that he would never see or hear from you again. However, after ten years, it seems like the universe has other plans when he hears a piece of gossip from Chan about someone moving back to town.
PAIRING: ex-boyfriend! jeonghan x ex-girlfriend!f.reader
GENRE: Childhood Friends to Lovers to Exes to ???, Brother's Best Friend, Second Chance Romance
AU: Spring AU/ Flower Shop AU/ Hometown AU
TOTAL WC: 24.8K
FIC WARNINGS: angst, one mention of taking of each other's virginity, swearing, mentions of alcohol, mentions of consuming alcohol, mentions of food, mentions of homesickness, mentions of anxiety and doubtful thoughts, self-insert of friends (izzy & kay), talks about the future and getting married, mentions of promise rings
PLAYLIST: a timeless playlist for rose ~ love, hannie
LIV'S NOTES...
this is my fic for the svthub's first blooms collab and i'm so excited to bring you jeonghan! thank you to our admins @cherry-zip & @wooahaeproductions for hosting this collab! do check out the rest of the fics in this collab as well! many many amazing works <3!
big thank you to @orbitondgtl and @jakedustry for helping me through my ideas and for beta-reading certain parts of the fic and for screaming in my dms about it <3 both of you are the best hype-staff that i could've asked for <3 love you both so much!
i was so glad to be given the opportunity to write for hannie especially since he just came home! aaaaa <3 so happy jeonghan comeback everyone! i hope you all enjoy the fic <3
MAIN MASTERLIST | NAVI
FLOWERS WILL BLOOM
Jeonghan would like to say that his interest in flowers started when he was eight, on the day of his sister's birthday. His sister wanted to go to a flower garden for her birthday and much to Jeonghan's dismay (at first), she got to. Jeonghan had thrown many tantrums about it because he said he's a boy and being caught dead in a flower garden would surely make Seungcheol and Joshua tease him to no end about it. However, he lost that manipulation tantrum and sulked all the way until they reached the garden that his sister had been talking about for months.
He dragged his feet as he sulkily trailed after his parents who were hand in hand with his sister who was looking at the flowers with her eyes as big as saucers. She rattled off some statements about how pretty the flowers were which made Jeonghan scoff as he folded his arms and looked away from them.
His eyes wandered until they widened, seeing a familiar face a few feet away between a section of red and blue flower who looked just as unamused as he was.
"Mum!" Jeonghan's mother turned around, facing her son with a look of surprise etched onto her face as she saw the visible difference in his posture and face.
"Yes darling?"
"Can I go over to play with Seungcheol?" His mother's gaze flicked towards where the other unamused boy stood, slightly hunched over a little girl by his side and immediately understood the reason for Jeonghan's posture change.
With a sigh, she nodded. "But you can't throw a tantrum when I say it's time to go later, okay?" She warned him making the boy absentmindedly nod, already on his way to bother the older boy that he had his sights on.
"Cheol!" Seungcheol, the boy in question jolted before he whipped his head around to see his gremlin of a best friend, which made his eyes widen.
"Jeonghan?" Seungcheol blinked as he fully turned his body towards him. "What are you doing here?"
Jeonghan rolled his eyes and gestured to his sister who was walking further away with their parents in tow. "Su Bin wanted to come and see the flower festival for her birthday." He turned back to Seungcheol, "Why are you here?"
Seungcheol opened his mouth to answer when a soft voice captured both of their attentions. "Who are you? Are you trying to steal my brother?"
Jeonghan peered down to see a little girl with bangs and pigtails. She donned a flower dress and had a small frown on her lips as she clutched Seungcheol's right arm, tight into her own. Jeonghan's eyebrows furrowed at the expression on the girl's face before he glanced at his best friend. Seungcheol, however, just looked at the girl with a slight fondness as he shook his head.
"He isn't stealing me away." He assured the girl and used his free hand to pat her head. "This is Jeonghan, the one that I have told you many stories about. He's oppa's best friend."
It suddenly clicked in Jeonghan's brain who this girl was. You were Seungcheol's younger sister by two years. He had only heard stories of you where his best friend had referenced you as Violet. It was a nickname that Seungcheol had coined when you had gotten lost at the age of four and ended up being found in a bed of violets, sleeping away.
Your eyes locked with Jeonghan's as you tilted your head to the side, almost calculating the man in-front of you. Jeonghan felt a little apprehensive under your gaze as he felt your boba eyes pierce his soul and made him feel something… he didn't know what it was exactly but it made his heart race and his chest uneasy.
"Did he come to play with us?" You asked your brother, your gaze unwavered as you continue to star down Jeonghan. Seungcheol spared a glance towards his best friend before a smirk appeared on his face that made Jeonghan's eyebrows furrow, not liking the look in his eyes.
"I think he came because he wanted to learn more about flowers, Violet."
Jeonghan felt his heart drop as soon as the words came out of his best friend's mouth and felt his jaw drop open. "N-no! That's not—" He had tried to sputter out but then he noticed your reaction and his words got caught in his throat.
Your eyes had widened as you looked between your brother and his friend excitedly. "Really?" You had asked him, your tone laced with awe. "You want to know more about flowers?"
Jeonghan felt his mind blank at the sheer excitement in your voice as all the words that he was going to say immediately disappeared from his head. He felt his throat dry up as Seungcheol detached himself easily from your hold — now that you were distracted by a new 'willing' subject, a smug expression on his face. Jeonghan, however, did not notice his best friend's delight and was just laser-focused on you as you moved closer to him.
"Do you?" You had asked him again, when you were just a few meters away from the boy. Jeonghan didn't know what was wrong with him, if it was any other person, he would scoff in their face and sulk or manipulate his way out of the situation. However, he felt himself nod at your words, almost as if you had placed him under a spell.
If it was even possible, your eyes lit up even more as you reached out and took his arm into yours and tugged him to your side. Jeonghan stumbled as his eyes widened, you were really strong. You excitedly jumped up and down as you stared into the hesitant eyes of the boy you had just met a couple minutes ago.
"C'mon!" You said as you pulled Jeonghan towards the red flowers. "I'll make sure you have a favourite flower by the end of today!"
Jeonghan gulped as he peered behind him to see Seungcheol stood there, a delighted expression on his face as he gave a wave. Jeonghan glared at his best friend as the cogs finally clicked in his head. He had planned this from the very start. Seungcheol had basically used him as bait to get out of your flower talk.
Jeonghan felt you literally tug him out of his thoughts as you squatted down to get a closer look at the flowers, effectively making the older boy squat as well. Jeonghan rebalanced himself, his eye twitching in the process as he tried very hard to not toss a glare your way, annoyance filling his tiny body.
He opened his mouth and was ready to turn to you, to spout some bullshit excuse when he saw you gesture to the red flowers in-front of you.
"Look."
Jeonghan looked up, analyzing the flower with an unimpressed expression on his face before he noticed that he had gotten mud all over his new shoes that he had begged his mother to buy. He felt his blood boil with annoyance and turned to you, niceness be damned, he was going to chastise you.
However, when his eyes locked with your frame, all the words he wanted to say died on his tongue and his mind blanked for the second time that hour.
You stared at the roses with a gentleness and softness on your face as your eyes lit up, the more you analyzed the red flower in-front of you. You even went as far as to stroke the petal of the one closest to you as a small, cute smile appeared on your face.
"This is a rose." You softly said, as you absentmindedly rubbed a dew off of the petal of another flower. "Did you know my mummy said that there are more than one hundred and fifty species of roses?"
Jeonghan felt his head shake at your question, an action that he didn't have full control over. "My mummy also told me that all flowers have different meanings." You chirped.
There was silence for a little while until Jeonghan's curiosity got the better of him. "What does violets mean?"
You were quiet for a bit before you opened your mouth and replied with a simple, "My mummy said that they represent modesty and faithfulness." Your nose scrunched up, "I have no idea what that means though."
Jeonghan was silent as he spared a glance at the red roses in-front of the two of you. "Did your mummy also tell you what roses mean?"
Jeonghan looked back at you as you nod with your eyebrows scrunched, almost as if you were trying to recall what exactly she had said.
"She told me about the red ones…" You started. "She said that they mean love and are mostly given from two people who love each other." With that, you turned to the older boy, your head tilted to the side, a small frown on your face.
"I bet you find that disgusting though." You state softly, recalling your older brother's words. "Because you're a boy and oppa always says that boys don't like roses because love is weird and disgusting."
If Jeonghan had paid a little more attention, he would've scrunched up his nose and agreed with your brother's words that echoed in your head. However, as he stared at your little pout and your shiny boba eyes, he felt his mouth run before he had the chance to stop it.
"No." He admitted. "I think roses are cool."
You blinked at the older boy as he processed the words that had just left his mouth with a red flush on his cheeks.
"Really?" You asked, slightly in awe which made Jeonghan's cheeks flush even more at the intensity of the way you were looking at him.
"Y-yeah." He stuttered out as his gaze shifted from your eyes to the red roses, unable to hold your gaze for much longer. "I think the red is cool and…" His voice softened. "They're pretty I guess."
His heart thundered in his ear as all he was met with from you, was silence. His face grew hotter every second that you didn't answer. He was going to save some dignity and pull back when he heard you giggle.
He turned back to you, his eyes wide as he watched as your eye lines crinkle. He felt the same uneasiness in his chest as earlier and blinked at you, unsure of what to do until you finally stopped laughing and just fixed the boy with a big smile.
"You're funny." You admitted, the smile on your face getting impossibly bigger as Jeonghan blinked at you again. "We're friends now!"
Jeonghan eyes widened even more. "F-friends?"
You nodded, a determined expression on your face. "Anyone who likes roses is my friend. So," You leaned closer to the boy as your eyes shimmered in the sunlight. "We're friends now."
Jeonghan felt the tips of his ears become hot as he turned away from you, unable to bare the intensity of your boba eyes. It was almost as if they stared into his soul, He hoped you didn't know the effect that you had on him, because if you told your brother about it, Seungcheol or Joshua would never let him live it down.
Unbeknownst to him, you were a smart cookie. You knew the effect you had on people and Jeonghan wasn't any different. You smiled to yourself before you tugged the boy up to his feet as you drew his attention back to you.
"C'mon Hannie." You said, the nickname rolling off your tongue with an ease that made Jeonghan's heart ache. "I got more flowers to show you!"
Jeonghan didn't know why but he let himself get tugged for the second time that day towards a section of yellow flowers. He spared a glance down towards your co-joined hands then peered back at the red roses that the two of you were leaving behind. He took another look at you and the big smile you had on your face as you dragged him off and felt his body warm.
Maybe. He thought to himself. Flowers weren't so bad after all.
A small smile appeared on his face without him noticing.
Or at least, Roses aren't that bad.
THORNS PROSPER MORE THAN THE BLOOMS
Jeonghan would say that he's a charmer. He also knows that it's a fact that is definitely undisputed by everyone around him.
"Aigoo!" Jeonghan exclaims, jogging over to Mrs Tam, a regular at his flower shop. "Mrs Tam! What did I tell you about opening doors for yourself?"
Mrs Tam, an elderly woman in her seventies let out a chuckle as Jeonghan pushed opened the door for her, helping her with her trolley in the process. "That I should always wait for one of you boys to do it for me?"
Jeonghan clicks his tongue as he flashes her a dazzling smile whilst taking her hand to help her inside the shop. "Bingo!" Jeonghan shoots her a wink. "I knew you were a smart cookie when you first came to the shop."
Mrs Tam laughs heartily and pats his hand with her free one, her eye lines crinkling as she gives him a smile. "You're such a charmer, my dear boy." Her eyes twinkle. "It's a wonder that you don't have a girlfriend yet… Would you like me to set you up with someone? I'll have you know that my granddaughter and her husband have been going strong for three years because I introduced them to each other!"
Jeonghan shakes his head, the charming smile on his face never leaving. "Aigoo." He cooes out, patting the elderly lady's hand. "I can't ask you to do that for me, Mrs Tam. Besides," He looks around at the store before leaning in. "If I get a girlfriend, Shua will feel really alone and I can't let that happen."
"I heard that." Comes an unamused call from the counter, making the two turn to see Joshua leaning against the counter, who rolls his eyes as soon as the two look at him. "I think I have a better chance at finding a girl than you do, Hannie."
Jeonghan shares a glance with the older lady before smirking at Joshua. "Wow." He whistles out. "Sensitive, aren't we?" He is met with another eye roll as Joshua pushes himself off the counter.
"You're lucky Mrs Tam is here." He calls out to Jeonghan who lets out a laugh before shooting her a wink.
"Saved my life again, Mrs Tam." He gives the elderly lady's hands one last squeeze before letting her go and ushering her to the counter. "What can I do for you today?"
Mrs Tam's smile grows bigger as she pulls out a picture from her wallet before passing it to Jeonghan for him to see. He takes the picture from her and his eyes widen as his jaw drops open.
"Wah!" Jeonghan exclaims, reaching over the counter to squeeze the older lady's hand once more. "Congratulations Mrs Tam!"
Joshua peeks out from the storeroom, confusion written all over his face as to what the commotion is about. Jeonghan turns and shows Joshua the picture of the ultrasound with Mrs Tam's grandaugther's name written at the top left hand corner.
Joshua's eyes widen as a smile appears on his lips as he walks over to Mrs Tam to give her a hug. "Congratulations Mrs Tam!" He pulls away and gives her a smile. "You'll make an amazing grandmother."
The older woman's smile gets bigger as she looks between the two boys, her eyes shining.
"You two are too sweet." She says before turning back to Jeonghan. "That's why I am here today! I wanted to get them a bouquet of flowers to congratulate them and I knew that you two would be able to curate a bouquet that is perfect for the occasion."
Joshua fondly smiles at Mrs Tam. "I'm sure Jeonghan has something just right for you." He shoots a teasing glance towards the slightly older man. "Don't you, Hannie?"
Jeonghan meets his teasing smile with a smile of his own as he gives Mrs Tam a reassuring nod. "I got the perfect arrangement for you, Mrs Tam. Give me a few moments to arrange and wrap it for you."
With that, Jeonghan walks around his sunlit store, weaving through the different sections grabbing a few different flowers as his mind spirals with what arrangment style he could arrange this in. All the while, Joshua ushered Mrs Tam to sit at the tea table they had and offers her a soothing green tea while she waits.
Jeonghan, in full concentration makes his way back to the counter after collecting all the flowers he needs and gets to work.
After a couple of snips and snaps and sounds of wrappers being used, Jeonghan places his palms on his hips as he looks down at his creation with a satisfied smile on his face.
He adds a finishing touch of a spritz of a citrus scent on the packaging to elevate it a little more before grabbing it and making his way over to where Mrs Tam and Joshua are quietly chatting.
Jeonghan holds out the flowers in-front of Mrs Tam with a prideful smile on his face. "Here you go!" He chirps out as Mrs Tam lets out a gasp and takes the bouquet into her hands, looking at the full floral arrangement in awe.
"This is beautiful." She breathes out, making Jeonghan's smile grow bigger. She glances up and locks eyes with Jeonghan. "What do they mean?"
Jeonghan lets out a hum and begins to point out the different flowers.
"This bouquet signifies new beginnings. These," He points to the pink flowers. "Are pink carnations. Pink carnations are known to represent maternal care so her receiving her first ones from you will mean the world to her." He moves on towards the purple flowers.
"Tulips." He said with a certain smile on his face. "Signifies joy, happiness and the promise of new life." They shift to the white flowers. "Gerbera daisies are famous for being joyful and uplifting, perfect to celebrate a bub-to-be." His breath hitches slightly as his eyes fixate on the last flowers in the bouquet.
"White and pink roses." He all but whispers out, "is the symbol of peace, unconditional love and new beginnings." Jeonghan stares at the pink and white flowers for a beat longer before he clears his throat and flashes Mrs Tam a disarming smile, trying to ignore Joshua's knowing eyes on him. "Definitely a good way to bring forth new changes and fresh beginnings."
Mrs Tam's eyes twinkle as she glances at Jeonghan, her grip on the bouquet gentle as she takes in the beautiful arrangement once more. "My dear boy." She says, her tone watery. "This is outstanding work."
Jeonghan's smile changes into a more genuine one, softer around the edges as he nods. "I'm glad that I could make it happen, Mrs Tam."
The clock chimes on the wall, making the elderly lady glance at it before letting out a soft 'oh'. "I think that's my cue to leave, my dear boys." Jeonghan nods in understanding as Joshua stands up to help Mrs Tam with her belongings.
"Let my walk you out, Mrs Tam." Joshua says softly. As soon as they reach the door, the lady turns around to face the elder of the two.
"The roses are a really lovely touch to the bouquet, Jeonghan." She says, her eyes twinkling with a certain shine that causes Jeonghan's breath to hitch as he gives her an uneasy smile.
"Yeah." He says, his voice a little raspy, as if he had just found it. "I guess they are."
With that, Mrs Tam gives the boy one last smile before bidding Joshua a 'thank you' and 'goodbye'. The bell chimes as the door shuts, silence enveloping the shop once more as the afternoon sun shines through the multiple windows of the shop, painting the shop in a lovely golden hue.
"Roses, huh?" Joshua asks, the question not really a question with his knowing tone as Jeonghan stands up and pushes his chair back under the table, actively not meeting his best friend's eyes.
"Yeah." He answers, short and sweet, leaving no room for further comments. Joshua just lets out an easy hum, walking back to the tea table to place the two teacups back onto the tray so that he can bring it to the back.
Joshua spares a glance towards his best friend who starts sorting inventory and unpacking deliveries, a serious expression on his face. Joshua internally sighs before he tries to lighten the mood.
"Can't believe Chan and Seungkwan are both late today." He says easily, exaggeratedly scoffing as he gets Jeonghan's attention. "I swear, if they were both out drinking last night…"
Jeonghan lets out a soft chuckle which makes Joshua smile to himself, pleased that he managed to get the other man out of his head a little.
"Well," Jeonghan starts, turning to cast a glance at him. "wouldn't be the first time."
Joshua shakes his head, "They're learning too much from Soonyoung." He lifts the tray to bring it to the back. "All the bad habits, might I add."
Jeonghan smiles at that. "You know how much Channie looks up to him." He runs a finger down the list before scanning the shelf in-front of him, looking for the yellow carnations. "I hope they're here soon though, we have an order for Kay's Jewels in about an hour and a half and Izzy's Emporium right after that." He glances towards the delivery shelf to find it half-full. "And Seungkwan hasn't actually finished the arrangements for that."
Joshua lets out a hum. "How many orders for each is there again?" He makes his way over to Jeonghan. "Maybe I can do one or two so that he doesn't have that much work later."
Jeonghan clicks his tongue as he flips through the sheets of paper on his clipboard, trying to find the order. As he finds it and opens his mouth to share the details with his semi-co-owner, the bell chimes as the door flies open, making the two jolt.
They immediately turn towards the door to see the two younger men, their hairs slightly disheveled as they panted, looking as if they had just sprinted a marathon to get here.
"Sorry we're late!" Seungkwan apologises between breaths as Chan nods, looking as if he would pass out if he actually said something.
The two owners share a glance, their minds running on the same frequency as they immediately turn back to the two, the only goal in their mind being 'torture' and shenanigans. Joshua is the first to speak, putting their plan into action.
"Well, well, well…" Joshua drawls out, crossing his arms. "Did you two finally remember that you have jobs?"
Chan and Seungkwan share a look, opening their mouth to say something but Jeonghan cuts them off, shaking his head as he feigns disappointment with a small pout on his face. "How could you both?" He asks, the pout deepening. "We were swamped with orders this morning and both Kay and Izzy called to double their orders!" He shakes his head again, slower this time to give it the added 'disappointment' effect before locking eyes with the two again.
"I can't believe you two would do this."
The two younger men's eyes widen as they begin to stammer out apologies, saying that they would pull extra shifts as well as do overtime for free when Joshua and Jeonghan's facades break, making them launch into a fit of chuckles.
Upon seeing the break, Seungkwan groans, catching on faster than Chan who just stares at the two in shock.
"You two are terrible." Seungkwan says, shooting them a glare. Joshua smirks walking over to the man, putting an arm around him as he tugs him closer.
"Aww." He drawls out, feigning a pout as he ruffles Seungkwan's hair. "That's not a nice thing to say."
Seungkwan rolls his eyes. "Well, only nice people deserve nice things said to them."
Jeonghan exaggeratedly gasps, placing his hand on his chest as he feigns hurt. "Hey!" He exclaims. "I'm nice!"
Seungkwan shoots him a look. "Nice like the devil maybe." Seungkwan mutters, shoving Joshua off of him which makes the older man laugh before trekking to the back, to probably get started with the delivery orders.
The two gremlins fix their gaze onto Chan who awkwardly shuffles in place, making Jeonghan walk over to him and sling an arm around his shoulder, tugging the younger body into his chest.
"Aigoo." He coos, tucking his clipboard under his arm as he ruffles Chan's hair. "Why were the two of you so late today?"
Chan looks between Jeonghan and Joshua, letting out an awkward chuckle before he swallows, unsure of how to answer which makes the two gremlins share a look.
"Were you out drinking again last night?" Joshua asks, his smirk teasing as the tip of Chan's ears turn red, indicating that Joshua had been right on the ball.
Jeonghan feigns a disappointed sigh as he shakes his head, tutting in the process. "Were you two out with Kwon again?" Jeonghan asks, his eyebrows raising. "You both do know that he's a bad influence on you right?"
Chan's eyebrow furrow slightly as he shakes his head. "No, we weren't with him last night." He answers, glancing between the two interrogators. "We were drinking with Mingyu and Vernon last night."
Jeonghan's eyebrows scrunch up. "Mingyu and Vernon?"
Chan's nod only makes the two even more confused. Vernon, they understood. He had grown up with Chan and Seungkwan, being next door neighbors and all but Mingyu had been apart of Jeonghan and Joshua's circle in high school, sure they had drifted apart a little bit but Mingyu wasn't known to hang around the Do Re Mi trio.
"That's interesting." Is Jeonghan's reply as he lets go of Chan, still slightly confused. Chan rubs the back of his neck as he nods, his eyes twinkling which makes the older boy's eyebrow raise. "You have some gossip to share, don't you?"
Jeonghan had hired Chan and Seungkwan right off the bat after high school when Joshua and him were talking about starting this business. It was a brush off of an idea at first, a drunken night where Joshua brought up the idea during one of their weekly meetups with Seungcheol. Jeonghan rolled his eyes at the suggestion but played along with the idea and playfully said that if he were to do that, Joshua would be his second in command.
They had laughed it off while Seungcheol was in the bathroom but the more Jeonghan thought about it, the more it made sense as an overall idea. The town was small, the only flower shop they had was a bit of a drive away which meant that a lot of the older people had to either opt for delivery (which was done by their children or grandchildren) or they drove out there themselves. Jeonghan also had taken an interest in flowers and due to his photographic memory, he actually remembered a lot of the facts that he had read when he was trying to impress someone back then.
So, after a bad hangover the next morning, Jeonghan started to actually craft out a plan and asked Joshua to help him with it. Joshua agreed to help the moment he had asked him about it and was in-charge of logistics, deliveries, standard operating procedure and the most important of all — keeping Jeonghan in check.
Hence, what started as a small idea grew into something that Jeonghan holds close to his heart. 'Roses Are Red' was built and has been an integral part of the community for the past eight years and Jeonghan couldn't be prouder. This also meant that he knew his employees like the back of his hand, so when Chan's eyes light up like that, it usually means that Chan had some hot gossip to share.
"I do!" Chan says, an excited grin on his face as he starts to buzz a little. Jeonghan lets out a breath of a chuckle before waving his hand at him.
"Alright," Jeonghan starts with a sigh as he turns back to inventory, "Let us hear it."
"Okay! So-" With that, Chan launches into how Mingyu had actually appeared with Vernon last night because they were having dinner just an hour earlier and because Mingyu knew Seungkwan and Chan or had talked to them before, Vernon invited him to their hangout.
He recalled how he and Seungkwan had been confused at first because Vernon doesn't normally invite people to their weekly get-together. However when Mingyu had arrived and they had started drinking, their words getting a little looser, it turned out that Mingyu had actually offered Vernon a job.
"A job?" Joshua repeats, a little confused. "I thought Mingyu's business was strictly a family one?"
Chan nods at that, getting more excited as he unpacks more of the story. "That's what Seungkwan and I thought as well! But it turns out, Mingyu's friend is coming back to town and Mingyu is helping them sort out all of the business stuff because they haven't been here for ten years."
Jeonghan had been absentmindedly listening to the story Chan was unpacking for the last ten minutes, more focused on the inventory in-front of him but those last few words pulls him out of it. His hand immediately halts as he feels his body go rigid.
It couldn't be. Is the first thought that rushes through his head, amongst many others. It has to just be a coincidence. Surely Seungcheol would've told him and Joshua if you were coming back to town. Him especially.
He thinks back to the last few weeks and how Seungcheol had been looking at him and also acting a little weirdly. Seungcheol had been on the look-out for apartments which had caused Jeonghan and Joshua to share a few glances whenever he had mentioned it because Seungcheol was already living in a house that he owned. However, they didn't push, thinking that Seungcheol wanted to get into the business of real estate and if it was something important, Seungcheol would voluntarily tell them about it anyways.
"Ten years?" Joshua repeats Chan's words, the cogs in his brain turning as he spares a quick glance at Jeonghan. "He said someone was coming back?"
Chan nods eagerly at that, "Yeah!" He snaps his fingers. "When we asked him who it was, Mingyu was a little unsure if he wanted to tell us at first but he confirmed that it was a girl."
Jeonghan feels his blood run cold as his grip on his pen involuntarily tightens.
Joshua's eyebrows scrunch. "Why?"
"Apparently it's meant to be a secret." Chan says nonchalantly as he puts a hand on his chin to think. "I remember him saying that I shouldn't be telling someone about it but..." He grimaces. "My head's a little foggy on the details."
"Anyway, after we begged him a couple more times, he told us about her and here's the kicker!" He looks between the two, his hands raised in anticipation as Joshua holds his breath. "She's apparently Seung—"
Chan gets cut-off by Seungkwan barrelling into him like a tornado. The latter slams his hand over Chan's mouth as he shoots him a warning glare.
"What are you doing?" Seungkwan hisses at Chan, taking a shifty eyed glance towards the two older ones in the room. "We weren't supposed to tell them."
Chan blinks blurrily at Seungkwan when Jeonghan turns to face them, his clipboard and pen still clutched tightly in his hand that both his knuckles were starting to turn white.
"Seungkwan." Jeonghan calls with an eerily calm and serious voice making the whole room feel a thousand times colder. "When Mingyu said the girls name. Was it Violet?"
Seungkwan hesitates, taking a glance at his boss before shifting his eyes downwards. Joshua steps in.
"Han." Joshua says, his voice careful as he looks over his face. "I don't think you want to—"
Jeonghan shakes his head, cutting Joshua off. "No." He says quietly. "I need to know."
Seungkwan glances at Joshua who looks at Jeonghan with a calculating gaze, analyzing to see what the latter is thinking about when Joshua sighs and takes a step back.
Jeonghan locks eyes with Seungkwan, his face unreadable. "So," he starts, "was it Violet?"
Seungkwan gnaws on his bottom lip as he casts a glance towards Joshua. He thinks back to Mingyu's words about Seungcheol's sister. Seungkwan had heard stories of a girl and Jeonghan when they were first starting high school and how they were something out of a fairytale. They were the dreamy 'It' couple. However, somewhere along the lines, it didn't last and she left. No one knew why and in such a small town where gossip spreads like a wildfire, it was unheard of.
Seungkwan lets his eyes drift, seeing Jeonghan's white knuckles, the slight tick in his jaw as well as the unevenness of his breathing before he sighs.
"Yes," Seungkwan admits quietly. "It was."
A tense silence envelopes the room as Seungkwan sees Jeonghan grip the pen even tighter, his hands shaking. The older man quietly takes a step back and hangs the inventory sheet back next to the rack before he turns back to the other three, eerily calm.
"Make sure the orders are ready before the next hour so that they can be delivered on time." Chan and Seungkwan blink at the seriousness in his tone, making Jeonghan raise an eyebrow at their blank expressions. "Is that too much of an issue?"
Seungkwan recovers first, shaking his head with his hands up. "N-no!" He clears his throat. "Chan and I will get them and deliver them."
Jeonghan gives the two younger ones a firm nod before turning to Joshua, his serious and unreadable expression never wavering. "Deal with the inventory for me?"
The latter nods, giving Jeonghan an easy smile. "Of course."
Jeonghan nods before he grabs his jacket and walks out of the store without another word. The tense atmosphere breaks when Seungkwan lets out a breath that he didn't know he was holding as soon as Jeonghan's car pulls away.
"We are never drinking again." Seungkwan deadpans, glaring at Chan who raises his hands in surrender.
"It wasn't my fault!" Chan defends, his voice slightly pitchier than normal.
"It so was!" Seungkwan scoffs. "You and your big mouth! Why did you even need to bring it up?!"
"I didn't think it would be that big of an issue!"
Joshua tunes the two younger ones as they continue to bicker, keeping his gaze firm on where Jeonghan had just driven off with a small frown on his face.
He makes a mental note to call Seungcheol later to ask him for drinks and to give the oldest man a piece of his mind. He knows why Seungcheol didn't tell them, but with how Jeonghan had rushed out of the place, Joshua knew that he felt blindsided and would be missing in action till he collected all his thoughts.
Joshua internally sighs, already feeling a headache on its way as he mentally prepares himself for the next week when Chan breaks his train of thoughts.
"Hyung." Chan starts, making Joshua turn to him, tiredly. "Was whatever happened really that bad?"
Joshua gnaws on his bottom lip as he glances back out the window.
"Sometimes, the thorns prosper more than the blooms."
VIOLETS ARE BLUE
You never realized how tiring moving was until you're doing it for the second time in your thirty years of living. The first move you did when you were eighteen was one of the easiest things you did logistically speaking. You were young which meant that you didn't have a lot of stuff to move because most of them were your parents things and they were also filled with memories that would hurt more if you brought them with you.
Hence, when Seungcheol helped you that time, it was just a couple of boxes and one luggage. Now, it was at least triple that.
"I don't know how one person can have so many things." Seungcheol grunts as he pushes another box into the trailer that you had rented for the move. "Plus, you were living alone."
You roll your eyes at his whining as a small frown appears on your lips. "I wasn't living alone." You glance at your baby samoyed that you had gotten a year ago and point at her. "Mandu's with me."
Seungcheol raises an eyebrow as he gives you the big brother look of unamusement. "You're telling me that because of Mandu, you had to buy triple the amount of stuff that you used to have?" He asks, gesturing to the trailer that is almost filled to the brim with boxes and bubble wrapped pieces of furniture.
"Yes."
Seungcheol scoffs. "You're such a liar."
You open your mouth to argue when a sigh interrupts you.
"Can we please finish packing first before you two go at it again." Minghao deadpans, carrying a box that was labeled, 'Books #2'. "I cannot spend another night on Violet's hardwood floor."
You roll your eyes at his statement. "Firstly, its seven in the morning, Hao. I don't think we need another night to get two or three more boxes into the back of the trailer. And secondly," You frown before you ask. "What's wrong with my floor?"
"The fact that we're sleeping on it, is what's wrong with it." Minghao says, his eyebrows furrowing as the frown deepens. "I can't believe the three of us were able to fit on the floor."
"Years of college have taught us better." Seokmin states, wrapping an arm around Minghao's shoulders with a cheeky smile on his face. "Besides, Violet's floors were definitely better than whatever our dorm floors were back then."
"I did offer up Cheol's room as well." You state, sparing a glance towards your older brother. "Not my fault that he's a little selfish."
Seungcheol scoffs. "I'm not selfish." He defends, "I just don't think that all of them should be sleeping in my room."
"Oh and my room floor is fine then?"
"Yeah-"
Minghao lets out another tired sigh as the two of you start to squabble like chickens again. He walks around the two of you to get to the trailer and places the second last box into it. He turns to Seokmin to see him watching you and Seungcheol argue with a fond smile on his face before shaking his head.
"Does Mingyu have the last box?" Seokmin's eyes flit towards Minghao before he nods. "He was taping up the last bunch of things in the kitchen. He told me to come out and see if the disaster siblings needed any help but…" He takes a glance at the two of you, a more amused smile appearing on his face. "I think they're fine."
Minghao spares a glance towards the two of you and rolls his eyes. "Can't believe we're almost thirty and these two still go at it as if we're in high school." Seokmin lets out a chucle at Minghao's words as Mingyu comes out of the house with the last box in his hand, pressed into his side.
"Alright!" He exclaims out, getting everyone's attention as he flashes one of his signature pearly white smiles. "The whole house is packed and," He walks up to the trailer and places the box on-top of the one Minghao had just placed down, "loaded!" He finishes, his tone filled with pride.
Your best friend turns to you, a teasing smile on his face. "Aren't you glad Cheol brought us along to help you pack?"
You roll your eyes at his words, "Glad might not be the word that I would use." However, even as you say it, your face betrays you as a grateful smile appears on your lips as you look at the four men. "But this process was a lot faster because of you four. Thank you for coming to help me pack on such a last minute notice."
Seokmin waves you off before slinging his arms around both Mingyu and Minghao's shoulder, pulling them closer to him with a big smile on his face. "Of course!" He chirps, his eye lines crinkling. "We're so excited to have you back in town after so many years! We also can't wait to be the biggest supporters of your flower shop."
You smile at that as Seungcheol ruffles your hair. "Its about time for you to come back anyways." Your older brother says, a knowing look on his face.
His words and expression causes your resolve to falter as your nerves spike. You knew your move to this town was always going to be temporary. At first, you did it because you had to, every part of your hometown reminded you of him and after a while, it felt suffocating. You needed the fresh air and a fresh start.
Hence, you applied for a college in the city, opting for a fresh new start. It was fun for a while but, you knew your heart always longed to go back to your hometown.
You just haven't decided how you were going to face him.
"Yeah." You softly say, peering upwards at your older brother. "I guess it is time to go home."
Seungcheol notices your faraway gaze at the house and gives your shoulder a squeeze making you peer upwards at him. "Do you want to take one last look around?"
You gnaw on your bottom lip before shaking your head, "No, I'm ready to go."
Seungecheol mirrors your smile before giving you a kiss on the top of your head. "Alright." He says, patting your hair. "Let's go."
You whistle for Mandu who immediately perks up and gives you a pitchy bark in response before she pads her way over to you. You squat and pick her up in one smooth movement, cradling the little samoyed to your chest. You smile softly at her as she nuzzles into your hands making you coo at her.
Seungcheol opens the passenger door for you, letting you slip into the seat with Mandu in your arms before he rounds the car to slide into his seat. The car starts up with a hum before Seungcheol pulls out of your street in one swift movement.
You spare one last glance at the house through the window before your brother clears his throat, getting your attention.
You lock eyes with him through the rearview mirror, his eyes glinting with empathy before they shift into something cheekier and more older brother like. "So," he starts, enticing you with a smile making you raise an eyebrow. "Ready to see your shop?"
Its around the five hour mark of driving when you see the familiar sign that welcomes you back to your hometown making you smile as it whizzes past you.
Seungcheol squeezes your intertwined hands making you glance at him as he gives you a smile while his eyes are still focused on the road. "Welcome home."
You feel your heart soar with excitement and slight anxiety as you see the familiar spots of the front of your hometown. Feeling the wave of nostalgia hit you, you begin to point out spots with Seungcheol who reciprocates by pointing out a few of his favourite ones making the two of you momentarily break out into fits of giggles as you both recall the old memories together.
"Could we drop the stuff off at the house and then maybe go check out my shop?" Seungcheol quickly glances at you before flashing you a smile.
"Of course." He hums out. "I think the guys would want to come with you as well so how about you let them know."
You hum out in agreement before shooting Seokmin a quick text about the plan.
No more than an hour later, you slam Seungcheol's car door close as Mandu does a shake of herself, warming up her body as she takes in the new environment around her.
"Don't look!" Mingyu calls out to you from behind making you giggle as you avert your eyes downwards, not looking at your store, no matter how much you want to. Mingyu jogs over to your side before placing his hands over your eyes making you let out a small squeal as you try to pry his hands off of your face.
"Gyu!" You exclaim. "Your hands are cold, get them off my face!"
Mingyu chuckles before he relents and puts his hands on your shoulder after meticulously checking that you didn't have your eyes open. "You ready?" You hear him ask, his voice buzzing with excitement as you let out a giggle before nodding.
"Show me what you found for me, Gyu."
As it was a last minute plan to move back to your hometown, you had asked the guys for help in setting up your new shop with around half of the savings that you had saved up from your previous soul-sucking corporate job. Mingyu had taken on the task of finding the perfect place for you to set up the flower shop of your dreams while you continued to pack for the move of your life.
Mingyu guides you to the storefront as you cautiously walk in the direction that he's leading you in. You hear the guys trail behind the two of you before Mingyu firmly grasps your shoulders, signaling for you to stop. Your heart pounds in your chest as your best friend begins a countdown for you before whispering, "Open."
You look upwards and open your eyes before it locks onto the signage, making your heart swell with joy as your jaw drops open.
"Oh my god!" You exclaim, your hands flying to your mouth as you take a step forward, not quite believing your eyes. "It's so pretty!"
What sits at the top of the store is a vibrant blue and purple blend with the words, 'Violets Are Blue' written in a gold cursive with your logo that Minghao helped you design at front. You are speechless as you stare at it before you feels someone brush your arm.
You peer upwards to meet Minghao's eager eyes as he gives you a small smile. "Do you like it?"
You give him a look of disbelief as you gape at him. "Like it?!" You wrap your arms around him. "Hao, I love it!" You affirm making the taller man giggle as he wraps his around you, hugging you back tightly.
"I'm glad, Vi." He says, giving you a small kiss on the top of your head as you pull away with watery eyes.
You take a step backwards to admire the whole shop as a whole. Along with the beautiful signage, your store has a golden trim with a lovely light blue and purple gradient walls. They are accompanied by four beautiful stained glass windows that are definitely a Minghao DIY because of how personalized and homemade the designs look.
You feel tears well up in your eyes at the sight of the shop before you hear a set of keys jingling behind you. You turn to see your older brother and your best friends standing in a row, looking at you with a big proud smile as Seungcheol walks forward with the keys in between his fingers.
He steps forward with a proud grin on his face as he holds out the keys towards you.
"It isn't much." He says quietly. "The inside isn't finished because we want you to be able to decorate the shop in your own vision." He uses his free hand to grab yours and outstretch your palm so that he can place the keys into it before he wraps his hands around yours, encasing them.
"However," he continues, "we're here to help you move furniture and put everything in place, exactly the way that you want it."
You swear your eyes get wetter as you lift your hand to wipe away all the stray tears. "I love you guys." You softly admit, going back to admire the store. Your store.
It feels unreal saying it aloud.
The four gaze at you fondly as you continue to take it in as Minghao peers behind before leaning into Seungcheol. "Are we not going to tell her about the problem right behind us?" He whispers out, loud enough for only Seungcheol to hear as he keeps a cautious eye on you.
Seungheol purses his lips, taking a glance at the shop behind him. "I'll tell her later." He assures the younger man. "Right now, she needs to focus on—"
His words get cut off by the sound of the familiar bell chime from behind them, across the street making the four men's bodies tense up.
You, however, peer backwards to see where the source of the noise is coming from.
You blink as you spot what looks like another flower shop across the street whose colour scheme looks exactly the opposite of yours. You frown, turning to fully face the shop as you spot a person — the owner you presume — sweeping the front of the shop, gathering the fallen leaves from the nearby trees.
You turn to Mingyu and Seungcheol whose faces look paler than before. "How come you guys didn't tell me that there was another flower shop in town?"
Mingyu internally, starts to panic. They didn't plan for this. It is a Tuesday and according to the information that Mingyu had gathered from Chan and Seungkwan last week, they said that Jeonghan always leaves the shop to Joshua on Tuesday.
So why the hell is he, sweeping the floor right behind them?
Mingyu sees you get more suspicious by the second and panics more. He is unsure of what to stammer out as he glances at Seungcheol, hoping that the older man has some kind of plan.
You frown as you stare at the guys share knowing looks and glances at each other. "Are you guys okay?"
"Of course!" Mingyu says, his brain scrambling. "Just peachy!" They only had a couple of seconds to maybe turn you around before either you or Jeonghan spot each other. So, he enacts the plan and reaches out to you, to try to swerve you back to your shop.
"How about we—"
However, Mingyu didn't have a chance to enact any plan when the owner of the flower shop turns around, feeling eyes on him.
You freeze, immediately feeling your heart drop into the pits of your stomach as you stare at the older man across the street, your jaw dropping open.
Yoon Jeonghan blinks as he catches your eye, the exact same shell-shocked expression as yours, overcoming his features.
You feel time stop as you stare at the man that was your first love. All the memories and feelings rushing back, as if you were twenty again, gazing into his eyes while you both were on too of 'Lovers Hill', stargazing under the night sky.
You know he's thinking about it too, it may have been ten years since you last saw him but his eyes still hold the same calculating gaze that you have a love-hate relationship with. He looks good, definitely grown more into the boyish features that you fell in love with.
You feel your heart thunder in your chest as he turns to fully face you, his mouth opening and closing like a fish as he tries to figure out what to do. You feel your feet move on their own, taking a step forward towards him as you watch him do the same. His gaze is intense as he swallows, opening his mouth to finally say something. However, before you have the chance to figure it out, a car whizzes past, breaking the spell between the two of you.
Jeonghan rapidly blinks as if he finally realizes what he was doing before he takes a step backwards and turns to briskly walk back into his store without a second thought.
You stand there for a few moments, staring at the place where Jeonghan had stood a couple of seconds ago, feeling your heart beat unsteadily in your chest. Seungcheol drags you out of your thoughts as he brushes his hand against yours, making you jolt slightly before you peer up at your older brother.
Seungcheol has a knowing look on his face as he gives you a small frown. "Are you alright?" He asks you softly making you purse your lips as you glance around, seeing the other three men also staring at you with the same apprehensive expression on their faces.
You swallow your nerves before forcing a smile that doesn't quite reach your ears on your face. "Y-yeah." You clear your throat. "C'mon, I want to see the inside of the shop."
Before anyone can say anything else, you turn around and walk to unlock the door, doing your best to ignore their eyes on you as well as the secret glances that you're sure that they're giving each other, all of them unsure of how to approach this situation.
You knew that the second you saw Jeonghan, that he would hate your guts or give you the cold shoulder. You spent the last week in your house, pacing around your bedroom and practicing what you will say to him the first time that you see him after all these years. However, the second that you did, all that practice went out the window.
You internally curse, feeling disappointed in yourself as you unlock the door.
You steel your nerves and put on a brave face before turning to your entourage, "Well." You try to jest, a teasing smile on your face. "The shop isn't going to decorate itself, is it?"
THE NICKNAME ROSE
You realized that you had a crush on your brother's best friend at the age of thirteen when his teasing started to make you a little more flustered than annoyed, when his boyish smile made your stomach do flip flops and when seeing him made your heart thunder in your chest as you willed for the floor to swallow you whole.
You blame it on your best friends, Izzy and Kay who were over at your house for a playdate when a few figures breeze past your room to go to your brothers room which was right next to yours. You ignore it, knowing that it was just your brother and his best friends when you feel a presence to your right and a soft knock accompanied with it.
The three of you peer upwards to see Jeonghan stood there, dressed in his normal school attire with his tie undone, hanging loosely around his neck as he leans against your doorframe.
"Rose." He greets, the nickname rolling off of his tongue making you scrunch your nose at the older boy.
"Don't call me that."
A smirk curls onto his lips. "And why not?"
You roll your eyes, frowning at him. "You know why."
Jeonghan hums, feigning a thinking motion. "Maybe, you should enlighten me again."
You scoff, crossing your arms in front of your chest as you glare at him. He shrugs, the cheeky smirk on his lips growing as he turns to your best friends.
"Kay, Izzy, nice to see you girls."
Your best friends cast a glance at each other before blinking at the boy as you raise an eyebrow.
"Hannie." You deadpan, slightly exasperated. "What are you doing here?"
He gives you a small frown. "Am I not allowed to say 'hi' to my best friend's sister?"
Your eyebrows furrow at that but you keep your guard up. You know Jeonghan well enough that he likes to lull people into a false sense of security before doing something unexpected. Your brother was normally the victim of Jeonghan and Joshua's pranks, the two of them being nicknamed as the evil twins by all the kids in the area for a reason.
"You are." You answer cautiously. "But Cheol said that the three of you have a rather intense amount of board games to play today."
"We do."
You grow even more confused. "So…" You glance out of your room. "Aren't you like late?"
Jeonghan hums in agreement before he gives you a boyish smirk and walks into your room. He crouches down to your level making you jolt backwards a little, realizing how close he is to you.
He scans for your face for a few moments as you hold your breath, feeling your nerves spike as your throat dries up. You open your mouth to ask the boy what he wants when he reaches his hand out from behind him and tucks something behind your ear.
You blink, feeling yourself freeze as Jeonghan gives you a soft smile.
"There." He breathes out making you blink at him, confusion written all over your face.
"What?" You dumbly blurt out. Jeonghan's smile curls a little more as his gaze never wavers from your face making your mind go blank.
You watch his eyes flit around your face for a little bit before he mutters. "Pretty."
The effect that one word causes is immediate as you feel your jaw drop open and your face flush. Your face makes Jeonghan's genuine smile turn into a cheeky smirk. He pats your head before he stands up to walk out of the room, as if he didn't just cause your brain to combust.
"See you later, Rose." He calls, giving you a small wave before he disappears down the hallway to your brothers room, his footsteps getting softer by the second.
Silence envelopes the room as you blink at the door, your brain fried from trying to process whatever just happened.
"Wow." Kay breaths out, breaking the silence. "He has a crush on you."
At their words, you immediately whip your head towards them and blink, your mouth agape. "N-no!" You manage to sputter out, "He so does not."
Izzy raises an eyebrow at your sputters, a small smirk on her face. "Are you sure? He literally just called you Rose and gave you a rose."
Your eyebrows furrow as you stare them down. "What? What are you—"
Your two best friends point towards the mirror making you turn mid-sentence, the sight of yourself making you halt your words. Your eyes widen as you spot the flower in your hair.
A rose to be more precise, just like Izzy said.
"What in the world." You mutter out to yourself, bewildered beyond means as Kay and Izzy exchange a cheeky knowing grin.
"Looks like you got yourself a boyfriend." Kay cooes out making your cheeks flush as red as the rose in your hair.
"W-What?!" You sputter out making your two best friend's smirks grow wider as they continue to tease you. In retaliation and a desperate attempt to get them to stop, you grab at the pillow on your bed before smacking them both with it hard, making them both squeal before it turns into a full-fledge pillow fight.
The three of you continue to yell, squeal and giggle as you all continue to attack each other with the fluffy pillows but Jeonghan's words never leave your mind.
Maybe… just maybe, you like the nickname Roses more than you thought you would.
GETTING STUCK IN THE BLOOM
You frown as your recollection of the memory ends as you stare dumbly at the homemade resin bookmark in your hands. You gently run a finger over the smooth edges of it as memories of how you made it come rushing back.
You recall researching the best ways to preserve flowers and begged your mother to bring you to the nearest arts and craft stores to get resin so that you could preserve the flower that the older boy had given you. You smile fondly to yourself as you let your eyes flit around the bookmark, the golden sparkles glinting as you let the light shine onto it.
How did you and Jeonghan even get to this point.
You internally sigh, knowing that you were the reason as to why it got to this point.
You glance downwards at your feet, where Mandu was snoozing and smile to yourself, thinking how cute your samoyed was. She's a ball of sunshine in your life. You jolt out of your thoughts when the front door to your store slams close making you immediately jump to your feet, feeling your nerves spike before it settles as you see Vernon appear in your vision.
Mandu perks up at the sound before noticing the younger boy as well. She wags her tail happily, stretching before making her way to his side. You breath out a sigh of relief as Vernon places down the box of little trinkets that you had gotten to brighten up the shop and give it more personality.
"I think this is the last box of stuff." Vernon says with a soft huff as he dusts his hands. Mandu paws at his legs, wanting to be picked up making Vernon smile softly at her. He crouches down to pick her up, cradling her in his arms.
You flash Vernon a fond smile as you give his arm a quick squeeze. "Thank you, Non." You sing-song, making the younger boy give you a gummy smile as he continues to scratch Mandu behind her ear making the dog keen at the younger boy. You check the stock with a soft hum before your eye catches the clock at the corner of the store. Your eyes widen, noticing that it was almost half past six.
"Oh my god!" You exclaim, frowning as you turn to the taller boy. "I'm so sorry, I didn't notice the time."
Vernon's eyebrows furrow as he shakes his head, crouching to put Mandu down. "It's no issue at all." He assures you as you shake your head, grabbing your wallet out of your pocket.
You dish out a few bills from it before giving it to the younger boy whose eyes widen in surprise. "Here." You say, holding it out to him with a smile. "Buy yourself dinner on me please! For the extra overtime that I made you do."
Vernon shakes his head as he holds up his hands, shaking them too. "It's really no probl—"
"Non," You say sternly, pressing the bills into his open palms. "I insist."
Vernon looks between your face and the bills that you pressed into his palms before he sighs and pockets the money. He was playing a losing game and he knows it with how stubborn you are, knowing that even Seungcheol — who is pretty stubborn — will always lose to you on that front.
"Fine." He huffs as you give him a smile of triumph. He peers behind you, taking a look at your desk that is filled to the brim with stuff. "Do you still have a lot of things to finish?"
You spare a glance at your desk before you shake your head, giving the younger boy a tired smile. "Not really." You assure. "Just a bunch of logistical stuff for the grand opening this weekend."
Vernon nods. "Are you excited?"
You ponder for a moment, taking a look around the store that had been decorated with so much love the last few days. You had gone out shopping with the guys the last two weeks, purchasing and assembling all the furniture and shelves that you needed as well as sorting out all the inventory stuff with Mingyu and Seokmin.
You were re-introduced to Vernon a day after you came back into town, having seen the boy around in high school once or twice. You had taken quite a fond liking to the boy who was nicknamed as your personal assistant as he started to help you with whatever task you needed.
Since the rest of the guys and your brother had actual full-time jobs, they were only available after a certain time — which was usually at night — where they helped you to put together furniture, set up shelves in the store as well as carry new inventory into the store.
It was just a lot of back and forth and since the grand opening was less than two days away, you had told them that you would be able to handle the rest of the logistic by yourself. They had checked in a couple of times, seeing if you needed their help but you always denied, saying that you also needed to find your own footing for this.
However, Vernon was stubborn and turned up anyways, insisting on helping you get the inventory that slipped your mind or some thrifty things that made the shop feel more you.
You smile fondly at the cozy space that all of you had managed to create in the last two weeks and nod at Vernon. "Yeah." You breathe out. "I am."
Vernon nods before giving you a soft smile. "Good." His phone chimes making him peer downwards to pull it out of his pocket. His eyebrows furrow as he checks it before letting out a soft breathe of a chuckle, shaking his head.
"Friends?"
He nods showing you the message that Seungkwan sent to him. You giggle seeing a selfie of him and Chan in one of tent bars just a few blocks away with a few messages after asking where Vernon was.
"You should go." Vernon frowns at that, giving you a knowing look.
"Are you sure?"
You quickly nod, ushering the younger boy out of the door. "Just because I'm working overtime and don't have a social life, doesn't mean that you shouldn't have one either."
Vernon frowns and is about to reply when Mandu barks, panting slightly making you glance downwards at your little companion. You gesture to her before giving Vernon a teasing smile. "See, even Mandu agrees."
"But—"
"Hansol." You say, the same stubborn tone as before shining through making Vernon lift his hands up in surrender.
"Alright," he breathes out. "Geez, you don't need to bring out the full government name."
A smile pulls at the corner of your lips as you see Vernon trying not to smile as well as you open the door to the store for him. He goes through but leans against the door, peering back at you with a serious expression on his face.
"Call me if you need anything okay?"
You nod, biting back a teasing smile as you push the man further out the door. "Go already! Seungkwan's going to sulk if you aren't there in the next twenty minutes."
Vernon breaths out a chuckle as he lets you push him out the door before he gives you and Mandu a wave, biding the two of you goodbye. You pick up Mandu to use her paw to give him a small wave as well making the younger boy laugh before he fully turns and walks down the street.
You watch him go with a fond smile before turning to your little fluff ball in your arms.
"Let's finish all this overtime, huh?" Mandu lets out a little pitchy bark as you place her down onto the floor before putting on some music to get to work.
You didn't notice how much time had passed until your playlist playing had started to loop, the first song you put on softly flowing through the speakers. You glance at the clock, noticing that it was just after one in the morning making you let out a sigh as you stretch.
Seeing Mandu back in her spot underneath your desk makes you realize that maybe it was time to wrap up for the day. You stand up, rolling your neck as you let out a satisfied sigh, feeling good about the amount of work you had gotten done for the day.
Mandu lifts her head up from her spot making you give her a fond smile as you crouch down to give her a scratch behind her ears which she happily accepts.
"We can go soon girl." You coo out. "I just need to put all the inventory down in the basement and then we can go alright?"
Mandu lets out a soft bark making your smile grow bigger before you stand up to open the door, airing the store out and begin to tidy up. You huff out a grunt as you place the last box in the storeroom, right below your shop.
You brush away a few strands of your hair that was falling in-front of your eyes as you look at the amount of stock and inventory that occupies your little basement. You smile, feeling your nerves in a bit of a flux as you think about how your grand opening is just in a few days.
You couldn't be more proud of yourself. You walk up the low-bearing staircase and place your hand onto the doorknob before going to twist it.
You freeze when you feel the doorknob get stuck in it's path making you panic internally as you try to jiggle it loose.
"C'mon. C'mon." You repeat to yourself, whispering as you use your strength to jiggle it more. You let out a frustrated grunt, realizing that the doorknob would not budge as you go to dig for your phone in your pocket, hoping that someone would still be awake at this ungodly hour.
However, your blood runs cold when you find nothing in your pockets. You dig deeper and check more than once in both of your pockets, patting yourself down to come up empty.
You let out a exasperated sigh, realizing that you had left your phone on your desk. Meaning that you are stuck here until someone realizes you went missing in action or till God knows when.
You sigh as you take a seat on one of the more stable boxes before leaning back as you stare at the ceiling, your thoughts running wild.
You had a little hope in your chest that someone will come and find you soon but you know that it might be at least an hour or two before that happens. Seungcheol was definitely asleep, needing to wake up early today because he had an important client meeting. Seokmin was doing some drunk karaoke with Soonyoung, Jihoon and Kay and the last time he checked in two hours ago, the four of them were already incredibly wasted which meant that they won't be coming to your rescue anytime soon. Minghao, Mingyu, Izzy and Vernon were with Seungkwan and Chan and having last checked in with them not even more than twenty minutes ago, they will definitely not be checking back for at least another hour.
You sigh, running a hand down your face.
What were you going to do?
SERENITY AND MANDU
"Are you sure you don't want me to stay and help?" Joshua asks Jeonghan, a skeptical look on the younger man's face as he eyed his best friend.
Jeonghan rolls his eyes as he all but pushes his chief operations officer out of the door. "Yes." He answers shortly, growing more impatient by the second at his best friend's worrying. "As I said the last two times that you asked me, it's just a few payslips that I need to file and accounts that I need to account for that I, can handle."
Joshua frowns as Jeonghan pushes his bag into his hands.
"And you're sure?" Joshua asks, his tone confused as he stares at the amount of papers on Jeonghan's desk. "There's no shame in asking for help, y'know."
Jeonghan internally sighs. Of course he knows there's no shame in asking for help. The amount of papers that have been piling up on his desk is enough to give him a migraine for a week. However, Joshua's been hovering over him like an overbearing mother goose the last two weeks, after he had made the mistake of going into the store looking as if he had seen a ghost.
When in actuality, he just saw you.
Jeonghan made the mistake of telling Joshua everything, airing out all the feelings that was brought on from seeing you again for the first time since prom night, ten years ago. He knew that Joshua is just trying to be a good friend. He knew and appreciated that more than anything but, he hasn't had a moment of peace since then.
Joshua was always around, he made sure that Jeonghan wasn't thinking about you by trying to distract him with new orders with the help of Izzy, Mingyu's girlfriend who definitely ordered more than enough bouquets to last her for the next year of her life. Kay and Soonyoung also had a part in it, the two constantly calling Jeonghan to ask about really weird flower facts when Jeonghan was just trying to work in peace.
Instead of helping him take his mind off of you, it just highlighted the problem even more and Jeonghan spent every other moment when he was supposed to be working, thinking of you instead.
So, enough was enough and he needed to put his foot down.
"I'm fine, Shua." Jeonghan deadpans, ushering his best friend towards the open door. "I just really need some peace and quiet today to finish all the paperwork that I am behind on."
Joshua looks like he wants to argue but thinks better of it as he stares at Jeonghan's tired expression, looking like he might combust at any second.
"Okay." He says, slinging his bag over his shoulders. He steps out onto the street, pauses and turns to face Jeonghan with a sympathetic expression on his face.
"Han." Joshua calls out, making Jeonghan raise an eyebrow as he hums out in response. "Call me if you need anything, okay?"
Jeonghan gnaws on his bottom lip at Joshua's tone before giving his best friend a reluctant nod, knowing that he's just looking out for him. The two bid each other 'goodbye' before Jeonghan closes the glass door, locking it and pulling down the blinds.
He lets out a long exhale, feeling the weeks fatigue catch up with him as he closes his eyes for a second, letting the weight of everything rush through his veins. He finally had some peace and quiet.
Jeonghan opens his eyes, walking to his desk to connect his phone to the speakers and scrolls till he finds the playlist he's looking for, putting it on as it softly flows out of the overhead sound system. He sits down at his chair, feeling slightly more at ease before he opens the first stack of papers that he needs to compile.
"Alright." He whispers to him. "Let's do this."
About three to four hours past before Jeonghan looks back up at the clock again, blinking in surprise to see that he's almost been doing the paperwork till almost two in the morning. He closes the file in-front of him and counts the amount of files that he still needs to work on.
Realizing there is only four left, he lets his shoulders drop as he sighs and spins his chair around while his eyes are closed. He should go home now, it's Joshua's day off tomorrow which meant that he needed to be around for both Seungkwan and Chan to be able to get into the store to prepare the multiple delivery orders for a wedding in the next town over.
Jeonghan feels himself freeze at the word wedding. He hadn't thought about that in a long time, always pushing the word and it's entailment to the back of his mind. He lets out a frustrated groan as he runs a hand over his face, feeling more fatigued and unfocused by the second.
"Alright." He mutters, standing up to pack up for the night. He tidies up all the loose papers on his desk, writing himself a little post-it note to remember where exactly he left off so that he can just continue when he comes in the morning.
He grabs his hoodie and his bag before switching off the store lights and locking the door.
Jeonghan inhales, filling his lungs with fresh air as he closes his eyes, feeling said air course through his veins, rejuvenating him more by the second. Jeonghan feels a small smile appear on his lips as the night ambience seems to soothe him. When he was younger, he never really enjoyed the serenity of nights but now that he was older, he learned how to appreciate the quietness and the ambience of it, realizing how much more at ease he felt during these hours.
He allows himself a few more seconds to soak in the quietness when his eyebrows furrow hearing a pitchy bark coming from across the road. He peers across to see a white little fluff ball padding about, looking for something… or someone?
His eyebrows scrunch more as he slowly approaches the little dog that's pacing the front of… your flower shop? Jeonghan gets more confused by the second as he approaches the little dog.
"Hey girl." Jeonghan mutters out, crouching down so that your dog could sniff his hands and get familiar with him. The samoyed does a circle around Jeonghan, sniffing him cautiously before nudging his hands with her head, licking it once.
Jeonghan lets out a soft chuckle as he picks her up, cradling her in his arms before stroking her stomach, her collar moving as he does. He peers at the name on it before rolling his eyes.
Of course you would name her Mandu. He shakes his head before noticing that you had left the door to your store open. He peers downwards at your dog, internally wrestling with himself.
He could just put Mandu back into the store and then close the door behind him so that he doesn't have to deal with you because apparently ten years and two weeks was still not enough for him to deal with the complex feelings that he has for you.
However, he couldn't deny the unexplainable pull that your shop had, almost as if it was tugging him to go into the store. With one last glance at Mandu who was in the midst of licking his free hand, he sighs, steels his nerves and walks into the store.
Upon entering, he notices how the interior is just very much you, the coziness and how everything was organized was just a reflection of you as a person. Everything had it's own little space, the shelves were organized but in organic places to make it more natural. The different trinkets that you had placed around reflected more of the homely and cozy feel that you were going for and all the inventory that was on the shelves were organized according to different categories.
Jeonghan smiles to himself. You really hadn't changed that much. He wanders around the store more, cradling Mandu more as he looks around for you, his face getting more confused by the second as he is unable to find you. He approaches your desk, frowning more when he sees your phone there. He looks around, placing Mandu down as he places his bag on your desk.
He calls out for you, your name slipping past his lips making him cringe slightly. "Violet?" He tries again, feeling a little awkward as the unfamiliar nickname passes through his lips. Your phone buzzes making him glance over at it, seeing a text from your groupchat with Mingyu, Minghao and Seokmin appear on the screen.
However, what Jeonghan sees behind that is what causes him to freeze. The background image being something that he recognizes instantly.
It was a picture of you and him on your first date together where you had gone for a flower garland making workshop together. He remembers scrambling to find something perfect for your first date and came across this poster for a flower garland workshop that was happening that very weekend. He was also so delighted to find out that the workshop took place in the flower garden, the very same place where the two of you first met.
He made sure that everything was perfect, checking the weather every other hour, preparing food, snacks and drinks for the two of you to enjoy as well as begging Joshua and Seungcheol to find the perfect place for the two of you to have a little spring picnic after the workshop.
Joshua had instantly agreed to it but Seungcheol was a little more reluctant, not sure if he wanted to help set up his sister and his best friend more than he already needed to but after Joshua talked to him, Seungcheol sighed and agreed to help.
The picnic setup was the least of his worries though because on the day itself, Jeonghan felt like he was losing it. His palms kept getting sweaty everytime you looked at him and that caused the flower garland that he was working on to slip out of his hands every other minute. He scrambled to pick it up everytime, praying that you didn't see it or notice but he knew better than that. He knew that you noticed everything.
A giggle passed through your lips as he dropped it for the umpteenth time in the last ten minutes alone causing him to peer upwards at you, his blood running cold.
'Good job, Jeonghan.' He thought to himself. 'Now she thinks you're the biggest loser on the planet for not being able to hold a flower garland properly.'
However, you surprise him by placing the flower garland that you made onto his head, a shy smile on your face.
"Pretty." You breath out, causing Jeonghan's eyes to widen as his jaw drops open. The familiar turn of events effectively frying his brain which causes you to giggle more as you raise an eyebrow.
"You going to give me your flower garland or what?"
He blinked at you before placing the uneven flower garland on your head, gnawing his bottom lip as he did so. It was safe to say that his flower garland skills could use some work.
However, you didn't seem to mind, a rosy blush blooming on your cheeks as you gave Jeonghan a soft smile. "How do I look?"
Jeonghan thinks that question is moot. You looked ethereal, you always do but something about the spring sunlight today and maybe just being on this date with him. You looked more beautiful than he ever thought was possible.
"Beautiful." He remembers blurting out. "You look beautiful."
Your cheeks had flushed more at his admittance, your smile widening as your eye lines crinkled causing Jeonghan's heart to flutter.
"Thank you." You softly say, giving his hand a little squeeze.
Jeonghan felt his throat go dry, darting his tongue out to wet his lips as he opens his mouth to speak again but was interrupted by a crackle in the sky.
The two of you peered upwards to see the once beautiful sky turn gray as it starts to drizzle.
Jeonghan felt his heart drop as the drizzle slowly transitioned to a full on rain making the two of you scramble for your stuff. The two of you dashed underneath a tree close to the roses, standing there as the rain began to pick up more.
Jeonghan internally cursed as he pulled out his phone to see two messages from Joshua and Seungcheol telling him that they had packed up the stuff a couple minutes earlier because they noticed the clouds coming in.
He was too enthralled by you to even notice the change in the weather. He shoved his phone back into his pocket before he peered at you. Your baby blue dress had a few splatters of rain on it, turning it into a darker blue as your hair was slightly damp, sticking to the side of your face.
However, Jeonghan thought you never looked prettier.
"I'm sorry." He found himself blurting out. You glanced upwards at him, your eyebrows furrowed which caused him to continue. "I constantly checked the weather and it said it was going to be sunny the whole day but it turned into this and now your dress is ruined and—"
You cut his ramble off by stepping closer to the boy with a small frown on your face. "Are you seriously apologizing for the weather?"
Jeonghan blinked at you, his throat dry as a flush crept up his face from his neck. He realized how stupid it sounded now that you phrased it like that. Before he had the chance to make a fool out of himself further, you giggle.
Jeonghan felt his heart rate pick up as you stepped even closer to him, your flowery scent filling his nose as you peered upwards at him, your eyes locked onto his as you scan his face.
"Breathe, Hannie." You said softly, giving the boy a small smirk. "You look like you're going to pass out."
Jeonghan didn't even realize that he was holding his breath until you pointed out, causing him to slowly exhale and inhale as he tried to steel his nerves, the effect you have on him very obvious.
"Sorry." He muttered out which caused your smirk to curl more as you hummed out an 'it's okay'. Jeonghan felt like he was losing it, your scent overwhelming his senses as he had the biggest desire to kiss you, his eyes involuntarily flicking downwards.
He watched you dart your tongue out to wet your lips causing him to inwardly groan at the sight, the desire to kiss you growing more by the second.
"Don't." He hoarsely stated.
"Don't what?"
"You know what."
Your lips curled into another smirk as you tilt your head to the side, feigning innocence. "I'm not sure I do."
Jeonghan felt his hand twitch at his side as he watched your own eyes flick to his lips. "If you continue to act this way." He whispered out as he leaned in a little. "I might not be able to control myself."
He watched your eyes flick downwards to his lips once more as you dart your tongue out to wet yours before saying. "Then don't."
Jeonghan immediately felt his resolve snap as he pulled you flush into him, his lips on yours. You gasped into his mouth which Jeonghan used as an opportunity to deepen the kiss, slipping his tongue into your mouth to massage against your own. Jeonghan groaned as he pulled you impossibly closer to him, his hands firm on your waist.
You pulled away a couple seconds later, panting a little as you rest your forehead against his. He watched you gnaw on your bottom lip which caused him to inwardly groan again.
"You're doing it again." He muttered out causing the cheeky smirk to appear on your lips again as you breathed out a giggle.
"Am I?" You asked as nonchalantly as you could, your smirk giving you away making Jeonghan nod. You pulled back, meeting his eyes again as you tilted your head to the side.
"What are you going to do about it then?"
Jeonghan rolled his eyes before bringing you in for another searing kiss as the rain continued to pour down, drenching the two of you more by the second but the two of you didn't care.
Because what else was meant to matter when you both were in each others arms?
Jeonghan feels Mandu pawing at his leg, bringing him out of the memory as he sighs, still unsure as to where you are. He hears a shift of something beneath him making him tense slightly as he tries to listen for it again. He glances to the corner of the room before noticing that there was a staircase there.
He peers at Mandu. "Stay." He tells her sternly. She pants before tilting her head to the side, a habit that she had no doubt, picked up from you.
Jeonghan trudges down the stairs to find a door. He swallows his nerves before lifting his hand and knocking on it.
"Violet?" He calls out. "Are you in there?"
There's silence for a bit causing him to frown so he tries again.
"Vi?" He calls out, louder this time as he knocks a few more times. "Is that you in there?"
"Hannie?" The nickname causes him to involuntarily shudder, sounding so sweet as it falls from your lips. "Is that you?"
"Yeah. Are you alright?"
"No." He hears you say with an exasperated scoff. "The door won't budge so I've been trapped in here for god knows how long."
He frowns. "Alright, hang on!"
You wait patiently behind the door, palms getting sweatier by the second as you internally prepare to see your ex-boyfriend for the first time in two weeks. The doorknob jiggles a little before it turns and your heart races as you see Jeonghan appear as soon as the door opens. He's dressed in a comfortable black hoodie and sweatpants, looking like he just got off work with a beanie on top of his head.
He blinks a little, his eyes adjusting to the dark room before they lock onto you.
Silence wraps around the two of you as you just stare at each other, a weird tension filling the room. You swallow as you feel Jeonghan eye you up and down, feeling yourself getting warmer by the second.
Mandu's high pitch bark interrupts whatever weird moment the two of you have going on as she wanders past Jeonghan and hops down the steps to get to you. She doesn't get far though, missing one of the steps as they were bigger than her, causing her to fall.
Your heart drops as you scramble up from the box you were seated on. "Mandu!" You exclaim, reaching out for her. Jeonghan reacts faster, immediately jumping down a few steps to crouch down and scoop her up into his arms, causing the door to slam close.
Your blood runs cold. "No." You whisper as you push past Jeonghan to get to the door, trying to turn the doorknob again.
"Fuck." You swear, jiggling the doorknob more by the second, realizing that the door wasn't opening.
"We're stuck!" You exclaim, tossing your arms up in an exasperated gesture.
You watch Jeonghan freeze with Mandu in his arms as he eyes all over your face to see if you were joking or not. When he finds no humour in your features, he immediately hands Mandu over to you and tries to jiggle at the doorknob.
"You gotta be fucking kidding me." He deadpans, muttering under his breath as he rips his beanie off to run a hand through his hair.
He turns to you, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Why didn't you tell me the door was broken?"
Your eyebrows furrow as you hug Mandu closer to your chest. "I did."
"No, you told me the door was jammed! That isn't the same thing as can't be opened from the inside."
"What the fuck is your definition of jammed then?"
"When both sides don't work because there's something stuck in there!" Jeonghan exclaims, growing more frustrated by the second. "Not whatever the fuck this is." He gestures to the whole door, his arms waving animatedly.
"Well, I'm sorry!" You yell back at him, getting tired of him blaming this situation on you. "I didn't think you would go and save Mandu."
He glances at the fluff ball in your arms and gives you an 'are you being serious' look before he pushes past you, shaking his head.
"Yeah." He answers shortly. "Is that why you left? Because you think I don't like animals as much as you do?"
Your heart stops at his statement, unsure of how to answer him as he goes to sit on the floor, leaning against one of the inventory boxes.
"No." You softly breathe out, Mandu feeling ten times heavier in your hand as you adjust her awkwardly in your hold.
Jeonghan scoffs, bringing his knees up to his chest as he places his arms on them.
"I left my phone on your desk." He mutters, not looking at you. "You might as well get comfortable because I think we'll be here for a while."
You purse your lips before trudging down the steps. You sit a few feet away from him, leaning against one of the other boxes as you lay Mandu down in your lap, playing with her little paws as she pants happily, unaware of the tension in the room.
You continue to stroke her as you try not to look to your right at the man who you figured held a grudge against you. Mandu slowly dozes off in your lap, her breathing getting heavier by the second as her eyes close, keening more into you.
You smile softly at her, patting her once more before you fully lean against the boxes, gazing upwards. You blink at the ceiling for a couple of seconds before you risk taking a glance at the man who has plagued your thoughts for the last two weeks. His knees were still pulled to his chest his beanie still in between his fingers with his head bowed, covered by his knees.
You let your eyes scan him, his physique to be more specific. He had grown more muscular since the last time you saw him, his hoodie pressed against them, leaving little room for imagination. You let your eyes drift lower to admire the beanie in his fingers, realizing that it was one you had bought for him when the two of you were still together. Your heart clenches at the realization as you gnaw on your bottom lip.
You let your eyes drift upwards to get the shock of your life when Jeonghan suddenly lifts his head up, locking eyes with you. You jolt a little as he raises an eyebrow at you, a ghost of a smirk on his lips.
"Want to take a picture?" He asks, his tone dry as he tilts his head to the side. "I heard they last longer."
You feel your cheeks heat up as you turn away from the boy. "Shut up."
Jeonghan snickers at your reaction. "You were the one that was staring."
"And I regret it now."
"Do you?"
You feel your breath catch in your throat before you clear it and nod, knowing that his eyes are on you. "Yeah." You breath out, your voice low making Jeonghan scoff.
"You've always been a terrible liar, Rose."
The nickname causes your breath to hitch, your head immediately turning to the man to your right. "Don't call me that." You mutter out, almost on instinct.
Jeonghan blinks at you, his face unreadable as he stares at you. "And why's that?"
"You know why Jeonghan, don't play dumb now."
Jeonghan scoffs. "Can't believe you're still affected by the nickname because of Titanic."
"There was enough room on that door for the both of them!"
Jeonghan shakes his head, a breath of a chuckle escaping.
Rose is the nickname that Jeonghan coined for you after that day at the park. You had qualms about it because of Titanic. You watched it when you were younger and thought it was really selfish of the leading lady to not move a little more so that her boyfriend had more space on the door.
Hence, you didn't like the nickname.
Jeonghan, on the other hand, seemed to thrive more off of your hate for the nickname, making him use it more than your actual name or Violet which was the general nickname that everyone else called you. Even your parents used it.
But to Jeonghan, that nickname that didn't sit right so he used Rose every chance he got.
You grew to love the nickname when you and Jeonghan were dating because you learned that he called you Rose because you are his love and you've been since the two of you were kids and that he was enamored by you.
The effect of the nickname is so great that even after ten years of not seeing each other, that nickname still causes your stomach to flip.
"Are we really not going to talk about it?" Jeonghan asks softly making you tense up as you stare at the gray floor in-front of you.
"Talk about what?" You cringe the second the question leaves your mouth, knowing that it was a stupid thing to ask.
"Don't play dumb with me, Rose." He says making your heart race. "I think you forget that I know you like the back of my hand. Even if we haven't seen each other for the past ten years."
He was right. The two of you had grown up together and dated for almost five years before you left. He knew you, in and out. The two of you were each other's first for everything.
First kiss (from experimentation), first relationship, first real couple fight and you both even took each other's virginity.
Everyone thought the two of you were it for each other, despite your young ages. Everyone wanted what the two of you have and you two were glued to the hip that everyone always referred to you as a pair, never seeing one without the other.
But, that's probably the reason you left.
"I know." You whisper out.
"Since we're not going anywhere." Jeonghan says, moving his legs downwards to sit cross-legged in-front of you. "I think we have plenty of time to talk about prom. Don't you?"
You feel your pulse pick up as all the blood rushes from your face, gnawing at your bottom lip before you face him.
"Okay." You whisper out. "Let's talk about prom."
LET'S TALK ABOUT PROM
Prom.
If you were to ask anyone which day the seniors were most excited for, everyone's answer would be prom. It was such a monumental occasion that missing it would be the most devastating thing as a senior.
However, prom to you would always be something that had to end.
You and Jeonghan had been dating for around four years at this point. The two of you were constantly glued to the hip and everyone in the school knew that the two of you were together, including the teachers. Despite your age difference of two years, you still had a lot of common friends, your best friends integrated well into his group with consisted of your brother, Joshua as well as Jun, Soonyoung and Jihoon who were a year younger than them and a year older than you.
You loved Jeonghan. You realized that you loved him during one of the dates he took you on where you both went to a meadow just a little out of town that was filled with a bunch of different flowers and he just let you ramble on and on about their meanings with a lovesick grin on his face.
You loved him but you were also twenty, trying to figure out what you wanted and where you were meant to go in this big world. You always knew you were going to leave your small hometown, no matter how much you wanted to stay, your heart always strayed for something further. For something that couldn't be found in this small town that you called home.
So, you applied for colleges out of this small town, the only people knowing being your best friends and your family members. You didn't tell Jeonghan because it wasn't set in stone yet. It wasn't something that you wanted him to worry about or try to make sense of because to him, you were always going to stay.
So, when you got a letter, detailing how you were accepted into one of the courses that you applied for, five hours away, you were at a lost for words.
You remembered bringing the letter to Seungcheol's room and the two of you sat on his bed, staring at the letter as you cried in his arms. You didn't want to go. You didn't want to leave Jeonghan behind but you had to.
Which leads you to the night of prom, also known as your last night in town.
You had ordered a rosy red dress months ago, realizing that it's Jeonghan's favourite colour on you as it went so well with your skin colour and just made you look like the most ethereal person in the room.
The theme for prom this year was coincidentally spring so your dress was perfect. You applied the finishing touches to your makeup with shaky hands as Kay and Izzy shared a glance with each other.
"Babe." Kay said gently, taking the mascara brush from your hands, putting it back into it's case. "You're crying."
You let out a soft sob, unsure of what to do. Izzy dabs at your eyes, removing some of your makeup but you didn't care. Not when you were staring at your childhood room filled to the brim with memories of you and Jeonghan but you couldn't bare to bring any of it with you, opting to leave it here just like you were leaving him.
Your closet was empty for the most part, you only bringing a set of toiletries, clothes and some memorabilia that you couldn't bear to part with that were all packed in Seungcheol's car.
"You need to stop crying, babe." Kay breathed out as Izzy helps you to touch up your makeup. "If not, Jeonghan's going to know that something's wrong."
You sniffled, looking in the mirror to see that Izzy had managed to fix your makeup as if you hadn't cried at all. You felt sick in the stomach.
"He's going to know." You whispered out as you shook your head. "He knows me like the back of his hand guys… It's going to be so hard to hide it from him."
Your best friends shared a glance with each other. "Then why can't you tell him, babe?"
"Because it's going to break his heart on what's meant to be the happiest occasion of high school."
Your best friends were silent at that, unsure of what to say. Before they could though, a soft knock was heard at your door. The three of you turned to it, to see Seungcheol stood there, leaning against your doorframe.
"Hey." He greeted softly as he pushed off the door to walk over to you. He gave you a once over, a prideful smile on his face. "You look beautiful." He whispered out making a small smile appear on your face.
"Thank you, Cheol." Seungcheol gave you a soft shoulder bump.
"I didn't mean to interrupt the three of you but Hannie and Gyu are already here, so I figured that we should get going."
You felt your heart drop at the information but steeled your nerves as you stood up from your bed shakily. The three in the room all shared glances as they looked at you as you put on your best brave smile.
"Let's conquer prom."
The four of you made your way downstairs as two loud voices other than your parents met your ears. You reach the bottom to see Jeonghan and Mingyu stood there chatting with your parents, their hands in their pockets as they laughed at something your father said.
Mingyu was the first to notice you and your entourage, his eyes immediately locked on Izzy as he took her in. "Wow." He breathed out, making the girl in question blush.
"Shut up." She muttered out, but from the way she was trying to hide her smile, you could tell that she was enjoying the attention.
However, you weren't really paying attention to the soon-to-be couple at your side, instead more focused on the angel of a man that was stood in-front of you.
Jeonghan was clad in a black stunning fitted suit that left very little for imagination. His mouth was agape as he stared at you, his eyes shiny as he tried to figure out what to say.
"Gosh." Is the first word that left his mouth as he continues to gape at you. Your cheeks are definitely flushed at this point as you gave him a shy smile. "You look absolutely breathtaking, Rose."
"Really?" You asked, your voice small as you try not to allude that you were crying. Jeonghan doesn't seem to notice, completely enthralled by you as he took your hands into his, bringing your dominant hand up to his lips as he brushed a kiss onto it.
Your heart raced as he brought you closer to him. "Of course, baby." He lowly says. "I'm so lucky to have you."
You felt your heart crack slightly at his loving words but you fake a smile all the same as you gave him a soft kiss on the cheek. "You look so handsome." You told him. "Can't believe you're all mine."
He gave you a devastating smile before his eyes lit up. "I almost forgot." He walks to the nearby table before he returned with a box, a shimmery rose inside. He gestured for your hand, which you gave him without a second thought. With the help of your father, he opened the box and carefully slid the rose corsage onto your non-dominant wrist.
"I made this." He softly admitted making your eyes widen as you glanced downwards as the perfectly shaped corsage.
"You did?"
Jeonghan gave you a nod, a nervous smile on his face. "I wanted your prom to be special. So I took a little workshop a few days ago to lear how to make the corsage for you." He held up your hand in his as he brushed his fingers over your knuckles. "Do you like it?"
Your heart raced at his question. "Like it?" You whispered out before you pulled him closer to you. "I love it, Hannie. Thank you." You tugged your hand out of his before you sprinted to the kitchen, grabbing the boutonniere that you had prepared the night before.
You made your way back over to Jeonghan before you showed him the boutonniere in your hands. He gawked at it before a genuine smile appeared on his face.
"No way." He breathed out making you giggle.
"Way." You replied, stepping closer to him as you pinned it onto his suit with as much care as you could. "Now," you breathed out, stepping backwards to admire your handiwork. "We match."
The two of you did match. You wanted to create a boutonniere that would go with your corsage and it didn't take rocket science to figure out that Jeonghan would probably give you a rose corsage considering that it was your nickname for him.
"I love it." Jeonghan stated before he gave you another dazzling smile and holds up his arm for you to curl into. "Shall we?"
You gave him a nod, your smile not quite reaching your eyes. "We shall."
Music is the first thing you hear as soon as you and your friends entered the prom hall. Mingyu and Izzy immediately moved towards the end of the banquet table where Minghao looked like he was about to have a heart-attack from how many eclairs Seokmin was stuffing into his mouth.
Kay and your brother made their way towards where Joshua was with his date, the four of them immediately picking up a conversation which left you with your dear boyfriend whose heart you were about to break.
Jeonghan scrunched his nose at the loud music and noises. "It's really loud in here, huh?"
You rolled your eyes as you continue to scan the room. "It's prom!" You shout over the music. "What did you expect?"
He gave you a shrug before he cocked his head to the middle of the room. "Dance?"
You giggled at his smirk before nodding. "You're on."
The two of you giggled as you dance with each other to the funky tunes that were playing. It only took two songs before the rest of your friends joined the two of you. Seokmin ended up starting a weird dance competition which Mingyu also took part in that caused almost all of you to end up on the floor in a fit of giggles.
You stare at your wonderful group of friends and smiled fondly to yourself, feeling a little teary eyed, knowing that tonight was the last night that you had with them until you went off to college. You had always imagined going to college with your best friends, unsure of what you would do without them but you were following your dreams and sometimes sacrifices had to be made in order to do it.
A shoulder nudged yours which brought you back to reality as you peered to your right, seeing your boyfriend stood there, looking as devastatingly handsome as always.
He leaned into you. "Tired?" He whispered, loud enough only for you to hear.
You shrugged. "A little, but not too bad."
Jeonghan nodded at that before he cocked his head to the exit of the gymnasium. "Want some fresh air really quickly?"
You glanced at the time and at Seungcheol who was watching you, knowing that you had less than an hour before you had to leave. However, if this was the last night that you had with the love of your life, you would willing say—
"Yes."
The fresh cold spring air rejuvenated your body as soon as you stepped out into the moonlit night. You and Jeonghan walked hand-in-hand to the back of the bleachers, both of your favourite spot to hangout at during lunch hours.
"Can't believe you're graduating next week, Rose." Jeonghan said as he bumped your shoulder, taking a seat on the metal benches. "Felt like yesterday when I was just graduating."
You forced out a soft laugh as you took a seat as well, hoping that it would just miss Jeonghan's ears so that he wouldn't suspect anything. "Yeah." You softly said. "I can't believe it either."
Silence enveloped the two of you as you both watched the stars glint in the sky. You were nervous, your eyes flickering to your phone every few seconds to see if Seungcheol was going to call you and break this bubble that you were in with the love of your life.
"Rose."
You whipped your head to your boyfriend, seeing that he was already looking at you, his eyes filled with nervousness and something else that you couldn't name. You raise an eyebrow at the man.
"Hannie." You cautiously breathed out. "Did you do something?" You deadpanned.
A soft chuckle passed Jeonghan's lips as he shook his head 'no'. "I just have something for you."
You looked at him a little more suspiciously as he dug through his pockets before he pulled out a box. A velvet red box to be exact.
You felt your heart rate speed up as Jeonghan scratched the back of his neck nervously. "Rose." Jeonghan said gently. "Before you freak the fuck out, take a deep breath with me and let me explain."
You hadn't realized that you held your breath this whole time as soon as Jeonghan had produced the box in-front of your eyes so you slowly breathed in and breathed out, regulating your breathing back to normal before you locked eyes with Jeonghan.
He popped the box open to show two rings in there, one that was slightly thicker than the other. "I know we're much too young to get married now, Rose." Jeonghan breathed out, his hands shaking as he held the rings for you to see. "However, after knowing you for so many years and dating you for some of it. I know another things that's for sure is that you're it for me." He said softly, his eyes on your face as he watched your eyes continue to flicker between the two rings.
"This is a promise ring. It's a promise that no matter what happens, no matter how many fights we get into and no matter how many times I push your buttons and piss you off, no matter how many days we go without seeing each other…" He lets out a shaky exhale. "That I will always love you and that I will never stop loving you until the day that I breathe my final breath."
A full fresh set of tears have brimmed your eyes at this point which caused you to involuntarily let out a watery sob that has Jeonghan wiping the tears from your eyes.
"Don't cry, baby." He cooed out.
"You can't say shit like that and expect me not to cry, Yoon Jeonghan."
He chuckled at your use of his full government name as you lifted up your hand. "Slip it onto my finger already, you asshole."
Another laugh bubbled out of his throat before he met your demands all the same, taking the rose studded ring and slipped it onto your middle finger, the traditional place where promise rings sat before he did the same with his own ring.
The two of you placed your hands side by side, comparing the two rings together before you pulled Jeonghan in for a kiss. He groaned into it, immediately gripping tightly onto your waist as you slowly moved your hands up from his chest to the back of his neck, messing with the back of his nape.
He let out another grunt, pulling you flush against him as he deepened the kiss by slipping his tongue into your mouth, tasting the strawberry mint that you had earlier. The two of you made out for what felt like an eternity before your phone rang, making the two of you jolt apart.
Still dazed and panting from the remnants of the kiss, you scrambled for your phone to see your older brother's caller ID on it.
Your heart dropped. This was it.
You turned to Jeonghan who blinked at you before he tilted his head to try and peer at who was calling you. You moved your phone away from his eyes before you cleared your throat. "It's just Cheol asking where we are."
He eyed you suspiciously but didn't press as he nodded before he stood up. "I guess I have stolen his little sister away for too long." He cheekily said, wrapping an arm around your waist. "Shall we go back inside?"
You gave him a brief nod, knowing that if you did anything else, you might crack under the pressure and just admit to him that you were leaving in the next ten minutes. He gave you a forehead kiss before he led you back into the building. The two of you were about to enter the gymnasium when you pulled away.
"I need to use the bathroom, baby." You said, careful with your tone so that it wouldn't waver as you gave him a smile. "You go on ahead, I'll see you inside."
Jeonghan eyed you for a few seconds before he nodded, letting go of your hand. "Don't take too long." He called out to you as you trailed down the hallway to the bathroom. "I got some mean moves to show Seokmin that might win me his weird dance competition."
You flashed him a small. "I can't wait!"
You watched as he turned and walked back into the loud booming room and your whole facade broke, a wretched sob escaping your throat as you remove your heels to walk back down the hallway.
You spared a glance into the gymnasium where you spot Jeonghan with the rest of your friends happily talking to each other and let your eyes drift further down his figure to the ring that sat on his right middle finger before ypu glanced at your own.
This was the right decision.
Is the last thing you thought to yourself before you slip out the doors of the school to your brothers parked car where you were about to leave your whole life behind.
"Are you alright?" Seungcheol asked as soon as you slipped into the passenger seat, dumping your shoes into the backseat.
You let out a shaky exhale as you shook your head 'no'. "But." You breathed out, recalling how good Jeonghan looked on your last day together. "I'll be alright."
Seungcheol said nothing as he put the car in drive and pulled out of your high school carpark, leaving behind what was meant to be the best day of your high school year and the love of your life.
You recall the whole story to Jeonghan who has scouted closer to you in the time that you had told it. He had been silent the whole time so when you finished the story, not a single word came out of the man.
You tuck Mandu closer to your chest as she keens slightly, fluffing around for a bit before settling again as Jeonghan lets out a bitter laugh.
"So," He states, eerily calm. "You're telling me this whole time, you could've told me and we could've just done long distance?"
You feel your blood run cold as he repeats the situation back to you as he stands up and begins to angrily pace the room.
"Jeonghan, I—"
"No." Jeonghan cuts you off. "You don't get to sit there and try to fucking defend yourself when you left like that, Rose." He chuckles lowly as he runs a hand through his hair, the beanie now abandoned on top one of the boxes. "Why couldn't you have just told me?!" He exclaimed. "Did you think I wouldn't understand? Did you think I wouldn't be happy for you?" He asks, agony deep in his tone.
You feel your throat go dry as you place Mandu down onto the ground to try to be on the same level as the man.
"N-No." You stammer out, lifting your hands in a surrender position as you try to appease the man in-front of you. "I was just scared and I didn't want to hurt you, Hannie."
Jeonghan scoffs at that. "You didn't want to hurt me?" He shakes his head. "Well, congratu-fucking-lations. You managed to do it anyways, Rose." You wince at his words as you feel tears brim your eyes.
"I thought it was the best thing to do." You softly admitted.
"I don't fucking understand, Rose." Jeonghan breathes out, locking eyes with you. "I told you I loved you, I told you that you were it for me. Which part of that statement did you not understand or get? That I would be happy for you no matter what you were doing or what you were going to do?" Jeonghan stops pacing to stand in-front of you. "That I would be able to die a happy man just because I have you by my side?"
You feel your heart stop as he admits that, staring intently into your eyes as you let out a shaky exhale. "I didn't want you to wait for someone who wasn't sure if they were going to come home or not, Hannie." You softly admit. "I was wrong. I'm sorry that I made the decision on behalf of the both of us when you were right and we should've talked it out."
"Yeah." Jeonghan replies. "We should have talked it out, baby. I would've told you that I was happy for you, that I would drive down every other weekend to see you. That I would bring you flowers every weekend to brighten up your bedroom so that you have reminder to smile even when everything looks bleak."
He shakes his head. "I would've done it all if you had just let me in."
You let out a soft sob as you imagine all of that, thinking how it would've been different if you just told him. If you didn't make the decision on your own and assuming on your own.
"I guess it would've been a lot different." You softly admit, sniffling a little. "If I had just told you."
Jeonghan sadly looks at you. "I guess we will never know now." He softly says, his words getting softer and softer by the second.
"Yeah, I guess not."
The two of you stand in a semi-tensed silence for a couple more seconds before Jeonghan steps closer and reaches out, his fingers brushing your chin upwards so that you are now looking at him. His eyes scans yours before he sighs, brushing his forehead against yours.
"It's been ten years." He softly whispers. "Yet you still make me feel the same way you did when I first met you in the park where I hated flowers."
You feel your heart rate pick up as you finally realize how close the two of you were now, his familiar floral and citrusy scent filling your nose as you stare into his irises. You didn't notice the two of you leaning in until the the door to the basement cracks open making the two of you jolt apart.
The two of you whip your heads to the door to see a few figures standing there, looking between the two of you, unsure of what to make of the situation.
"Erm." Chan starts, his eyes shifting between the two of you. "Did we interrupt something?"
Jeonghan takes that moment to regain his composure as he shakes his head. "No." He answers shortly, sparing you a glance before he grabs his beanie and makes his way towards the staircase. "You didn't interrupt anything at all."
His cold answer makes your heart drop as he trots up the stairs. "Excuse me." He mutters out as Seungkwan and Vernon share a glance before letting the older man leave. Your friends watch Jeonghan pick up his bag from your desk before he walks out of your store, the door slamming behind him without another word.
All attention turns back to you as Minghao cautiously walks down the stares, approaching you who looked like you had just seen a ghost.
"Vi." Minghao breathes out, getting your attention as he meets your eyes with his soft doe ones. "Are you alright?"
You break, reaching out for Minghao who catches you before you cry in his arms. The taller man soothes you, running a hand up and down your back as he whispers comforting words to try to get you to stop crying.
"I really messed up, Hao." You admit between sobs. "He loved me so much and I hurt him so badly by just leaving. Why didn't I just talk to him?"
Minghao's hand on your back pauses for a millisecond before he strokes your back again. "We've all made stupid decisions in our lives, Vi." He softly admits, moving his hand up to pat your head. "We've all been there because we're rash and we're young and we make decisions based on our emotional states sometimes. Yes, we may make mistakes but making mistakes is what makes us human. If we don't make a mistake here or there, how do we know we're making good decisions?"
His words make you think as you continue to sniffle into his shoulder. "Let's take a rainy day for example." Minghao softly starts. "How do you know sunny days are sometimes better than rainy ones without experiencing both?" He pulls back from you to meet your eyes. "Living is about experiencing, even if you experience the wrong thing or make mistakes, the important thing is to learn from them and to not repeat the same mistake twice."
Minghao eyes you for a couple of seconds. "If you thought leaving instead of telling Jeonghan was the best decision, it would've continued to be the best decision because it was already in your mind, Vi. It was meant to happen and I think you learned a lot from it because it happened."
Minghao in all his glorious wisdom is right.
"Since when did you get so wise." You breath out making the man chuckle as he rolls his eyes.
"Aren't you lucky to have such a wise person in your friend group that can actually relate to whatever you're saying?"
A scoff is heard from behind the two of you making you glance up to see Seungkwan's face scrunched up. When he realizes that both your eyes are on him, his face immediately flushes as Mingyu smacks him on the back of his head.
"Way to ruin the moment." Mingyu chastises, causing Seungkwan to flush even more. You let out a watery giggle at their bickering, a teary smile on your lips. Minghao reaches out to wipe some of the stray tears that didn't get picked up by his sweater.
"Feeling better?"
You purse your lips. "Not at the moment." You honestly admit but give him a small all the same. "But I'll be alright."
He gives you a sympathetic smile, placing a hand on the small of your back as he leads you to where the entourage of Mingyu, Izzy, Vernon, Seungkwan and Chan stood. He gives you a tiny kiss on your hairline before snapping his fingers at Mandu to get her attention to follow him.
"Let's get you girls home."
THE CHAOTIC TRIO
Jeonghan swears that he's never had trouble getting out of bed before. After last night though, he thinks that going to the store might make him combust instead of providing the serenity that used to.
Before he went home last night, he dropped Joshua a text asking if they could swap their off days just for the week. Joshua who was not sleeping sent a question mark before agreeing, saying that Jeonghan was lucky that he didn't have any prior plans.
Hence, that's why Jeonghan is at home and just staring at the ceiling, his mind blank with a body that is unwilling to move. He barely got any sleep, his mind plagued by your proximity last night and how the two of you had almost kissed.
He places his hands over his face and groans into them before hiding into his pillows. He wants the ground to swallow him hold. Ten years of not seeing you and the second time that he does, he almost kisses you.
'Stupid.' He thinks to himself. That's what he was.
He can't believe he hasn't gotten over you. He's tried dating. Joshua has even tried setting him up on one or two blind dates but after the second one was a bust, Jeonghan just swore off dating and hid his heart behind his dazzling charm to protect himself.
But the truth of it all is that he still loved you with his whole entire being and that is definitely not changing anytime soon.
He sighs into his pillow, willing himself to go back to sleep to maybe wake up in an alternate reality where you didn't leave.
"Are you trying to melt into the bed or something?"
Jeonghan's nearly launches himself off the bed when he hears the stern voice coming from his room door. Luckily, he manages to catch himself before he did and just stops a few centimeters from the edge of the bed.
"Jesus!" He exclaims, holding a hand to his chest as he wills his heart rate to slow down. "How the fuck did the two of you get in?"
Seungcheol and Joshua share a glance before the latter holds up a key in between his fingers. "Did you forget that you gave me a spare key in case of emergencies?"
Jeonghan scoffs. "What kind of fucking emergency is this?"
"The self pity kind." Seungcheol answers without a second thought as he walks into Jeonghan's room and flops down onto his bed with a soft groan, stretching a little.
Jeonghan frowns, smacking the older boy with the bolster that he has near him. "Get off my bed."
Seungcheol lets out a yelp when the bolster makes contact with him but doesn't move, instead eyeing Jeonghan with a knowing look. "I will if you talk to us about what's going on."
The heartbroken boy doesn't know if he wants to laugh or cry at his best friend's statement, considering Seungcheol is tied deeper into this than he thought.
"What's going on is that your sister came back into town and somehow opened a flower shop right opposite me. We got stuck in her basement last night and I finally learned the reason why she left on prom night and you somehow, knew everything about it but decided to leave me in the dark for all of it." Jeonghan rants, his voice getting louder by the minute as he continues. "What's the fucking cherry on top is that you knew about the promise ring and still told me to give it to her anyways!"
He glares at Seungcheol as his voice goes low. "Did you want me to get heartbroken that badly?"
Seungcheol is silent for a few moments as Joshua just observes, leaning against Jeonghan's desk.
"I wanted her to stay." Seungcheol admits quietly. "I thought that if you gave her the ring, she would forgo whatever she wanted to do and stay because she's so in love with you, Han."
Jeonghan doesn't reply, giving Seungcheol the cue to continue. "I should've known that she's too much like me to do that though. You should've seen her the night that she came into my room with the letter, Jeonghan. She was so heartbroken. She had just gotten into the college program of her dreams and she was heartbroken because she had to leave you." He lets out a sigh as he sits up. "Maybe it was wrong of me to not tell you, maybe it was wrong of her to leave like that but I think she knew that if she talked to you about it, she wouldn't have gone through with it. You would've told her to go and she wouldn't have because she's that in love with you."
He flashes his best friend an apologetic smile. "Again, I'm sorry that I didn't tell you that she was leaving or that she was coming back and there's no excuse for my actions and I hope that you forgive me someday but," Seungcheol looks around Jeonghan's room before his eyes settle on the printed out collage of photos of you and Jeonghan together from an array of dates that you've been on.
"Are you going to let the supposed love of your life slip through your fingers again?"
Jeonghan wants to yell and defend himself or deny that he's still in love with you but Seungcheol fixes him with a hard gaze.
"Don't even try to lie to me, Hannie." He says. "You forget that I've been your best friend longer than you've known my sister. I was here first."
At that, Jeonghan's mouth snaps close because as infuriating as Seungcheol was, he was also infuriatingly right.
"I hate you." Jeonghan deadpans with as much venom in his tone that he can muster. Seungcheol rolls his eyes.
"Yeah yeah." He tugs at the sulky boy's hand. "C'mon, Shua brought some beer, we're going to drink and we're going to have a good time."
Jeonghan frowns, not budging from his spot. "First of all, its one in the afternoon. Secondly," he turns to his chief operations officer. "if you're here, who is managing the store?"
"Well, we only had two delivery orders today which Seungkwan and Chan finished pretty promptly in the morning even though they looked so hungover." He clicks his tongue. "So I made the executive decision to send them home, close up shop and come over to make sure that you're okay." He glances between Jeonghan and Seungcheol before a cheeky grin appears on his lips. "Besides, I didn't want to touch the amount of paperwork on your desk."
Jeonghan lets out a scoff at that, shaking his head. "You lazy ass."
Joshua feigns hurt. "Says the one whose only role is to do paperwork."
Jeonghan opens his mouth, ready to argue when Seungcheol sighs, having had enough of this and yanks Jeonghan off the bed in one swift movement, barely letting the man get his bearings before he uses his other hand to tug at Joshua's hoodie.
The two of them let out sounds of protest but Seungcheol just drags them to the living room where three six packs sit. He let's them go before opening the carton for himself as the other two stare at him.
"If you two are going to fight." Seungcheol says, lifting the beer in a 'cheers' motion. "I'm going to need a drink to get through it.
Jeonghan and Joshua share a look before they took a pillow each off the couch and turn to the smart alec in the room whose eyes widen before he takes off sprinting, the two hot on his tail.
As yells, swears and laughs were heard for the next few hours, Jeonghan couldn't help but keep Seungcheol's words at the back of his mind.
Will he really let you slip through his fingers for the second time?
IF THE UNIVERSE GRANTS IT
You swear you could feel your own nauseous clawing at your throat with how nervous you are. It's the day of your grand opening and a sizable amount of people had turned up making your nerves spike more than it did before.
"You're going to put a hole in your newly furnished store if you keep pacing like that." Seungcheol states as he watches you go back and forth with just five minutes before you officially open.
"I feel like if I stop, I'm going to throw up." You state, not stopping your pacing for even a second.
Mingyu who was on clean-up duty today pales as he looks between the two of you.
"That doesn't mean you wear out the floor before your customers even have the chance to come in." Seungcheol deadpans as Mingyu tosses a glare his way.
"Keep pacing if it helps for you, Vi." Mingyu says gently, tossing Seungcheol another dirty look. He did not want to clean up any messes that big for free, during something as big as the grand opening.
"You're going to do fine, Vi." Seokmin calls out from behind the counter, his role being cashier today that sends the customers off with a warm smile or a good laugh. "The shop also looks splendid! This is going to go so well!"
You give the tall man a slightly constipated smile as Vernon appears from the back with a clipboard in his hands, in-charge of making sure everything was stocked up. "Done with last minute stock check." He gives you a small smile. "We're all ready to open up when you are."
You take a glance over the store, your eyes briefly landing on Minghao for a second as you spot him messing with the angle of one last trinket, his eyebrows furrowed in concentration. When he finally finds the right spot for it, he smiles to himself before turning to you to give you a thumbs up.
Your heart swells with warmth as you admire the store that you and your friends had spent the last two weeks building. Every detail and placement intimate as you take a deep breath.
This is it.
You steel your nerves and put on the bravest face you can muster as you unlock the glass door and open it to see a bunch of customers already waiting outside, peering through the open door to see what all the fuss is.
"Let's do this." You say making all your friends nod as you open the door, welcoming all the new customers in and the official start of your journey.
It's mid-afternoon when sales start to slow down and you feel exhaustion creeping into your bones as it begins to drizzle outside. You don't remember another time where you had to stand for such a long period of time. You stretch as the rest of your friends lean against the front desk, chatting happily.
You smile fondly at them as they recount all the funny stories of the morning as Minghao looks through which flowers were the best flowers of the morning. You peer through the windows too admire the rain and the serenity of it all.
You let your eyes drift before they land on the store across the street from yours which had their blinds down. You frown, tilting your head to the side. You vaguely remember Seungcheol telling you that Jeonghan and Joshua only officially close the store on Tuesdays because it's a good time for them to catch up on paperwork as well as restock inventory from the weekend rush.
However, it's a Sunday today, meaning that they should be open.
"Hey Cheol." You call, getting your brother's attention as he breaks away from the group, your curiosity getting the better of you.
"Yeah?"
"How come Jeonghan and Joshua aren't open today?"
Seungcheol follows your gaze to their shop before his eyebrows furrow. "I don't know, they didn't mention anything when I saw them."
You frown but try to push it out of your thoughts as Mingyu gets your attention.
"Yeah, Gyu?"
"You had a letter delivered with the bills." You tilt your head to the side as Mingyu passes you it to you.
You analyze the letter as you try to figure out who it is from, flipping it in your hands. It just had your name on it, written in cursive with a wax rose seal at the back. Your heart thunders in your chest as you carefully open the envelope to reveal the letter and its contents.
Rose,
I know you probably weren't expecting a letter from me but I think this is a better way to articulate whatever I want to say without getting too emotional or too invested in the way that you're looking at me.
Let me start this letter off by saying I love you.
I know we've said it a few times when we were together but I don't think you ever knew when it was because I never told you, I wanted to save it for when we get married but then you left ten years ago and now, I'm here saying 'Fuck it, what's the worst that could happen?' You leaving me a second time?
Sorry bad joke…
I knew that I loved you the second you showed me the roses in that godforsaken flower garden that I truly did not want to go to. I guess I have Su Bin to thank for dragging us there that day because if she didn't, we would never have met.
Maybe we would have at a later date considering Seungcheol and I were friends but I think I wouldn't have fallen in love with you that early if we hadn't met that day. If I wasn't bait for Seungcheol's plan to get away from flower talks with you, I wouldn't have learned about what Roses meant and I wouldn't have learned what it was like to fall in love with you.
I wouldn't have spent ten years of my life after that yearning for you, four after that getting the experience of loving you and another ten after that waiting for you to come home.
Which is actually why I opened the flower shop in the first place. I couldn't bear to be without you so I made something that might get you to come home, back to me and choose me again. Roses are Red would never have been built if I never met you.
Which is why I'm proposing that we give our relationship another shot.
Don't get me wrong, I'm still heartbroken by you and it'll definitely take a lot of time to rebuild that trust so that I don't think you're going to leave me again but… I realize that the universe doesn't make mistakes.
We, humans can make mistakes but the universe doesn't.
It wasn't a mistake that Su Bin managed to convince our mother to bring us to the flower park that day, it wasn't a mistake when Seungcheol roped me into becoming bait to meet you, it wasn't a mistake that it rained during our first date and… it wasn't a mistake that you left the same day that I gave you the promise ring.
Maybe this is a bad decision and maybe our relationship will be in tatters after this but from how I see it, I still love you. I spent a long time thinking about it the last few days and I realize that I'm not ready to give you up just yet.
Because I know that deep down, you still love me too.
If all this is said and true, I'm waiting for you at our spot, Rose.
Don't overthink it and if you are going to, overthink it with me. There's enough space on that door for the both of us.
~ Hannie <3
You stare at the letter for a couple more seconds, not believing your eyes as your mind races with a million thoughts per second. You jolt out of them when Minghao puts a hand on your shoulder, an easy sympathetic smile on his face.
"This is the part where you run, Vi."
You feel your heart rate speed up as you nod, immediately hopping out of your chair as you fling the door open and run out into the street not caring about the rain. You sprint down the street as the rain dampens your clothes, making your way to the flower garden that you knew by heart since you were six years old because if there's one thing you knew for sure:
If the universe gives you a second chance, you have to take it.
Jeonghan feels at ease as he stands under the tree where the two of you had your first kiss. He thought that he shouldn't be feeling like this, since there's a chance that you wouldn't have read the letter that he had passed to Seungcheol this morning when he was closing up the store.
There's also a chance that you did read the letter and he was wrong, you didn't love him anymore and the last couple of days was just a fluke.
But as he stares at the spring rain falling on the trees and his umbrella, he knows that you're going to come.
He hums to himself as he patiently looks around, before he hears hard but fast footsteps just a couple feet away from him. He smiles to himself, knowing who those footsteps belonged to because he's always kept a listen out for it.
He turns to face you, who looked almost the exact same as you did that day when he first kissed you. Your hair's damp, sticking to each other and parts of your face and you sported a rosy red dress with a white knit sweater that just brought out the rosiness of your skin and a pair of sneakers.
Even though your makeup was lesser than that day of prom or on your first date, Jeonghan swears that you've never looked more beautiful and 'his' in this moment.
"Are you crazy?" Is the first words to leave his mouth as you end up under his umbrella. "You're going to get sick."
"Don't care." You reply, looking at the man in-front of you with as much love as you can express. He doesn't seem to catch it though, ranting about how you're so stupid to run here without an umbrella as he sheds off his jacket, placing it onto your shoulders.
"— do you have any idea what a common cold does to people? This is the stupidest thing you've ever done, you could've driven here, you could've at least taken an umbrella when you left the store. Like are you saying that you don't have any at the store because that's — mmph!"
You cut him off by pressing your lips against his, your hands going to the back of his neck as if it was just muscle memory. Jeonghan stands there frozen for a few seconds before his eyes flutter close, the umbrella forgotten as he lets it go, his hands more invested with being around your waist than keeping the two of you dry.
He groans into the kiss and you take the opportunity to deepen it, sliding your tongue into his mouth which he gladly reciprocates with his own. His grip on your waist tightens as he pulls you flush against him, not caring about how your wet clothes were soaking his own. You hum, smiling into the kiss as the two of you continue to make out.
Only when the two of you remember that oxygen is a thing, is when you two pull away. Jeonghan's lips pressing three more chaste kisses onto yours as if trying to remind himself that this isn't a dream and you are actually standing in-front of him, saying that you want to give your relationship another shot.
He bumps his forehead with yours before he leans his forehead against yours, a small teasing smile on his face.
"If I knew you missed me that much, I would've convinced you to take that photo of me in the basement the other day."
You roll your eyes, a soft scoff escaping your lips. "You wish."
"I do, Rose." He admits, without a second beat, the genuine honesty surprising you a little. "I wished that you missed me everyday in hopes that you would come home to me."
Your heart drops at that as you stare into Jeonghan's eyes that are filled with love and vulnerability.
"Hannie." You softly breathe out. "I'm sorry for making the decision for both of us and leaving without giving you a chance. There's no excuse for my actions and I thought I was doing it because it was the best decision for the both of us. However," you shake your head. "I realized that it was stupid of me to do so because it hurt a lot more than if we had just talked it out."
"I was so badly homesick during my first year in college that I wanted to dropout and come home to this town, come home to my family and friends but more importantly, I wanted to come home to you. However, I was scared that you weren't going to want to talk to me, that you hated my guts for what I did and I couldn't bare the thought of that happening."
You take a deep breath before tugging at the chain necklace hidden under your dress, taking it out of it to reveal the promise ring that Jeonghan gave you ten years ago.
"I never took it off." You softly admit as Jeonghan stares at the necklace, his eyes wide. "It was the one thing that kept me sane during college and what got me through the worse of the worse when I was working in corporate. Because every time I looked at it, I found my life a little less bleak and a little more hopeful, because I was thinking about you."
Jeonghan looks slightly teary eyed as he gazes into your watery ones. "If you let me, I'll spend the rest of my life hoping that you would forgive me. I'll work hard for all our dates, I'll plan and pay for every single one if you let me and I will always go the extra mile for you, just so that you know that I love you and that this is something that I want because like you said." You give him a soft, cheeky smile. "Humans may make mistakes but the universe doesn't."
Jeonghan stares at you for a few seconds, his eyes flitting around your face as if he's trying to commit your features to memory before he reaches into his own shirt neckline to pull out a chain similar to yours. Your eyes widen as you see the same promise ring nested on the chain as Jeonghan gives you a soft smile.
"I've been in this since I first saw you at the park, baby." He whispers out, letting the chain now rest on his neck, the ring glinting in the spring rain. "Let's just take it slow and see how it goes."
You nod, a soft smile overtaking your features as you lean more into the man that you love.
"So," You ask, wrapping your arms tighter around Jeonghan's waist. "What's the first step in taking it slow?"
Jeonghan's eyes lit up with a familiar mischief as he feigns a ponder before leaning closer to you, eyeing your lips.
you’re just minding your own business when suddenly you’re being chased by a weird looking man. you turn down a dark alley to try and hide when you ran into someone; mark lee from your high school.
son of hades mark x daughter of Demeter reader
Demigod au / Percy Jackson au
Words : 5.4k
06.30 @strrykais
every weekday after 6:30am mark lee watches you take over his spotify account. it’s probably his favorite part of his very long days.
Smau
Labyrinthine @prodbymaui
You don't crumble at any man's words, but Mark Lee— God, Mark Lee.
Words : 1k+
Smut / mdni
Lucky
princess of isle caliriel, you naturally become best friends with the neighboring prince , mark lee of eloweth. always together and hardly ever apart , however, a marriage proposal from another isle looms over your head. mark feels himself spiral as he tries to support you , but even you feel indifferent to the proposal , why is that?
prince ! mark lee x princess ! reader
Words : 46.9k
Baby , i’m a rockstar @vnti-vnxiety-recs
After your boyfriend breaks up with you to focus on his music career, you devise a scheme to get back at him by attending his band’s open auditions. To both your surprises, you end up joining the band. It would be foolish not to seize this opportunity for some well-deserved revenge.
Words : 12k
Smut / mdni
The best man @mrkis
meeting the one for you at your best friend's wedding wasn't exactly how you imagined this day turning out, neither was fucking him in the bathroom of the venue.
Words : 6.5k
Smut / mdni
Craving you like the devil craves heaven @sluttyten
you’re a succubus (a female demon that seduces men to death) and you task yourself with seducing someone difficult. enter mark lee, a priest with a vow of celibacy that he’s already struggling with. you think you’ll have some fun.
Words : 8,622
Smut / mdni
Closed doors @starryhyuck
when your brother asks if a friend can stay in your spare bedroom, you don’t expect mark lee to show up on your doorstep.
Words : 5k
Smut /mdni
Personal fav !
How to get the girl @neocitylights
In the heart of New York City, Mark Lee leads a dual life: one as Spider-Man, the beloved Queens’ friendly vigilante, and other as just Mark, the awkward physics student that’s been harboring a crush on you for a ridiculously long time. As Mark tackles his latest mission—make your clueless self finally notice him—Spider-Man crosses path with Moonlight, a fresh-faced vigilante that sparkles his curiosity. Between rooftop encounters and failed flirting attempts, Mark finds himself juggling criminals, feelings and an ever-growing list of advice from his best-friend. After all, it’s about time for him to finally learn how to get the girl.
Words: 15k
Breeze @neochan
whatever was in the air, it left mark desperate, and you were the only one close enough to help
study buddy!mark x afab!reader
Words : 2.6k
Smut / mdni
Spiderm-mwah @k-oimani1
mark cant stop yapping about spiderman and you cant stop kissing him. (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶)
Personal fav !
Back to friends @leejenowrld
after years of crossing lines and pretending you’re just friends, one reckless night destroys every boundary between you and mark. you fuck like you’re starving—filthy, desperate, angry—never able to stop wanting him, no matter how much it ruins you. now, tangled in a mess of jealousy, heartbreak, and possessive sex, you both spiral through hookups, fights, and raw confessions, knowing the truth is the one thing that could end you. this is a story about the addictive, ruinous pull between best friends who can’t stop breaking each other open, and the fear that you’ll never be able to go back to the way things were.
Words : 21k
Smut/mdni
Backflips in a restaurant @ddorizrem
in which y/n, the trinket collecting fiend finds comfort in a boy singing on youtube and ends up face to face with him
Smau
Personal fav !
____
Huang Renjun
Woman @sincerelyneo
Renjun is selfish - he knows. He knows that he has no right to be jealous of Shotato, your dance partner, but he is. Because even though he broke up with you, you’re still his.
Words : 6.5k
Smut / mdni
runaway bride @https-lvesick
Just weeks before your wedding, doubts begin to creep in, and on the big day, you panic and make a break for it. Desperate and still in your bridal gown, you flag down a passing car driven by a friendly stranger. He offers to take you to safety, but what starts as a temporary stop turns into something much more. As you hide from the life you left behind, feelings grow, and the lovely stranger finds he doesn’t want you to leave.
words : 23k
Smut / mdni
New beginnings @hyuckles-chuckles
it’s your first day at camp half-blood after being found by a satyr in your science class. when the head of your new house is unavailable to give you a tour around the camp you get the next best thing; huang renjun.
son of athena!huang renjun x daughter of hephaestus!reader
Words : 5k
personal fav !
My best friend wants to be abducted by aliens @choerrypuffs
summers at camp half-blood are never dull—especially when there’s a cute boy at every corner.
son of athena!renjun x daughter of aphrodite!reader
words : 14.6k
I don’t want you to leave yet @haechani4ever
huang renjun x fem!reader
Words : 0.2k
En garde @alicanta77
you and renjun didn’t enjoy spending time together. any interaction the two of you had always led to a verbal competition, each of you desperately trying to beat and put down the other. and those encounters translated into your fencing. as much as you and renjun butted heads, he was the best fencer in the school and his help was invaluable. but soon it starts to get difficult to separate the sport from your relationship. let the battle begin.
fencer!renjun x reader
Words : 19.9k
I hate fruits @withlovemark
renjun, the fuckboy by association, couldn’t give less of a fuck about romantic relationships. he’s perfectly fine with being single. loves it actually. when he accidentally drops a box on your head and you wake up with amnesia, he’s forced to finally take care of a person other than his own self. what’s worse? you think he’s your boyfriend.
fake bf! renjun x best friend’s gf! reader
Words : 48k+
Smut / mdni
Acrylic dreams @renctlab
The things you stopped doing @maiochiruhanabiraaa
you stopped painting, stopped doing the things that made you light up. renjun doesn’t realize at first that he’s the reason why — until he finds your old sketchbook and sees what you never said.
Words : 3.1k
Forget me not @fullsunalicia
there’s a secret admirer leaving little notes in your locker. painted in every corner of the paper are forget-me-nots, and on your quest to find the secret admirer, you wonder if they know what the meaning behind these flowers is - and if they themselves mean it.
son of apollo!renjun x daughter of demeter!reader
Percy Jackson / demigod au
Private story ! @florihaei
the texts stopped, the silence stayed. but you still see renjun everywhere, every post, every late night thought, every version of who you used to be. and the worst part? he’s still watching too
ex best friendrenjun!xfemreader
Words : 2.9k
The ghost of you @mingoner
you get stuck patrolling hogsmeade on halloween night with your ex-boyfriend huang renjun, what happens when things go a little awry?
Hogwarts au
____
Lee Jeno
The lucky one @hyuckles-chuckles
you are told by mr d to find and bring a son of zeus to camp who has been under the radar for far too long. however when you find lee jeno, you don’t want to take him away from his life.
Words : 4.9k
son of zeus!lee jeno x daughter of athena!reader
Percy Jackson / demigod au
personal fav !
Rich purity @jenonctcity
Jeno often found that he had a lot of free time on his hands. Between going to his classes, studying, and going to the gym, he didn’t do much else apart from lounge around the apartment eating snacks. Not needing a part time job like his roommates because of his well-off parents, Jeno knew he had it easy, but it never got to his head, and he was always seen as the sweet, kind person he was. But this pact really threw his head into a spin. As he sat in class thinking about it, a lightbulb went off in his head as he saw you struggling with the work in the front of the class. You suddenly found yourself in a deal that threw your life into a spin. If you took Jeno’s virginity, he would give you tutoring for the rest of the semester. It was the deal of a lifetime to you, a handsome boy offering you sex and tutoring. But when you don’t end up sticking to the one-time sex thing, can you keep things strictly studying and sex with no feelings?
Words : 11.5k
Smut / mdni
The tale older than mine @fullsunalicia
the gods still can‘t keep their pesky hands to themselves, and thus still meddle with mortal lives thousands of years later. it‘s 2020, and y/n would love to fix her sleep schedule, if it weren‘t for those annoying visions of the man in the darkness.
son of erebus!jeno x daughter of aphrodite!reader
The dumbing down of love @luvdsc
the six times you caught him staring at you, and the one time he caught you.
↳ alternatively: dumb and dumber fall in love.
Words : 12.3k
Class crush ! @kiszjuli
in which your shy and reserved TA from your literature class started acting a little different. harboring a crush on you for months, he finally gets the courage to confess to you…on valentine’s day.
TA!jeno x fem!reader
Words : 2k
Fatherhood @featjunranghae
when jeno's girlfriend left him to deal with fatherhood alone. he decided he'd never let anyone in his or his daughter's life. that was until he met you. his neighbour whom his daughter seemed to love way too much
i suddenly realize my archnemesis is hot (during a battle to the death). @choerrypuffs
summers at camp half-blood are never dull—especially when there’s a cute boy at every corner.
son of ares!jeno x daughter of nike!reader
Words : 22.5k
Crush diaries @stuckonmark
you were a growing youtuber that posts interesting content about your life. you remember a trend that was blowing up a few years back, but you had always been too nervous to do it. it was the viral “sending a quiz to every boy i’ve had a crush on.” you honestly weren’t expecting to hear back from anyone, but you thought it was worth a shot. what happens when you actually do hear back from all of your crushes? what happens when fans try and figure out who all the anonymous crushes are? but most importantly, what happens when one of your crushes, who is now a famous kpop idol, reaches out to you after so many years?
idol!jeno x youtuber!reader
Smau
Protector @blue-jisungs
jeno knew you shouldn't have came to his boxing fight...
Words : 4.3k
Room(hate) @jaeminvore
all you wanted was sleep after your long shifts at the hospital. All you needed was sleep after your long shifts at the hospital, but even that was considered a luxury in these trying times. A luxury blatantly stolen by your roommate, Jeno Lee, who seemed to have an endless line of bodies to fuck preventing you from getting at least an hour shut eye. It was annoying. It was disrupting and you seriously hoped that Jeno's dick falls off one day.
Words : 18.3k
Smut / mdni
Slut! @sincerelyneo
Jeno’s always been yours. You were the one too scared to be his, actually. But not anymore. Not tonight. Not now that you’ve decided being called a slut might be worth it, so long as it means they know he’s yours.
idol!jeno x fem!reader
Words : 3.5k
Smut / mdni
Call me when you hate me less @jaylaxies
Jeno Lee was a walking academic hazard—hot, broody, and failing just about everything that wasn’t football. Enter you, his new tutor: organized, overachieving, and absolutely not here for his attitude or his annoyingly perfect jawline. But between late-night study sessions, petty insults, and one very inconvenient almost-kiss, things start spiraling—fast. He’s supposed to be you project. You are supposed to hate him. Instead, you both are one sarcastic comment away from either a breakdown or a makeout—and honestly, it could go either way
lee jeno x fem!reader
Words : 18.3k
Smut / mdni
____
Lee Haechan
Lemonade @neochan
after meeting your brothers bestfriends, you become attached to one in particular, even inviting him to your room the night he stays over.
Words : 5.3k
Smut / mdni
Personal fav !
…I was so miserable? @ilovedinodino
Haechan was in love with a girl from his dance studio, but one day he accidentally found her Twitter account with her terrible secrets
or how Haechan found out that his crush suffers from depression and anxiety and he's trying to hide it.
nonidol!haechan x f!reader
Smau
Heart can’t lose @najaemism
fourth year pre-med student and neo university student council president, haechan lee does not have the time for relationships. instead, he focuses his attention on his studies and extracurriculars, so as not to disappoint his parents. that is until hera seo came along—and everyone starts to wonder if the university’s golden boy would finally let his heart lose.
lee haechan x fem!oc
Smau
AITA for setting my cheating ex's car on fire? (and then falling for his cousin) @choerrypuffs
revenge is best served cold―or on fire. literally.
Words : 8.6k
Personal fav !
And now us @haechanhues
your best friend's best friend offers his services as you keep complaining about your lack of… sexual gratification.
frenemy! haechan x fem! reader
Mdni
Will you film my s*x tape ? @sweetiechenle
you and your best friend haechan are strapped for cash and desperate to make some... quick. thank god he has the best idea ever to make a sex tape!
non-idol!collegestudent!haechan x collegestudent!afab!reader
Smut / mdni
Target aquired! @winwintea
as part of your next mission, you've been tasked to 'capture' an infamous demon, lee donghyuck who's been causing mischeif on the mortal realm. this won't be easy.
demon!lee donghyuck x angel!reader
Words : 2.6k
I become attracted to seaweed @choerrypuffs
summers at camp half-blood are never dull—especially when there’s a cute boy at every corner.
son of poseidon!donghyuck x daughter of athena!reader
Words : 18k
Swords and arrows @hyuckles-chuckles
you and lee haechan have never gotten along, you being a daughter of ares and being the son of apollo. despite that, you still develop a crush on him…and you may think he’s developed one on you.
son of apollo!lee haechan x daughter of ares!reader
Words : 5k
The breakup ritual @justalildumpling
it was supposed to be closure. a breakup ritual. just a silly little tweet about your love for a failed hinge match. but instead of cursing your ex, it summoned him—and somehow you keep finding yourself (on your knees) in the backseat of his car.
haechan x fem!reader
Smau
Hostile work environment @midasriku
with student loans and his apartment rent due, psychology major haechan swears he’ll get a job at the record store despite never having worked a day in his life. what happens when he creeps out his workplace mentor, first day on the job? and what happens when she kinda finds him funny?
haechan x fem!reader
Smau
Milady @ickelwoong
after a drunk haechan is called an uber by y/n on their first meet, he does something that can never be reversed. he's seemed to completely forgotten the events of that night but when the two meet through chenle, haechan wonders why y/n - who he thinks he's never met before - is acting so weird towards him?
haechan x fem!reader
Smau
Bad idea right ? @remtrack
lee donghyuck — or rather, haechan, talks a big game. much bigger than he can actually bite. upon being asked to bring his imaginary girlfriend to the 127 summer bash, he has no choice but to ask for help from the only girl he knows — you, his high school ex-girlfriend.
haechan x fem!reader.
Smau
Summer sun @82sim
when you start your summer job at an ice cream shop, your new co-worker isn’t exactly what you expected.
(haechan x fem!reader )
Smau oneshot
Jingle bells @hyuckiefluff
you send a spicy photo to the wrong lee and suddenly your brother's best friend is at your door with mulled wine and a space heater talking about "keeping you warm"
brother's best friend!haechan x fem. reader
Words : 7k
Smut / mdni
She thinks I can milk @hnykiss
celebrity!lee donghyuck x farmgirl!reader
Smau
Personal fav !
Haechan twink chronicle @susicheng
Smau one shot
Personal fav !
____
Na Jaemin
On the way home @dreamzenniee
A minor car accident reminds you that sometimes, home isn’t a place—it’s the person waiting for you.
Words : 600+
Go go juice @sincerelyneo
A week ago, you never imagined you’d be here—sitting in a random bar on a Tuesday night. But a week ago, you didn’t know your boyfriend was cheating. A week ago, you weren’t single. A week ago, you had no reason to be ordering your sixth drink—or to be drunk dialing your best friend’s brother.
jaemin x fem!reader
Words : 7.1k
Smut / mdni
Captain sparkle fingers revives me from the dead @choerrypuffs
summers at camp half-blood are never dull—especially when there’s a cute boy at every corner.
son of apollo!jaemin x daughter of hades!reader
Words 13.2k
Quest for romance @hyuckles-chuckles
you and na jaemin have been friends since the very first day you arrived at camp. but with him being a son of aphrodite he’s obviously one of the best looking people at camp and you develop a crush on him, but little did you know he also had a crush on you.
son of aphrodite!na jaemin x daughter of hephaestus!reader
Words : 4.9k
Team spirit @vnti-vnxiety
Clingy boyfriend Jaemin joins the cheer team to get closer to his girlfriend. You aren’t happy because you know he only joined to fuck you. He swears he didn't join for that reason (he did)
Jaemin x cheerleader! Reader
Words : 8.5k
Smut / mdni
Brat @iceonneo
the sexual tension has gotten frustrating enough, high time they do something about it. and yes they were roommates!
jaemin x fem! reader
Words : 1.6k
Smut / mdni
Teddy bear @jungaji
struggling with recurring nightmares, jeno suggests an app called "teddy bear," a sleep bot designed to offer comfort. over the course of a few nights, the bot’s messages start to feel increasingly familiar and seem to echo the warmth and understanding of someone who knows you deeply. as you connect with the bot, you uncover a touching secret that ultimately helps you find the peace you've been searching for.
na jaemin x gn!reader feat. lee jeno & lee donghyuck
Smau
Personal fav !
Backseat chronicles @notnctu
There is no reasonable explanation as to why or how you always end up in the backseat of Na Jaemin’s beloved car. Almost routinely, he picks you up around ten in the evening with the stereo blasting the raunchiest lyrics for your entire suburban neighborhood to hear. The entire night remains purely friendly, a dabble of flirtatious comments because well, it’s Jaemin for fuck sakes. But all it takes is one suggestive gaze from his dark, lustful eyes and a drop in his voice that rumbles your core to have you climbing over the seats to get to the back.
fem!reader, streetracer!jaemin
Words : 8.5k
Smut / mdni
Diet Pepsi @sincerelyneo
Jeno has one rule — his little sister is not allowed at street races. Jaemin knows this, and still, he can’t help but feel a thrill when he spots you sneaking out to watch him race. That is, until he sees you with another guy, and suddenly, he’s all in favor of Jeno’s rule. And he’s pretty sure that rule also means he should intervene and give you a ride home.
jaemin x virgin fem!reader
Words : 5.6k
Smut / mdni
Slytherin jaemin @jenosbliss
fem! ravenclaw reader x slytherin jaemin
Words : 1.2k
Enemies to lover au
____
Zhong Chenle
Stop posting about BALLER @winwintea
chenle loves basketball more than you. unfortunately.
boyfriend!zhong chenle x reader
Words : 1.3k
Out of time @johnnysuhbmarine
You'd be lying if you said feelings weren't caught within the thirteen years of friendship you had with Chenle, but even when you both wanted to be more, you agreed to shut any idea of it down - his future marriage was already arranged as part of a business deal, there was no point setting your hearts up for breaking. So, why is he on your doorstep begging for a chance just three months before he has to go back to China?
Words : 16.3k
Loaded @featjunranghae
in which a desperate joke about needing a sugar daddy accidentally manifests a millionaire classmate who takes his new role very seriously.
Smau
Playing dirty @hyuckiefluff
you’re tired of chenle ditching you for basketball practice, so you do what any rational girlfriend would do—show up to his practice in a slutty version of his team’s uniform. turns out you’re kind of good at basketball. turns out chenle can’t handle watching his teammates ogle the love of his life. turns out the locker room has a lock for a reason.
basketball captain! chenle x fashion major! fem.reader
Words : 4k
Smut / mdni
Training wheels @sincerelyneo
When your jerk of a boyfriend dumps you for being a virgin, the last thing you expected was to find comfort in your roommate, Chenle. But here you are, and now you're asking him to take your virginity…
chenle x fem!reade
Words : 4.9k
Smut / mdni
Once bitten , twice shy @onmyneo
… in which yn asks chenle to be her boyfriend for the night
best friend!chenle x fem!reader
Smau
When did you get hot ? @sincerelyneo
Your best friend’s kid brother is getting married—and his best man just so happens to be ridiculously sexy. Wait. Hold on. Is that Zhong Chenle? When the hell did he get hot?
chenle x fem!reader
Words : 7.3k
Smut / mdni
aita for hooking up with a random man i met at the club while i was in a fight with my boyfriend? @pinkynana
Your boyfriend always told you that he hated girls at the club, saying that they were easier than prostitutes and such. Which drove you to the decision to go to a club after your hundredth fight with him, just to provoke him. It was never your intention to be in another man’s arms that night.
Words : 1.7k
Smut / mdni
Business proposal @bbina
things aren't going as planned the way you thought it was going to be. especially the part where you find yourself falling in love with your own boss– which was definitely not part of the agreed proposal.
Smau
My first and last @withlovemark
zhong chenle, the lowkey fuckboy, captain of the basketball team, doesn’t believe in romance. flowers? chocolates? handwritten letters? ew. too cheesy. but he can’t seem to shake this crazy girl off of him so he goes to you, his best friend, cheerleading captain, for help. will you be his fake girlfriend? sure. the catch? it has to be believable so for the first time in his life he buys the flowers and the chocolate and writes the handwritten letters.
bff! chenle x fake gf! reader
Words : 31k
Smut / mdni
Personal fav !
The only one @hyuckles-chuckles
being the only child of the big 3 was always tough for zhong chenle, so you, being his best friend, was always there to comfort him. but then one day out of the blue, he just started ignoring you, and you would like to know why.
son of poseidon!zhong chenle x daughter of demeter!reader
Words : 5.1k
____
Park Jisung
Stolen moments @maunologue
he thought bringing his girlfriend to practice meant more time with her, until his members stole the spotlight.
park jisung x female reader
Words : 894
Obsession @winnietheboos
park jisung is the nation’s (secret) newest boxing obsession. hushed whispers, feared stares and his forgotten bloodied bandages left in the ring after every match. you're the girl living in the apartment next door because you can barely afford anything better while finishing your degree, and you can't help but notice the boy who comes home bloody and bruised every night. so what do you do? you follow him.
Words : 16.9k
Kiss it away @maunologue
a drunk and clingy jisung is brought home after their tour celebration, leaving his girlfriend to soothe him, clean up his mess, and kiss it all away.
park jisung x female reader
Words : 731
Tangerine love (favorite) @neocitycafe
You like tangerines. Jisung likes you. Someone is hiding citrus fruit in your apartment.
Finals are brutal. Winter is cold. And you’re not ready to admit that you already know who it is.
Words : 1.5k
7 minutes in heaven @heyjwi
you decided to attend your campus’ halloween party in hopes of seeing your crush, jisung. one thing leads to another and you both end up sweaty and breathless, locked in a closet..
crush!jisung x fem!reader
Smut / mdni
Haunt me , baby ! @ukiyoexo
when you see a ghost, you’re supposed to be scared right? yeah, that’s what jisung thought too until he met you.
a night spent in boredom leads you to lighting random candles and attempting to summon a ghost. you never expected it to work — or for the spirit to be so cute.
Words : 5,2+
Personal fav !
Dragon heart @kacchand-archive
there’s a certain charm to things people say when drunk, and when you said you wanted to be the ultimate dragon enchantress of all lands, you never thought it would come true. but with the help of a little magic, and a lot of uncontrollable teenage emotions, anything can happen.
and in this case, even dragons can come to life out of nothing. you just hope you don’t get expelled when Dumbledore finds it hidden in the forbidden forrest.
or the story in which Jisung and his overpowering feelings for you create an all new drunken mistake; one that breathes fire.
Hogwarts / Harry Potter au
Words : 4.5k
Travel buddies @hyuckles-chuckles
you were minding your own business when you heard a disturbance not that far from you, so you investigate it. you learn that you found a new demigod, park jisung, so in the moment you decide to take him to camp in the tiny car your mom got for you for emergencies, the only problem was is that camp was 840 miles away.
son of hermes!park jisung x daughter of aphrodite!reader
Demigods / Percy Jackson au
Words : 5.2k
Personal fav !
My Minecraft boyfriend @suhnandmoon
a joke tweet about your boyfriend on minecraft from when you were in middle school ends up reaching the boy in question and oh no- he's hot.. this sudden reunion with park jisung was completely unexpected for multiple parties. will this old romance rekindle, or was it just meant to stay in the past?
park jisung x fem!reader
Smau
Two dumb virgins @luvyeni
you wanted to lose it . he was tired of being made fun by his friends. both of you thinking he’d pull out fast enough… but what can you expect from two stupid virgins ? …
A/N: Happy New Year, @seungkw1 ! This one’s for you (and for me, let’s be real).
Also, see: Seungkwan’s ‘fit in the live he did with Soobin to get where I was coming from with this. Help.
Snapshoot
Pairing: Seungkwan x Reader
Genre: friends to lovers (can’t stop, won’t stop…)
Rating: PG (kissing, a single swear maybe)
Word Count: 1.8k
Warnings: kissing, poor studying habits
You really should be studying.
It’s not your fault you’re distracted, though, not when Seungkwan looks like that.
He’s sitting beside you in the private library room you booked for the two of you, hard at work on his essay that’s due in two days. You should be hard at work yourself, but…
He currently looks like that.
Hair messy from running his fingers through it, reading glasses perched on his nose, wearing his favourite hoodie. A pen resting against his lips as he thinks.
You aren’t sure what prompts you to do it, but soon your phone is in your hands and you’re taking a candid shot. And when you pull up the photo from your ‘recently taken’ album and onto your phone screen, you find it impossible to look away.
He looks so… soft. Cute. Warm. Cosy.
Your eyes move between the picture and the boy beside you, your entire body filled with a fuzzy sort of warmth at the sight before you.
You’ve seen him like this before, sure. He’s your kind-hearted, sarcastic, brilliant friend, and so you've been blessed to see him in all sorts of ways. You’ve seen him on early mornings and through late nights, you’ve seen him drunk out of his mind and performing karaoke as all of the Wonder Girls, you’ve seen him before and after coffee, and before and after shitty exams. Studying together is nothing new, either. You’ve seen him in all of his ways, so of course you’ve seen him looking like this — like the perfect boyfriend. You’ve never dared try and capture it anywhere other than in your mind, though, and now that you have it in concrete form, you aren’t sure what to do with it.
You have a lot of pictures of him. There’s a mix in your phone’s photo album of Seungkwan in all his glory: some of him caught completely off guard, some blurry ones where he’d shot a hand out to try and stop you from taking the picture, some of him laughing so hard his cheeks are flushed a pretty pink. To his dismay, you always joke that you’ll use the funny ones for blackmail one day, but he never actually makes you delete them. You cherish those.
There are also some photos in your phone where he looks like everything you’ve ever wanted — ones where he looks so breathtaking that it hurts. This one you just took is quickly being filed into that same mental folder. It has to be your new favourite, and you’re sure it’s going to be your favourite for a long time to come. And as you continue to stare down at the photo, your eyes tracing over his features, you can’t help but smile down at it.
“Hello? Earth to Y/N.”
Your phone is suddenly being snatched from your hands, and your eyes snap up to meet Seungkwan’s gaze. He raises his eyebrows, your phone dangling between the two of you in his hand, and you resist the urge to grab it like a feral cat.
“What?” You ask, trying to sound nonchalant even though you’re freaking out. Your gaze stays locked on your phone as he holds it up in the air, your eyes following it like a hawk.
“I asked what you were smiling at,” he says. “You were zoning out.”
“Oh, nothing, it’s just—“
You know it’s coming, but it still has you frozen when he inevitably glances at your screen. You watch in horror as his eyebrows raise, he blinks, and then he’s handing you your phone back wordlessly. It remains silent for a minute or two before he speaks again.
“Why were you smiling at a picture of me?”
You’re trapped — there’s no way out now. How are you possibly supposed to answer that? Because you’re the cutest boy I’ve ever seen?
“It’s a good picture,” you finally manage, trying desperately to keep your voice steady.
“It’s not that good.”
His comment comes out much less teasing than you’d expected. You really thought you were in for it. He sounds a lot more serious, and your gaze finds him again in surprise. He’s looking at his computer, but you can tell he’s not really taking in any of the information as he crosses his arms and sits back in his chair. He adjusts his glasses on his nose, and you can hardly breathe.
You don’t think you’ve ever been more embarrassed in your life.
“Jeonghan said you like me,” he finally says, and you suddenly want to sink into the floor.
“Oh.”
He shrugs. “It would be cool if you did.”
“It would be… cool?” You think you probably sound slightly deranged, your voice at least two octaves higher than usual, but you barely register it.
“Yeah.” He shrugs again, and you can only dream of having even an ounce of his nonchalance. “I wouldn’t mind.”
“You wouldn’t mind.” You have to be hallucinating. He’s just stated that he knows you have a crush on him, and he’s saying it’s cool? That’s almost worse than him rejecting you outright. Worse than him ignoring you forever and —
“As long as you don’t mind that I like you too.”
You gape. You actually gape, mouth open like a fish as you process. His eyes meet yours, signature smirk on his lips as he takes in your expression.
“Does that really surprise you?”
“Um. Yeah.”
“Well, it’s true,” he says, smiling amusedly over at you for a moment before he turns back to his computer. You watch in disbelief as he resumes his work as though nothing had happened.
“Are you seriously working again right now?”
Seungkwan nods, eyes moving between his notes and his laptop. “I just need to finish this before we can make out, alright?”
The words coming out of his mouth send a shock straight to your system. Since when is he so fucking smooth?
“Yeah, I’ve been waiting for months,” you finally say sarcastically, slumping back into your chair. “Another hour won’t make any difference.” Your tone is dry, and you can feel him look over at you. You suddenly realize what you’ve just revealed, and your eyes squeeze shut. You're expecting him to tease you again but instead, his response comes out filled with confusion.
“Months?”
You freeze. “Hm?”
“Did you say months?”
“…Maybe.”
“How many months?”
You feel your face flush, and your hands lift to cover your eyes, voice muffled when you respond. “Since September, I guess?”
Pause. “Since we met?”
You let out a groan. Now he’s teasing you. “Leave me alone.”
You can hear the smile on his face. “Cute.”
You’re about to cross your arms and let out a childish huff when you’re jolted by the sound of Seungkwan’s chair scraping across the floor, your eyes shooting open. He stands up, moving his chair closer to yours before sitting down again, and the sudden close proximity has you reeling. Then he moves to rest his hand on your thigh.
“Hold my hand?”
The question is soft, quiet, but you hear it. Seungkwan’s eyes search yours, a smile on his lips, and he raises his eyebrows. His palm remains face up on your leg, and you take a deep breath before shyly moving to rest your hand in his. His fingers curl into yours immediately, and then — he’s back to work.
Since when has Seungkwan ever been this chill? About anything?
“Stop looking at me,” he speaks up again after a moment, eyes still on his paper, and you shake your head.
“I can’t.”
He looks at you then, really looks at you for the first time since he’d taken your hand, and you can feel yourself flush even more.
“You can’t what?”
“Stop looking at you.”
You watch as he chews on his bottom lip. You wait, recognizing his silence as thoughtful, and hold your breath.
“Why, though?”
You furrow your eyebrows. “What do you mean?”
“Are you not bored?” His eyes meet yours again, and you blink in confusion.
His hand is still firm in yours, and you’re silent for a moment before replying honestly, “Trust me, I’ve looked at you quite a few times since I met you, and I’ve never once wanted to look away.”
He searches your eyes, and you can see the surprise that flashes through them. You feel tremendously shy under his gaze, beautiful brown eyes peering at you from behind his study glasses, and you can’t hold strong for much longer. You pull your bottom lip between your teeth as your eyes fall to the floor.
“Hey,” Seungkwan says, squeezing your hand. “You just said you liked looking at me.” His tone is definitely teasing now.
“I just changed my mind. It’s not as easy when I know you’ll be looking back.”
You can practically feel him smiling. “Come on. Look at me, please?”
You brace yourself before doing what he asks. He smiles when you do, and your breath catches. His gaze is so fond, and you’re about to ask him why when he closes the rest of the distance, his mouth finding yours with ease. You let out a soft, surprised gasp against his lips, eyes immediately falling shut as you melt into him.
“I’m sorry for making you wait,” he murmurs against your lips, voice low.
“Today, or for the last 6 months?” You manage when he pulls back just slightly, cursing the way you’re already breathless just from one kiss. He smiles at your question, his eyes hooded, but he doesn’t offer any verbal response. He simply kisses you again, and every single remaining thought leaves your mind.
He kisses you one more time before settling back into his seat, turning back to his computer. His hand stays on your thigh, and you think you must look like the loading screen of a computer as you try and register what’s happening.
“You know I do it a lot, too, right?”
You tilt your head as his voice breaks you out of your daze. “Hm? Do what?”
“Look at you.”
You feel your cheeks flush. “Oh.”
“You’re very nice to look at, you know.”
You have to be beet red by now. For claiming to not be the overly romantic type, he sure is doing a great job.
“Seungkwan-“
“I’m doing this one more time and then I really, really have to finish this paper.”
You’re about to speak again, to ask more questions, when he pulls you in by your joined hands and kisses you again firmly. This time, his free hand finds your face, his mouth pressed to yours with intent. You let out another involuntary sigh, feeling terribly satisfied when he hums back against your lips.
He pulls back abruptly before letting out a breathy laugh. “You’re done with your work, right? You really might have to leave for the sake of my grades.”
You can’t help but pout. “Rude.”
He grins at that. “I’ll come over to your place as soon as I’m done.”
A/N: please please please reblog if you liked! it’s what us writers rely on :)
the problem was never seungkwan's female friends. it was the fear that one day, despite loving you, he'd find someone else who belonged in his world more than you did.
themes: romance, angst, established relationship, comfort
It was like a dream.
Entering a relationship with a well-known idol was never something you genuinely thought would happen to you.
Okay, maybe you did once.
Back when you were fifteen and hopelessly in love with TVXQ’s Jaejoong, spending entire afternoons imagining what it would be like if an idol somehow noticed you in the crowd. If he fell head over heels for you. If he chose you.
In those daydreams, everything was always perfect.
There were secret dates and stolen kisses. Cozy apartments and lazy mornings. A love so certain it could withstand flashing cameras, demanding schedules, and the entire world watching.
Reality, as it turned out, was much less dramatic.
And much better.
Because reality was Boo Seungkwan.
Reality was waking up to find him asleep beside you, face half-buried in your pillow while his alarm blared uselessly from across the room.
Reality was listening to him complain about early schedules while simultaneously refusing to get out of bed.
Reality was finding your refrigerator stocked with tangerines because he’d suddenly become obsessed with them again after being appointed as a Jeju ambassador.
Reality was hearing his voice before you even opened your eyes.
“Five more minutes.”
“You said that ten minutes ago.”
“And I’ll say it again.”
The domesticity of it all surprised you the most.
Not the fame.
Not the secrecy.
Not the surreal realization that the man whose face appeared on billboards and television screens would casually text you photos of random dogs he saw on the street.
No.
It was the normalcy.
The way your relationship eventually settled into routines and habits that belonged solely to the two of you.
Some nights, Seungkwan would come home exhausted from filming and immediately collapse on top of you without warning.
Some mornings, he’d call you in between schedules simply because he wanted someone to complain to.
And sometimes, when his schedule allowed it, he’d drag you out for late-night convenience store runs while wearing a hoodie, a baseball cap, and enough paranoia to make you laugh.
“Stop looking around.”
“I’m not looking around.”
“You just checked over your shoulder three times.”
“I’m being cautious.”
“You walked into a lamp post.”
“It came out of nowhere.”
You laughed so hard you nearly dropped your drink.
Moments like those made it easy to forget that he wasn’t just Seungkwan. That he was also Seungkwan of SEVENTEEN.
The idol.
The celebrity.
The person who was recognized everywhere he went.
Most days, that distinction didn’t matter.
Most days, he was simply your boyfriend.
The man who stole your blanket at night.
The man who sent you voice notes when he was bored.
The man who somehow managed to turn every minor inconvenience into a five-minute dramatic monologue.
The man who simply loved you.
For nearly two years, that felt like enough.
More than enough.
It felt secure.
Steady.
Certain.
You never worried when his phone buzzed.
Never questioned who he spent time with.
Never thought twice when he mentioned fellow idols or industry friends.
Because why would you? You trusted him. Completely.
At least, you thought you did.
Looking back, you would later realize that insecurity rarely arrives all at once.
It doesn’t burst through the front door, announcing itself.
It slips in quietly.
A comment here.
A photo there.
A harmless thought that lingers a little longer than it should.
And by the time you notice it, it’s already made itself at home.
────﹒♡﹒────
Two years of dating one of SEVENTEEN’s busiest members had taught you a lot of things.
Patience, for one.
Your weekly movie nights rarely started on time anymore, and somewhere along the way, you had stopped expecting them to.
In the beginning, it had been difficult. There were countless evenings spent staring at the clock, trying to ignore the disappointment when a quick dinner date turned into a midnight takeout run because a schedule had gone over time.
You’d be lying if you said there weren’t arguments.
There were moments when frustration got the better of you—moments when you demanded that Seungkwan take your relationship more seriously, moments when you questioned whether you would always come second to his career.
But those fights never lasted very long.
Because once the anger faded, you were always reminded of the same thing.
Seungkwan wasn’t neglecting you.
He was working.
Working for something he’d dreamed about since he was a teenage standing on a stage in Jeju, hoping that one day people would know his name.
This was the life he’d worked tirelessly to build for himself.
And loving him meant accepting that some days, his dream would demand more of him than you wanted it to.
It wasn’t always easy, but it was something you learned to live with.
Besides, Seungkwan always found his way back to you eventually.
You were currently sprawled across the new couch that the two of you had bought a month ago during a massive furniture sale. To this day, you still consider it one of your greatest victories. Seungkwan, on the other hand, insisted that spending extra money for the more expensive model would’ve been worth it.
You strongly disagreed.
Just because your boyfriend could afford to spend thousands without blinking didn’t mean he should.
The argument lasted for nearly forty minutes in the middle of the showroom before ending with Seungkwan dramatically declaring that you were “financially allergic to luxury.”
You had informed him that someone in the relationship needed to have common sense.
The couch had come home with you that same day.
And judging by the number of times Seungkwan had fallen asleep on it since then, you considered the matter settled.
Tonight was another one of those ordinary evenings spent waiting for Seungkwan to come home.
He’d been especially busy these past few weeks, juggling schedule after schedule as BooSeokSoon prepared for yet another comeback. At this point, you had practically memorized his calendar. So when you noticed that he had a rare free day tomorrow, you’d immediately claim tonight for your weekly movie night.
You had even picked out the movie already.
The snacks were sitting untouched on the coffee table.
The blanket was draped over the couch.
Everything was ready.
Except Seungkwan.
Your eyes flickered toward the clock for what felt like the hundredth time.
11:37 PM.
A little later than expected, but not unusual.
Not for him.
Not anymore.
Two years into the relationship, you had become an expert at waiting.
Waiting for delayed schedules.
Waiting for filming to wrap up.
Waiting for rehearsals to end.
Waiting for him to finally walk through the front door with an exhausted smile and a dozen apologies already prepared.
It wasn’t ideal, but it was part of loving someone whose dream belonged to millions of people as much as it belonged to himself.
Besides, you knew he’d come home eventually.
He always did.
To pass the time, you grabbed your phone and opened TikTok. It was your favorite method of killing time—mindless enough to keep you entertained and effective enough to make you laugh when you needed it.
One video become three. Three became ten. Before long, you were mindlessly scrolling through cooking videos, dog compilations, and clips from variety shows.
Then a familiar face appeared on your screen.
You paused.
It was an edit. A fan-made compilation.
Of Seungkwan and VIVIZ’s Umji, one of his closest friends.
The edit was harmless enough. It was just a collection of moments over the years—award show interactions, variety show clips, interviews, old photos, inside jokes. The kind of edit fans make all the time.
The comments, however, were another story.
Their chemistry is insane.
If they ever dated, I’d actually support it.
They’re literally soulmates.
Look at the way they smile at each other.
You stared at the screen for a moment longer than necessary.
Long enough for another video to start automatically.
Long enough for something uncomfortable to settle in your chest.
A feeling so small you almost ignored it.
Almost.
After all, Umji was Seungkwan’s friend. One of his best friends, actually. You knew that. Seungkwan had talked about her countless times over the years.
There was nothing strange about their friendship. Nothing suspicious. Nothing worth thinking about.
Your thumb hovered over the comments section. Then, before you could stop yourself, you started reading.
You knew you shouldn’t.
Seungkwan had warned you about it more times than you could count. Never read the comments. Never go looking for opinions from strangers who know nothing about your life.
He knew better than anyone what those words could do.
He’d lived through it himself.
As a rookie, he’d spent far too many nights reading things he should have ignored—letting faceless people on the internet dictate his mood, his confidence, and sometimes even the way he saw himself.
It had taken years for him to learn how to stop looking. To understand that not every opinion deserved his attention.
And because he knew how damaging it could be, he always told you the same thing.
Don’t read the comments—simple, reasonable advice.
Unfortunately, there was something strangely tempting about doing exactly what you weren’t supposed to do. Like poking at a bruise just to see if it still hurts.
You sighed quietly and shook your head at yourself.
This was a bad idea.
You knew it was a bad idea… but your thumb was already hovering over the comments section.
And once curiosity got involved, self-preservation rarely stood a chance.
Besides, if Seungkwan was an overthinker, then you were probably qualified for an Olympic gold medal.
You clicked anyway.
The moment more comments loaded, a familiar feeling settled in your stomach.
The kind that whispered: You should stop reading.
The kind that you deliberately chose to ignore.
You didn’t realize how much time had passed until you heard the familiar sound of the front door unlocking.
The noise immediately snapped you out of your thoughts.
Your head jerked up from your phone.
A glance at the clock revealed it had already passed midnight.
The comments section had long since been abandoned, but unfortunately, the thoughts it left behind had not.
You quietly locked your phone and tossed it onto the couch beside you. A second later, the front door opened.
“Dasom?”
The exhaustion in Seungkwan’s voice was noticeable even from the entryway. You smiled automatically.
“In here.”
A moment later, he appeared.
And just like always, your chest softened at the sight of him.
His baseball cap was pulled low over his eyes. His hoodie hung loosely from his frame, and his shoulders slumped with the kind of fatigue that only came from spending fourteen hours working.
The second he spotted you, however, his face brightened. "There she is."
You barely had enough time to open your arms before he dropped onto the couch beside you. Or rather, on you.
"Seungkwan!"
He groaned dramatically as he buried his face against your shoulder. "I'm dead."
You laughed despite yourself. "No, you're not."
"I am."
"No."
"I've passed away."
"You literally just walked through the door."
"Exactly. My ghost walked through the door."
A smile tugged at your lips.
Some things never changed.
Even after two years.
Seungkwan remained firmly convinced that every minor inconvenience in his life was worthy of a dramatic performance.
"You smell like outside."
He immediately gasped. "Outside?"
"Outside."
"You make it sound like I've been living in the forest."
"You practically have. I've barely seen you this week."
That earned you a guilty smile. "Aish."
His arm slipped around your waist. "Sorry."
The apology was soft. Genuine.
And somehow, that made it harder to hold onto the irritation you'd felt while waiting.
Because Seungkwan always apologized. Not because he had to. But because he genuinely hated making you wait.
You leaned your head against his shoulder. "It's okay."
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
The comfortable kind of silence settled between you that was built over years of familiarity.
Then Seungkwan suddenly sat up with wide eyes. "The movie!"
You blinked. "What movie?"
"The movie night!"
You stared at him.
Then at the untouched snacks still sitting on the coffee table.
Then back at him.
"Oh."
"Oh?" he repeated incredulously.
"You forgot."
His mouth fell open. "I did not forget."
"You absolutely forgot."
"I was busy."
"You forgot."
"I remembered eventually."
"You remembered because I reminded you."
"Details."
You laughed.
And for a second, everything felt normal again.
Easy.
Comfortable.
Safe.
Then Seungkwan reached for your phone. The one you'd abandoned beside you earlier.
Your stomach immediately tightened.
Not enough for him to notice.
Just enough.
"Wait—"
But he was already holding it.
His eyebrows lifted slightly as the screen lit up. And before he could open anything, a notification slid across the top of the display.
A TikTok notification.
The thumbnail was small.
Barely noticeable.
But you recognized it instantly.
A screenshot from the same Seungkwan and Umji edit you'd spent far too much time watching earlier.
Your heart skipped.
Seungkwan didn't seem to notice.
Thankfully.
Instead, he simply handed the phone back to you.
"Come on." He stretched dramatically. "If we're doing movie night, let's do movie night properly."
You forced a smile. "Okay."
"Okay?"
"Okay."
But as Seungkwan began digging through the snack pile, completely unaware, your eyes drifted back toward your phone.
Toward the notification still sitting on the lock screen.
And despite having him right beside you now, despite the warmth of his shoulder pressed against yours and the familiar sound of his voice filling the room, you found yourself thinking about those comments again.
You'd been sitting in SEVENTEEN's waiting room for almost an hour already, curled up on the couch while scrolling mindlessly through your phone. The members were everywhere — Mingyu stealing snacks, Dino bothering Wonwoo, Dokyeom singing loudly for absolutely no reason. Normal chaos.
And then the door opened.
"Seungkwan-ah!"
A female idol poked her head in first before walking inside with two other idols behind her, all laughing immediately when they saw him. One of them handed him a drink without hesitation.
"You still like this, right? We passed by your favorite café."
Seungkwan lit up instantly.
"Yah! You remembered?"
The conversation flowed so naturally it almost made your chest tighten.
They teased him comfortably. One smacked his arm while laughing. Another fixed the collar of his jacket without thinking twice. Seungkwan looked so relaxed with them — bright-eyed, loud, effortlessly charming in a way you suddenly felt you weren't anymore.
You stayed quiet in the corner.
At first, nobody noticed.
But the longer you watched, the smaller you felt.
They were gorgeous. Talented. Famous. They understood his world perfectly. They could stand beside him publicly without people questioning whether they "fit." Meanwhile, you suddenly became hyperaware of everything about yourself — the way you looked today, how plain your outfit felt, how awkward you suddenly seemed sitting there.
And the worst part?
You hated feeling jealous. Because they weren't doing anything wrong.
One of the idols finally noticed you and smiled politely. "Oh! Hi!"
You smiled back quickly. "Hi."
But after that, you barely spoke again.
Seungkwan didn't notice immediately. He was caught up in conversation, laughing loudly, reenacting some backstage story while everyone cracked up around him.
You watched him laugh and thought: Of course they like him. How could they not?
The thought sat ugly in your stomach.
Eventually the idols left, waving goodbye casually.
The room quieted again.
Seungkwan turned back toward you immediately, still smiling from laughing so hard, but the smile slowly faded when he noticed your expression.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
That answer alone made him narrow his eyes.
"You're doing the thing."
"What thing?"
"The quiet thing."
You let out a small sigh, looking away. "You looked happier with them."
His face fell instantly. "What?"
"You just…" You laughed softly, embarrassed already. "I don't know. They're all pretty and talented and they understand your world better than I do."
For a second, Seungkwan just stared at you like the idea genuinely offended him.
Then he walked over and crouched in front of where you sat.
"Are you serious?"
You shrugged weakly.
He looked almost frustrated now, not at you, but at the fact you believed it at all.
"Do you know why I'm comfortable with them?" he asked quietly.
You didn't meet his eyes.
"Because they're my friends." He tapped your knee lightly. "But you're my person."
Your eyes flickered toward him.
"I laugh with a lot of people," he continued softly. "But when something happens—good or bad—you're the one I look for first."
The embarrassment hit you full force now. "I know it's stupid—"
"It's not stupid." His voice softened immediately. " I just hate that you sat here thinking you had to compete with anybody."
Then, after a beat, he added dramatically: "Also, half of them were roasting me the entire time."
You laughed despite yourself.
"There," he pointed immediately. "That's the reaction I wanted."
And when he reached up to hold your hand afterward, he didn't let go for the rest of the night.
The first time you met Seungkwan, he was halfway through an argument with a stylist over a cardigan.
“It’s not ugly,” he insisted dramatically, one hand pressed to his chest. “It’s vintage.”
“It’s orange,” the stylist deadpanned.
“It’s fashion.”
You’d stood in the doorway of the conference room holding a clipboard and an iced coffee, watching him wave the cardigan around like he was defending a human rights violation instead of knitwear.
Then his manager had pointed at you.
“Great. You’re here. This is your new PR manager.”
Seungkwan blinked.
You blinked back.
The stylist muttered, “Good luck,” under their breath before walking out.
That should’ve been your warning sign.
Instead, you smiled professionally and introduced yourself.
Three years later, you were ninety percent sure your actual job description was preventing Pledis Entertainment from suing him for emotional damages.
“Tell me again,” you said slowly over the phone, “why there are seventeen separate videos of you attempting to fight a haunted house employee.”
“I didn’t attempt to fight him,” Seungkwan argued from somewhere that sounded suspiciously public. “I was defending myself.”
“You chased him.”
“He started it.”
“He popped out and said boo, Seungkwan.”
“That’s psychological warfare.”
You pinched the bridge of your nose.
Across from you, your coworker nearly choked trying not to laugh.
“Please tell me you at least apologized.”
“I bought him churros.”
You sighed.
“You’re exhausting.”
“And yet,” he said smugly, “you continue to answer my calls.”
Because unfortunately, he was impossible not to answer.
That was the problem with Seungkwan.
He was loud and dramatic and occasionally a public relations nightmare wrapped in designer jackets. But he was also painfully sincere. The kind of person who remembered everyone’s birthdays, who bowed to staff members after every schedule, who noticed when you skipped meals and silently handed you protein bars during meetings.
You spent half your life cleaning up after him.
And the other half trying not to care too much about him.
Which was going fine.
Mostly.
Until the scandal happened.
—
“Absolutely not.”
Your director looked up from his laptop calmly.
“It’s already trending.”
“I don’t care.”
“Fans think you’re dating him.”
“That sounds like a them problem.”
“You were photographed leaving his apartment at midnight.”
“Because he had food poisoning.”
“And you stayed until morning.”
“Because he thought he was dying after WebMD told him stomach cramps could mean organ failure.”
“It’s convincing.”
You stared at him in disbelief.
Behind you, Seungkwan raised a cautious hand.
“To be fair,” he offered, “I did look really fragile.”
You whipped around.
“This is your fault.”
“How?”
“You posted a selfie with me in the background.”
“I thought you looked pretty.”
The room went silent.
Seungkwan froze.
You froze.
Your director blinked slowly.
“…That did not help,” he muttered.
Seungkwan coughed violently into his fist. “I meant professional. Pretty professionally competent.”
You narrowed your eyes.
Unfortunately, the internet had already decided otherwise.
Articles spread overnight.
Anonymous insider reports.
Speculation videos.
Photos zoomed in so aggressively that someone had identified your shampoo brand sitting in Seungkwan’s bathroom.
Which was invasive in ways you didn’t even want to process.
The company had two options:
Deny everything aggressively and risk escalating the rumors.
Or lean into it temporarily until the public lost interest.
Guess which option they picked.
“You want us to fake date,” you said flatly.
Your director nodded.
“For two months.”
“Two months.”
“It’ll stabilize his image.”
Seungkwan frowned. “What’s wrong with my image?”
Three people in the room laughed.
“I’m sitting right here,” he complained.
“You’re beloved,” the director corrected. “But chaotic. Domestic dating rumors actually help.”
Seungkwan pointed at himself proudly. “Domestic.”
You ignored him.
“This is ridiculous.”
“It’s temporary.”
“It’s invasive.”
“It’s strategic.”
“It’s stupid.”
“It’s effective.”
You turned toward Seungkwan for support.
He stared back thoughtfully.
Then—
“I think we could pull it off.”
Traitor.
—
The first fake date happened three days later.
You wore sunglasses and a baseball cap despite the fact that it was nearly evening.
“This feels illegal,” you muttered.
Beside you, Seungkwan looked delighted.
“This is exciting.”
“You’re enjoying this way too much.”
He gasped dramatically. “I’m an entertainer. Public romance is part of my cultural heritage.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“And yet here you are.”
Unfortunately, he looked unfairly good.
Simple hoodie.
Black mask pulled beneath his chin while walking between quieter streets.
Soft hair falling over his forehead.
Relaxed in a way idols rarely got to be publicly.
You’d seen him exhausted, sick, annoyed, overworked, emotional.
But this version of him—the comfortable one—was dangerous.
Especially when he reached over casually and took your hand.
Your entire body short-circuited.
“Seungkwan.”
“Cameras.”
You looked up.
Sure enough, someone lingered across the street pretending very badly not to stare.
“Oh.”
His fingers tightened slightly around yours.
Warm.
Comfortable.
Natural.
Too natural.
“You okay?” he asked quietly.
You forced yourself to nod.
“Fine.”
He smiled softly.
And for some reason, that expression affected you more than the hand-holding.
Because Seungkwan smiled at everyone.
But this one felt smaller somehow.
Realer.
As if it belonged only to you.
Which was ridiculous.
This was fake.
You repeated that to yourself the entire evening.
Fake while he pulled your chair out at dinner.
Fake while he wiped sauce from the corner of your mouth absentmindedly.
Fake while he leaned close to show you something on his phone and your shoulders brushed together.
Fake.
Fake.
Fake.
Then he laughed at one of your jokes—head thrown back, eyes crinkling—and your heart betrayed you completely.
—
The public lost their minds.
“Fans are calling you soulmates,” your coworker informed you the next morning.
“Great.”
“One article referred to him as lovesick.”
You nearly spit out your coffee.
“What?”
She turned her monitor around.
There, in horrifying HD clarity, was a photo of Seungkwan looking at you like you personally hung the moon.
You stared.
Then stared harder.
Because—
“Oh no.”
“What?”
“He wasn’t acting there.”
Your coworker slowly lowered the monitor.
“That sounds concerning.”
“It is.”
—
Things escalated after that.
Because once the public accepted the relationship, Seungkwan committed to the role with alarming enthusiasm.
“Is this necessary?” you asked one night while reviewing an interview script.
“Yes.”
“You posted a photo of my hand holding a tangerine.”
“It was artistic.”
“The caption says my girl feeds me well.”
“You do feed me well.”
“I ordered takeout because you forgot to eat again.”
“Exactly. Romance.”
You groaned.
But secretly—
Secretly, you started looking forward to him.
To the messages.
To the late-night calls.
To the way he always saved you a seat beside him during schedules now.
It blurred too easily.
The line between performance and reality.
Especially because Seungkwan had become… clingier.
Not obnoxiously.
Just quietly.
A hand at your lower back.
His head on your shoulder during long car rides.
Little glances across crowded rooms searching for you automatically.
Like he’d gotten used to orbiting around you.
And the worst part?
You’d gotten used to it too.
—
“You know,” Jeonghan said casually one afternoon, “he’s in love with you.”
You almost dropped your tablet.
“What?”
The older idol looked deeply unbothered.
“You heard me.”
“He’s acting.”
“Mhm.”
“That’s the whole point.”
Jeonghan gave you a pitying look.
“You really think Boo Seungkwan is capable of pretending to shut up about someone twenty-four hours a day?”
“He does not talk about me twenty-four hours a day.”
Jeonghan stared.
From across the room, Seungkwan yelled suddenly—
“Did she eat lunch yet?”
You closed your eyes.
Jeonghan sipped his iced americano.
“He’s down catastrophic.”
“This conversation is over.”
“You should probably figure your feelings out before he combusts.”
“I don’t have feelings.”
“You came to his schedule on your day off.”
“…As PR support.”
“You brought him vitamin gummies.”
You hated that everyone in this group was observant.
—
The breaking point came during a livestream.
It wasn’t supposed to be complicated.
Just Seungkwan casually chatting with fans in the company studio while you monitored comments nearby.
Easy.
Normal.
Manageable.
Until someone commented:
Blink twice if the relationship is fake.
You stiffened instantly.
Seungkwan read it aloud.
Then he looked directly toward you off-camera.
And smiled.
Not the exaggerated idol smile.
Not the variety-show grin.
Something softer.
Warmer.
“I don’t think I’ve ever been very good at pretending,” he said lightly.
Your breath caught.
The comments exploded immediately.
He continued before you could panic.
“But thank you for worrying about me,” he added smoothly, redirecting the conversation like a professional.
The livestream continued normally.
You, however, stopped functioning.
Because his eyes had lingered on you too long.
Because the words felt too honest.
Because suddenly you weren’t sure either of you were acting anymore.
After the stream ended, you cornered him backstage.
“What was that?”
Seungkwan blinked innocently.
“What was what?”
“You know exactly what.”
He leaned against the table behind him.
For once, he wasn’t smiling theatrically.
Just watching you carefully.
“You’re upset.”
“I’m confused.”
That seemed to catch him off guard.
His expression softened immediately.
“Oh.”
The single syllable carried surprising gentleness.
You crossed your arms tightly.
“This arrangement is getting out of control.”
“Do you want it to stop?”
The question came too quickly.
Like he’d been waiting to ask it.
And suddenly your chest hurt.
Because the truthful answer should’ve been yes.
This was messy.
Unprofessional.
Dangerous for both of you.
But instead—
“No,” you admitted quietly.
Seungkwan went still.
The room felt painfully silent.
Then he laughed once under his breath.
Not mocking.
Almost relieved.
“You have no idea,” he murmured, “how happy that makes me.”
Your pulse jumped.
“Seungkwan…”
“I tried not to mean it.”
His voice stayed calm, but his eyes gave him away completely.
“I really did.”
You couldn’t move.
“I know this started as work,” he continued softly, “but somewhere along the way, you became the first person I wanted to tell everything to. The first person I looked for in every room.”
Your throat tightened.
“And honestly?” he said with a weak smile. “Pretending to date you was kind of horrible.”
You blinked.
“Horrible?”
“Yeah. Because I had to act normal when all I really wanted to do was kiss you.”
Your brain completely stopped.
Seungkwan noticed immediately.
“Oh no,” he muttered. “I overwhelmed you.”
“A little.”
“Sorry. I can make it less intense.”
“That’s not the issue.”
“Then what is?”
You stared at him helplessly.
Then laughed suddenly because this was absurd.
Entirely absurd.
You had spent years professionally managing scandals.
And somehow the biggest disaster of your career was falling for Boo Seungkwan.
“I think,” you admitted carefully, “I forgot where the acting ended too.”
His expression changed instantly.
Hope.
Bright and disbelieving and terrifyingly open.
“Really?”
You nodded once.
And Seungkwan—usually loud, dramatic, overflowing with reactions—went strangely quiet.
Like the answer genuinely mattered that much.
Then he stepped closer carefully.
Giving you time to back away.
You didn’t.
His hand slid gently against your jaw.
Warm fingertips.
Shaky breath.
“You know,” he whispered, smiling slightly, “I can’t believe I had to fake date you first. That’s so embarrassing for me.”
You laughed despite yourself.
“There’s the ego again.”
“I’m trying to be vulnerable romantically. Don’t ruin this.”
“You literally confessed by complaining.”
“And yet it worked.”
Unfortunately, it had.
Completely.
His forehead rested lightly against yours.
For a second neither of you moved.
Then—
“Can I kiss you?” he asked quietly.
Professionalism should’ve stopped you.
Common sense too.
Instead, you whispered—
“Please.”
Seungkwan kissed like he did everything else:
Earnestly.
Completely.
One hand cradling your face like something precious.
Like he’d thought about this longer than he wanted to admit.
The kiss was soft at first, almost cautious.
Then you kissed him back properly and he made the tiniest surprised sound before pulling you closer immediately.
And suddenly every lingering look, every accidental touch, every moment that felt too real finally made sense.
When you finally pulled apart, he looked dazed.
Then unbearably smug.
“Oh my god,” he breathed. “I knew it.”
You shoved his shoulder weakly.
“There he is.”
“My girlfriend likes me back,” he informed the ceiling emotionally. “This is the best day of my life.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“And now,” he said proudly, stealing another quick kiss, “technically not fake dating anymore.”
You stared at him.
“…You’re going to become even more unbearable now, aren’t you?”
“Absolutely.” He grinned. “But your job security has never been stronger.”
You laughed so hard your forehead fell against his shoulder.
And above you, Seungkwan smiled like he’d already decided he wanted to keep you there forever.
You'd been sitting in SEVENTEEN's waiting room for almost an hour already, curled up on the couch while scrolling mindlessly through your phone. The members were everywhere — Mingyu stealing snacks, Dino bothering Wonwoo, Dokyeom singing loudly for absolutely no reason. Normal chaos.
And then the door opened.
"Seungkwan-ah!"
A female idol poked her head in first before walking inside with two other idols behind her, all laughing immediately when they saw him. One of them handed him a drink without hesitation.
"You still like this, right? We passed by your favorite café."
Seungkwan lit up instantly.
"Yah! You remembered?"
The conversation flowed so naturally it almost made your chest tighten.
They teased him comfortably. One smacked his arm while laughing. Another fixed the collar of his jacket without thinking twice. Seungkwan looked so relaxed with them — bright-eyed, loud, effortlessly charming in a way you suddenly felt you weren't anymore.
You stayed quiet in the corner.
At first, nobody noticed.
But the longer you watched, the smaller you felt.
They were gorgeous. Talented. Famous. They understood his world perfectly. They could stand beside him publicly without people questioning whether they "fit." Meanwhile, you suddenly became hyperaware of everything about yourself — the way you looked today, how plain your outfit felt, how awkward you suddenly seemed sitting there.
And the worst part?
You hated feeling jealous. Because they weren't doing anything wrong.
One of the idols finally noticed you and smiled politely. "Oh! Hi!"
You smiled back quickly. "Hi."
But after that, you barely spoke again.
Seungkwan didn't notice immediately. He was caught up in conversation, laughing loudly, reenacting some backstage story while everyone cracked up around him.
You watched him laugh and thought: Of course they like him. How could they not?
The thought sat ugly in your stomach.
Eventually the idols left, waving goodbye casually.
The room quieted again.
Seungkwan turned back toward you immediately, still smiling from laughing so hard, but the smile slowly faded when he noticed your expression.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
That answer alone made him narrow his eyes.
"You're doing the thing."
"What thing?"
"The quiet thing."
You let out a small sigh, looking away. "You looked happier with them."
His face fell instantly. "What?"
"You just…" You laughed softly, embarrassed already. "I don't know. They're all pretty and talented and they understand your world better than I do."
For a second, Seungkwan just stared at you like the idea genuinely offended him.
Then he walked over and crouched in front of where you sat.
"Are you serious?"
You shrugged weakly.
He looked almost frustrated now, not at you, but at the fact you believed it at all.
"Do you know why I'm comfortable with them?" he asked quietly.
You didn't meet his eyes.
"Because they're my friends." He tapped your knee lightly. "But you're my person."
Your eyes flickered toward him.
"I laugh with a lot of people," he continued softly. "But when something happens—good or bad—you're the one I look for first."
The embarrassment hit you full force now. "I know it's stupid—"
"It's not stupid." His voice softened immediately. " I just hate that you sat here thinking you had to compete with anybody."
Then, after a beat, he added dramatically: "Also, half of them were roasting me the entire time."
You laughed despite yourself.
"There," he pointed immediately. "That's the reaction I wanted."
And when he reached up to hold your hand afterward, he didn't let go for the rest of the night.
SYNOPSIS. Years after fame pulled him apart, Seungkwan finds his way back to his first love: you. Now working as a radio producer, you’re trying to move forward with your life... until he decides to break a few rules to pull you out of a bad relationship and win back your heart.
PARING. Idol!Seungkwan x Radio Producer!reader
GENRE | TAGS. One-shot, childhood friends to lovers, second chance, mutual pining, slow burn-ish, fluff, comedy, smut.
WC. 30.1k+
RATING. Explicit adult content (MINORS DNI).
WARNINGS. Alcohol consumption, mentions of food, jealousy, small descriptions of a toxic/controlling relationship, explicit language, miscommunication, descriptions of ptsd, longing, miscommunication, angst, hurt/comfort, verbal conflict/argument, cheating undertones, smut, semi-public intimacy, dirty talk, dry humping, oral (f. receiving), fingering, mentions of blood and cuts.
AN. 1. First of all, I’m officially coming out of hiatus with this hehe. 2. Vocal unit are the only ones famous in this, and Seungkwan is retiring. I also changed some things in their debut timeline, etc., so if anything seems strange, that’s why. 3. Fun fact: Don Capri is a real restaurant in my town.
🎧SOUNDTRACK. spring into summer - lizzy mcalpine, too young - louis tomlinson, gimme - got7, crazy in love - seventeen, late night talking - harry styles, perhaps love - howl and j.ae, together - seventeen, this town - niall horan, fresh out the slammer - taylor swift, love is on the radio - mcfly.
— This fic is written for the First Time Caller collab hosted by @studiosvt! I had so much fun writing this, the theme is amazing and it really got me inspired. Please make sure to check out the other amazing fics too! 💗
JUNE 2012
The air in Jeju at five in the morning had a specific smell: a mixture of saltpeter and damp earth. For you, that smell would always mean home. But for Seungkwan, from that day on, that smell would be just a memory stored in a distant compartment of his mind.
You were both sitting on the stone parapet behind Jeju-si High School. It was your spot, a blind one for the security cameras where the school wall meet the precipice overlooking the ocean. Below, the waves crashed against the rocks with rhythmic violence.
A pair of wired headphones connected the two of you, and the music playing was an acoustic demo of Last Love he’d recorded on his phone. His voice, still hoarse from sleep — because he’d woken up in the middle of the night to record it so he wouldn’t forget and you could listen — filled the silence between you.
“You’re not going to need a stage name name,” you finally said, kicking your heels against the stone, the thought occurring to you all at once. “Seungkwan is great. It’s unique. Boo too.”
He let out a nasal laugh, the vapor of his breath condensing in the cold of the early morning, his heels mimicking the same movement as yours. Seungkwan studied your profile, not understating why you gaze was avoiding his.
“Why does it sound like you’re going to cry when you say that?”
You shrugged, sulking internally. “I’m not.”
You did felt like crying, way more than you liked to admit. You were incredibly happy and proud of him, but you couldn’t shake the fear in the pit of your stomach telling you everything was about to change. And as silly as it sounded, you were trying to hold on to that small part of who he was in that moment.
“Then are you already planning my marketing?” He bumped your elbow with his. “I haven’t even stepped through the company gate yet. I could be sent back in the first month if I can’t keep up with the pace of the other trainees.”
You scoffed, rolling your eyes. “Don’t talk nonsense.” Below you, the waves began to decrease in intensity as the day began to rise. “I saw you rehearse that choreography until your feet bled at the harvest festival. Pledis doesn’t know what’s coming for them.”
“You should come with me,” he says like if it were the easiest thing in the world, eyes locking with yours with a small sparkle.
You can’t help but laugh at his suggestion, turning to him. The bluish light of pre-dawn sculpted his profile, and you felt a tightness in your chest that you couldn’t name. It was pride, but it was also the anticipatory grief of a loss.
“And do what? I can’t sing or dance for the life of me, Kwanie.”
“You can be my manager.”
“I’m pretty sure they already have people for that,” you argued, like that was the only problem.
“Then you’ll be my producer,” he countered instantly, his voice dropping the playful edge. He shifted his weight, turning his body entirely toward you so that the wire of the headphones tugged slightly between your ears. “It’s only eight months, tokki.”
You want to tell him he’s not coming back in eight months. That there’s no way in hell they’ll let him go without turning him into something bigger than this island could ever hold. But instead, you take a deep breath and watch the waves below.
“Eight months is a long time. There’s time to have had a child in that time.”
He scoffed. “A child with whom?”
“I don’t know! Youngjae is cute.” You shrugged again, pouting just to annoy him before flicking his forehead lightly. “We’re sixteen, dummy.”
Cho Youngjae.
He’s a cool guy. Tall, looks like a baseball player or something equally appealing, even though he’s only a few years older than the two of you. He’s always announcing that he wants to be a surgeon. Seungkwan swears he thinks he’s a good guy. The problem is that everyone at school knows he has a big fat crush on you.
And so does he.
“Why are we suddenly talking about Cho Youngjae?”
“Well…” There you were, avoiding his gaze again. “He invited me to watch him practice and get banana milk after school the other day.”
Seungkwan’s entire posture stiffened, and even though he tried so obviously to hide it, you noticed. The rhythmic kicking of his heels against the stone parapet stopped abruptly, leaving only the sound of the crashing waves and the soft hum of his own voice through the shared earbuds.
“Practice,” he repeated, his voice flat, devoid of the melody it usually carried. “And banana milk. Wow. He really pulled out the big guns, didn’t he?”
He looked away, staring out the horizon where a thin, pale line of orange was beginning to bleed into the indigo sky. The jealousy he felt wasn’t a sharp pain; it was a dull, heavy ache, a realization that while he was moving toward a future with the possibility of bright lights and crowded stages, he was leaving a vacuum behind.
And people like Cho Youngjae—people who didn’t have to leave, people who could stay and buy you a snack after school—were already waiting to take his place beside you.
“He’s just being nice, Kwanie. Don’t be like that,” you mumbled, though you secretly relished the way his jaw tightened.
“I’m not being like anything,” he retorted, though he finally reached up and yanked the earbud out of his ear. The silence of the morning rushed in to fill the space. “It’s just… you don’t even like banana milk that much. You like the strawberry one.”
“It’s the thought that counts,” you countered, crossing your arms over your chest to shield yourself from the dawn chill.
You didn’t even know Seungkwan cared that much about strawberry milk or banana milk.
He turned back to you, and the playfulness was gone. He wanted to tell you not to go with Youngjae. He wanted to ask you to wait the eight months. Or ten. However long it took for him to get settled. He wanted to promise he would call you every night. That he’d send you the demos of every song he learned. That you shouldn’t let some high school baseball player wannabe make you forget about him.
But that wouldn’t be fair to you.
So instead, Seungkwan exhaled deeply and softened his expression as he sat back down beside you, slipping his side of the earbud back in.
“And you?” he asked, changing the subject, as he always did when the conversation was about to get too serious. “Are you going to keep hiding your talent for communication behind the inn counter?”
You sighed, glancing towards the horizon, where the orange line was growing bigger.
“My mother needs me here, you know.” You leaned your head against his shoulder, feeling the sturdy warmth of him through his jacket. “Since my father passed away, the inn is all we have.”
“But—”
“It’s fine, Kwan,” you breathed, watching the sun finally break over the water. “The women around here don’t retire, they just merge with their work.” You shrugged. “Plus, someone has to carry the sheets and check in the tourists who think the island is an amusement park.”
There was a melancholy in the way you spoke, even though you tried to be humorous about it, and Seungkwan noticed.
“It’s temporary, tokki,” he said, resting his head against yours. “Someday you’re going to be the voice everyone hears on their way to work. I’ll be in the back of a black van on the way to some show, and I’ll turn on the radio, and I’ll hear your voice.”
You smiled, but the smile didn’t reach your eyes. The idea seemed like a perfect fairy tale. A few years back, you would have believed it wholeheartedly. Now, you knew that the distance between Jeju Island and stardom in Seoul was greater than a few kilometers of ocean; it was an abyss of social classes, restrictive contracts, and a lot sleep deprivation.
“Just…” you said suddenly, voice lost its lightness. “Promise me.”
Seungkwan leaned closer, the headphone cord stretching between you. “Promise what?”
“Promise you won’t abandon me.” He looked rather confused, opening his mouth to argue that he wouldn’t, but you didn’t let him finish. “Not physically, I know you have to go. But don’t let whatever is waiting for you there… change you.”
“Tokki…”
“Don’t let them turn you into a product I can’t recognize. I want that, ten years from now, if we meet again, I can still see the boy who used to steal tangerines from the neighbor’s orchard with me.”
He held your hand. His skin was warm against yours, which was frozen by the wind. “I could never forget you, even if I tried. You are my anchor, tokki. Seoul can give me the world, but Jeju is where my heart is.”
Even if that were true, the two of you couldn’t help but laugh when Seungkwan fell silent.
“You’re so dramatic, Boo,” you breathed, watching the sun finally break over the water. “Pledis really is going to love you.”
Silence returned, but now it was different, the sun finally breaking through the sea’s edge and bathing the volcanic rock in gold. It was your signal: Seungkwan will be leaving for the airport in less than three hours.
“It’s time,” you murmured, though you wished you could freeze time. “Your mother must be finishing her coffee. She’ll be furious if you leave on an empty stomach.”
You stood, grabbing his wrist and pulling him along toward the low houses of the neighborhood, your hands brushing against each other but never truly intertwining due the silent fear that the contact would be too painful to break afterward.
“Are you really sure about this?” you asked, voice faltering slightly. You kicked a small stone, eyes fixed on your own feet. “Seoul is… far. Like, really far. It’s not like going to the airport. It’s another world.”
Seungkwan looked out at the sea in the distance. In Jeju, the horizon seemed like the end of everything. In Seoul, he heard the horizon was made of skyscrapers.
He takes a deep breath. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure.”
“Okay.”
As you reached his door, the smell of seaweed soup and grilled fish wafted through the cracks. It was his last breakfast as a nobody. Before entering, you paused under the stone portico. You held his shoulders, forcing him to look at you one last time without the distractions of the adult life that awaited you.
“Listen carefully,” you began, voice firm despite the urge to cry. “Don’t look back when you get on that plane, okay?”
“What—”
You covered his mouth with both hands. “Just… let me finish, please.” He nodded, looking between your hands over his mouth and your eyes. “Jeju will be here. I’ll be here. But these… these are your dreams now. They’re no longer our childhood plans, they’re your reality. Go and conquer everything you said you would.”
Seungkwan pulled you into a quick, tight hug. It was the kind of hug meant to hold on to the other person’s scent for long days.
“I’ll go,” he whispered against your hair. “I swear I will.”
You watched him go inside, his silhouette swallowed by the warm light of the kitchen where his family awaited him. You stood there for a minute, alone in the morning chill, knowing that from that moment on, your lives would never be the same.
Then you walked toward your mother’s inn, the battery-powered radio in your pocket weighing like lead. You had a shift to work, sheets to change, and an ordinary life to lead, while he was about to become a constellation.
PRESENT
Studio B at the Jeju City Broadcasting was roughly the size of a walk-in closet—practically a shoebox—and smelled distinctly of stale iced americano, sea salt drifting in from the open window down the hall, and Seungkwan’s ridiculously expensive cedarwood cologne, which had seeped into the walls over the months.
It was a chaotic, cramped little ecosystem, and for the last fifteen years, it had been you’re entire world.
“You’re tapping your pen again,” Seungkwan murmurs, not even looking up from his phone as he lounges in the squeaky host’s chair.
You immediately freeze your hand over the mixing console. “I am not tapping. I am keeping time.”
“You’re tapping,” he insists, casually reaching across the desk to steal the iced Americano you had bought for yourself and yourself only. “And it means you’re stressed about the timing of the transition for the second segment.”
You snatch the coffee back, glaring at him as condensation drips onto your meticulously highlighted run-of-show. You sigh. “I’m stressed because you went off-script yesterday and we had thirty seconds of dead air while you monologued about the emotional depth of a drama you watched in 2018. If you—”
“—miss the cue, Chief will throw a fit,” he finishes, waving a hand dismissively. “I know, I know.” He finally puts his phone down and shoots you a blinding, practiced smile that practically sparkles under the fluorescent studio lights. “Relax, tokki. You’re working with a professional.”
You roll your eyes so hard they actually ache. You hate that damn nickname he gave you when you were eight years old and your front teeth refused to grow no matter how long you waited and wished for them to, giving him endless fuel to tease you until you finally threatened to beat him to death.
After so many years apart, you would have expected Seungkwan to forget that damn nickname. Especially now that you were both already in your thirties. But no. Quite the opposite, actually.
Your phone buzzes against the console, vibrating so violently it nearly rattles off the edge. You don’t have to look at the screen to know who it is, and the familiar knot of dread tightens instantly in your stomach.
[Youngjae - 8:14 PM]: Are you seriously working late again? You told me you’d be done by 6.
You sigh, picking up the device. Your fingers hover over the keyboard, already drafting an apology you didn’t actually owe him.
You didn’t use to work late until six months ago, when Seungkwan arrived and the Chief reassigned you from the Non-stop Nostalgia show to the late-night slot. The workload had doubled now that his co-host had given birth three weeks earlier than expected and you were filling in for her because, of course, you didn’t find a replacement for her sooner.
[You - 8:15 PM]: I’m sorry, babe. The 9:00 PM live slot is still a mess. They still haven’t found anyone to replace Yoona and we’re scrambling. I might not be out until 11.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
[Youngjae - 8:17 PM]: Whatever. You always put that stupid station first.
[Youngjae - 8:17 PM]: I don’t even know why I bother making plans with you. You need to figure out your priorities.
You lock the screen and set the phone face down. A heavy, exhausting silence settles over you, and you can feel Seungkwan’s eyes on you, studying you, even though he doesn’t ask anything.
You trace the edge of the promise ring Youngjae had given you six months ago; a silver band that felt more like a shackle than a symbol of affection. You are constantly walking on eggshells, constantly apologizing for having a career, constantly trying to shrink yourself to fit into the “normal, peaceful life” you thought you wanted.
Why were you with him? That was a question you didn’t like to ask yourself.
“Hey. Earth to PD-nim.”
You jolt, snapping your head up to see Chan, the junior writer, waving a hand in front of your face. “Sorry,” you blink, shaking off the lingering guilt. “What is it? Did we secure a backup for tonight?”
Chan’s eyes were wide, a mix of sheer panic and starry-eyed excitement. “Chief Kang is calling for an emergency meeting in the briefing room. Right now. And yes, we secured a backup. Apparently, he pulled off an absolute miracle.”
You push yourself out of your old squeaky chair, grabbing your clipboard and glancing in Seungkwan’s direction, who, for some reason, avoids your gaze.
“A miracle? Who did they get with three hours’ notice?”
“Just get in there,” Chan urges, practically shoving you toward the door and following right behind you.
The small briefing room was buzzing with frantic energy when you walked in. Chief Choi Seungcheol—a notoriously stressed, soft man who practically lives on black coffee —is pacing in the front of the room like he was trying to outrun whatever news he was about to deliver.
The small radio station belonged to his grandparents, and since you were hired after returning from university, you’d seen the ups and downs he’d faced trying to keep this little corner of Jeju running over the years as radio slowly faded for the younger generation. It had basically been on life support, kept alive mostly by the island’s elderly listeners… well, until Seungkwan arrived and the audience grew exponentially.
As soon as you take your seat, Seungcheol slams his hands down on the table.
“Alright, listen up,” he barks, though there’s a triumphant gleam in his eye. “We’re not going to hire someone to replace Yoona.”
Your eyebrows arch in shock as you set your clipboard down on the table. “What? But Seungkwan needs a co-host now!”
He’s smiling almost maniacally at you now. “Yes! And we’re giving him one.”
The sound of the door opening and closing catches your attention, and when you look back, Seungkwan is standing there, his lips wrapped around the straw of your coffee as he stares at you with a mischievous glint in his deliberately wide eyes.
You look between Seungkwan and Seungcheol, taking exactly the amount of time it takes for a breath to pass before realizing what’s going on.
“Okay, no!” you say, immediately getting up from your chair to walk out of the room, but Seungkwan quickly steps toward you and places his hands on your shoulders.
“The listeners want this,” he argues. You grimace, pulling away from him as the condensation from his iced coffee brushes against your skin before sitting back down. “Yesterday Gyeonghee halmoni stopped me on the street just to tell me you should be the permanent co-host.”
Gyeonghee halmoni was the oldest woman in your neighborhood, and you knew she listened to the radio religiously, always insisting she was never too old to take love advice. You knew she was a particular fan of the Time Capsule of Love segment, where you only played very old love songs, mostly because she called almost every night to make a request.
It was at her eighty-ninth birthday party that you and Seungkwan reconnected six months ago.
“Gyeonghee halmoni is biased,” you say, shaking your head. “She watched us grow up.”
Seungkwan doesn’t just sit; he sprawls into the chair next to you, leaning in until the scent of that expensive cedarwood is all you can process.
“My mother said the same thing too,” Chan says from the corner of the room where he’s squeezed in, raising his hand slightly as if he were in a classroom.
“The ratings for the ‘PD-nim interjections’ are higher than the guest segments, and you know it,” Seungkwan adds, his voice dropping into that smooth, persuasive register he usually saves for the microphone. You liked to think you were immune to it.
“I am a producer,” you hiss, ignoring the way Seungcheol is nodding along like Seungkwan is delivering a sermon. “I stay behind the glass. I don’t talk into microphones. I manage the chaos you create, Boo Seungkwan. I don’t join it!”
Especially considering the program’s content: relationship advice and dating reality shows. What did you know about relationships? Nothing. Your own relationship was proof of that. Seungkwan, on the other hand, apparently knew a lot, which was exactly why he was perfect for the job.
You blamed only yourself for being in this situation, for not looking for a replacement for Yoona sooner, for leaving everything to the last minute. Now you were stuck in this position.
“But that’s exactly why it works!” Seungcheol interjects, pacing across the small rug in the center of the room. “Your chemistry, the bickering. It’s nostalgic.” Seungkwan is now the one nodding alone to the nonsense. “It’s Jeju’s childhood friends story, only now you’re both working together. It’s a goldmine. The sponsors are already asking about the girl who rage baites Seungkwan.”
“The girl has a name,” you mutter, rubbing your temples. “And she has a boyfriend who is currently one text away from a total meltdown if she gets home any later.”
At the indirect mention of Youngjae, Seungkwan’s expression shifts. The mischievous glint doesn’t disappear, but now he also looks noticeably annoyed. You know his opinion of Youngjae inside and out. It isn’t news to you now, just like it wasn’t news when you were teenagers.
He glances at your phone, still gripped in your hand, and then back at your face. He sees the fatigue you try to hide behind your professional mask and the way your shoulders are slumped not from work, but from the weight of the apology you’re still drafting in your head for later.
“Think about it, Y/N,” Seungcheol insists, looking at you expectantly. “This could double our listeners.”
The room goes quiet as you close your eyes and bury your face in your hands to avoid the three pairs of eyes fixed on you, waiting for you to change your mind. Even Chan looks like he’s about to faint from the drama of it all.
Your phone buzzes again.
[Youngjae - 8:27 PM]: Don’t expect me to wait up. You’re being selfish.
The ring around your finger feels particularly heavy now. You look at Seungkwan. He’s annoying, he’s loud, and he’s currently trying to change your career for God knows what reason. But he’s also the only person in this city who looks at you like you’re the lead character in your own life rather than a supporting role in someone else’s.
You narrow your eyes. “This was your idea.” It’s not a question, it’s an affirmation. It’s clear on his face, because unlike what he tries to convey, Boo Seungkwan is an open book.
He raises his hands to shoulder height in a guilty gesture, but he doesn’t look guilty at all. “You’re perfect for the job, tokki.”
You let out a grunt, throwing your head back. Fucking Boo Seungkwan. Fucking soft spot you still have for him despite everything, especially when he gives you that Boo-Poor-Little-Seungkwan look.
“One week,” you say, after a long sigh, pointing a finger at his chest. “A trial run. If the listeners hate it or if you go off-script about a drama for more than ten seconds, I’m going back behind the glass and you’re finding a new co-host yourself.”
You’re staring at each other, but out of the corner of your eye you can see Seungcheol and Chan celebrating while exchanging a high-five. Seungkwan’s grin is blinding, wide, triumphant, and fucking annoying. He reaches out, not to shake your hand, but to give your ponytail a playful tug, just like he used to when you were ten.
“One week is all I need,” he says, and for a split second, the way he looks at you makes the small, cramped briefing room feel like it’s spinning at a different frequency. “Trust me, PD-nim. We’re going to give them a show they’ll never forget.”
6 MONTHS AGO
The neighborhood recreation center was loud, sweltering, and smelled intensely of freshly fried pajeon. Gyeonghee halmoni’s 89th birthday had essentially become a town festival, and you were already thirty minutes late.
Dodging wandering toddlers and plates of tteokbokki, you immediately spotted the one thing you were dreading: your mother. She was standing by the gift table, deep in conversation with Mrs. Boo.
They were huddled close together, holding paper cups of sweet rice punch, radiating the kind of synchronized, terrifying energy only two mothers who have known each other for over twenty years can possess. You tried to stealthily make you way toward the food buffet first, but your mother’s radar was unparalleled.
“Look who finally decided to show up,” your mother announced loudly, abandoning her hushed conversation to fix you with a pointed glare.
“Hi, mom,” you pratically dragged the word out of you. “Hello, Mrs. Boo,” you greeted, bowing respectfully to Seungkwan’s mother. “I’m sorry I’m late, the afternoon broadcast ran long and traffic was terrible near the—”
“Aigoo, look at you!” Mrs. Boo interrupted, entirely ignoring your excuse as she reached out to pat your arm affectionately. Her eyes crinkled in a warm smile. “You get prettier every time I see you. Are you eating well, sweetheart? You look a little thin.”
“Prettier?” you mother scoffed, though she was secretly pleased. She waved a hand dismissively. “She looks like she hasn’t in a week. All she does is work at that radio station. I tell her she needs to get out, make new friends, but does she listen to me?”
“Mom, please,” you hissed under your breath, feeling your cheeks heat up. “Not here.”
You knew this conversation by heart, but that didn’t mean Mrs. Boo needed to hear it too.
“Ah, let her be, she’s building a career!” Mrs. Boo laughed, though there was a sudden, distinct twinkle in her eye. She leaned in a fraction closer, lowering her voice as if sharing a state secret. “You know... our Seungkwanie is here.”
Your stomach did a strange flip at the mention of his name. “Oh. Really? I thought he was still in Seoul.”
You knew he was back; he’d been the talk of the neighborhood all week. You’d just chosen to ignore the fact, and forget that you could run into him anywhere now, that it was only a matter of time until you did.
“He came back last week. Taking a break,” Mrs. Boo beamed, her pride evident. But then she share a very deliberate, conspiratorial look with your mother. “He was just asking about you the other day, actually. Wondering how his favorite childhood friend was doing.”
Funny, considering he never even bothered to call in the last twelve years, you thought, still holding a polite smile on your face.
Your mother’s eyes lit up with a terrifying gleam. She immediately reached out, grabbing your shoulders and physically turning you away from the buffet table and toward the back of the hall.
“Go say hi,” your mother ordered, giving you a firm push.
“Mom, I literally just walked in. Let me get a plate of food first, I haven’t eaten since—”
“The japchae isn’t going anywhere,” she interrupted, adjusting the collar of your shirt with quick, fussy movements. “He just got here too. He’s standing right over there by the punch bowl looking lonely. Go talk to him.”
“Yes, go catch up!” Mrs. Boo chimed in, shooing you with her hand. “Tell him his mother said to get you a drink.”
Seeing them together like that felt like a childhood flashback; like being forced to stay close to Seungkwan or made to do things with him all over again just because they wanted too. Like being forced to dance together at school events, or serving as ring bearers for the newlywed couple who lived three houses down.
Realizing you had absolutely no way out of this trap, you sighed, offering them both a tight, resigned smile. “Fine. I’m going.”
“Stand up straight!” your mother called out after you in a loud whisper.
You rolled your eyes, smoothing down your outfit as you navigated through the sea of relatives and neighbors until you finally spotted him.
He was standing by the punch bowl, looking both ridiculously handsome and slightly out of place in a crisp, white button-down. Even without the stage makeup and the flash of cameras, Boo Seungkwan had an undeniable glowing aura.
You took a deep breath, trying to push down the sudden spike of nerves caused by the realization that the moment you’d pictured in your head thousands of times was actually happening. Then, quietly, you sidled up beside him.
“Excuse me, sunbaenim,” you said, leaning in just enough to mock a polite bow. “Can I get your autograph?”
Seungkwan turned, a polite, probably practiced smile already forming on his lips, until his eyes met yours for the first time in nearly fifteen years. Then he completely froze.
The plastic cup in his hand halted halfway to his mouth. His eyes went wide, sweeping over your face, your hair, the way you stood there looking at him. You immediately started talking, rattling off a quick string of teasing remarks. He could see your mouth moving, but he wasn’t hearing a single word, almost like he was underwater.
Seungkwan was entirely captivated, his brain short-circuiting as the intoxicating, familiar scent of your perfume hit him. It was scent that instantly bypassed the last twelve years of his life, striking a match directly to the teenage hormones and memories he’d buried long ago.
You stopped talking, waving a hand in front of his face. “Hello? Earth to Sungkwan?”
He blinked rapidly, practically shaking himself out of the stupor. “You… wow. Hi. You look… you look really good.”
You gasped dramatically, clutching your chest. “Oh my God, Boo Seungkwan said I look good. I’m going to write a fanfic about it.”
You could see the moment the shock wore off, instantly replaced by the familiar, comfortable irritation he always fell into when you teased him all those years ago.
A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Please. I bet you’ve already written several where we end up in love.”
You clicked your tongue as your shoulders lifted in a nonchalant shrug. “Actually, I think your friend Jeonghan is cuter.” You smiled broadly, watching his jaw drop and his eyes widen again. “He’s so handsome. Is he single?”
You emphasize the word deliberately, watching his face contort as he processes it. But all he says is:
“You think what?” Seungkwan choked out, his competitive streak flaring up in a millisecond. Or at least that was what you thought. Inside, Seungkwan felt a possessive pull toward you that he hadn’t felt in a very long time.
You tried to bite your lip to hold back your laughter, but you simply couldn’t, bursting out laughing as you stepped just a fraction closer to him to let two little boys run past you toward the playground.
“You’re still so easy to mess with, Boo.”
His face morphed into an outraged expression, though you could see a smile forming at the corner of his mouth. “And you’re still crazy, I see.”
“He is, indeed, handsome, they all are.” You paused, clearly enjoying his reaction. Your voice dipped playfully as you tapped your chest in a steady rhythm. “...but my heart still beats for Boo Seungkwan. Boo Seungkwan.” You laughed, eyes crinkling. “Old flame, you know. Right?”
If only you knew.
Seungkwan stared at you, his ears turning a violent shade of red. He tried to scowl, to muster up some kind of witty retort, but the sheer relief and joy of realizing you hadn’t changed at all completely overwhelmed him. He let out a breathless, defeated chuckle, running a hand through his hair before dragging the tips of his fingers down his neck.
“You’re terrible,” he muttered, though his eyes were painfully fond. “A decade without seeing you, and within two minutes you’re already giving me a headache.”
“It’s a gift, really,” you replied, finally grabbing a cup of punch for yourself.
The silence was slightly awkward — but only because it’s been twelve years of radio silence —, not uncomfortable, though. In fact, you had a million questions that could fill it, but since starting with Why haven’t you contacted me in twelve years, you stuck-up idiot? was probably a terrible opener, you settled for something lighter.
“So. You’re really back, huh?” You raised an eyebrow, lifting the glass to your lips mostly to keep yourself from saying anything out of spike. “The neighborhood aunties have been gossiping all week. They said you’re officially retired from the idol life.”
“Taking a very long, very permanent hiatus,” he corrected with a dismissive hand, leaning against the table so he could fully face you. “I needed a break from Seoul. Plus I heard my favorite childhood friend was running the local radio station now.”
You quickly built your defenses back up, raising a skeptical eyebrow. Favorite feels ironic, again. You’re almost certain it doesn’t fit what happened between you two over the past years; if anything, it feels like the opposite.
“Not running it. Producing.” It was your turn to correct him. “The afternoon slot. It’s chaotic, and I practically live in the editing booth. But I love it.”
Seungkwan watched your face light up as you talked about the station. The way your eyes sparked—the genuine passion in your voice—was entirely real. It was the same look you used to get when you figured out a particularly difficult math problem in high school, or when you finally beat him in a volleyball match.
“Producing,” Seungkwan repeated softly, testing the word on his tongue. A small, genuine smile broke through his initial shock. “I’ll be honest. I’ve tuned in a few times since I got back.”
You nearly choked on your rice punch. You lowered the paper cup, staring at him suspiciously. “You did? You listened to my show?”
“Of course I did,” he said, shifting his weight. He looked down at his shoes for a split second before meeting your eyes again, his gaze suddenly much heavier. “I wanted to hear your voice.”
The casual confession hit you right in the chest, entirely unbalancing you. This was the danger of Boo Seungkwan. He could flip the switch from annoying childhood best friend who hadn’t spoken to you in twelve years to a devastatingly sincere, loving man without even trying.
Holding a grudge against someone like that isn’t easy.
“I always knew you’d end up bossing people around for a living,” Seungkwan laughed, the sound warm and effortlessly familiar. One smile, and suddenly the years between you don’t feel so large anymore. You hate that most of all.
“Someone has to keep things in line,” you countered, taking the last sip of your punch. You looked up at him, letting the teasing persona slip away for just a moment, offering him a sincere smile. “But really... it’s good to see you, Boo. I’m glad you’re back.”
And you meant it with all your heart, far more than you’d ever imagined.
Seungkwan’s eyes softened, a profound sense of relief washing over his features. He had been so nervous about how you would react to seeing him after so much time had passed, but standing here, falling right back into your easy, comfortable rhythm, he felt an anchor drop.
“It really has,” he agreed, his voice dropping into a more earnest tone. He glanced around the chaotic recreation center, at the aunties dancing and the kids running around, before his gaze settled back on you. “I missed this. And,” he paused, a fond smile pulling at his lips, “I missed you.”
The words sat on the tip of your tongue, but you weren’t going to ruin this moment by saying them.
You bumped your shoulder playfully against his arm. “Don’t get soft on me now, sunbaenim. You have a reputation to uphold.”
“I’d prefer it if you just called me oppa,” he said playfully, bumping his shoulder against yours in return.
You scoffed, rolling your eyes. Back then, it had always been a running joke between the two of you. “Apparently not all your dreams came true.”
Before he could formulate a comeback, a loud voice shattered your comfortable bubble.
“Look at them! Didn’t I tell you?” your mother crowed, suddenly appearing at Seungkwan’s elbow with Mrs. Boo right behind her. Both women looked like cats who had just cornered a very plump canary.“Like no time has passed at all!”
You immediately stood up straighter, shooting a panicked look at Seungkwan. “Mom, please. We’re just catching up.”
“Well, keep catching up!” Mrs. Boo cheered, clapping her hands together. “Seungkwanie, why don’t you get Y/N a plate of food? The poor girl is starving, her mother said she practically lives at that radio station.”
Seungkwan cleared his throat, stepping back into his polite and respectful persona with practiced ease, though he threw a quick amused glance your way. “Of course, Eomma. I’ll take good care of her.”
As the two mothers linked arms and walked away, practically vibrating with matchmaking glee, Seungkwan turned back to you, the smirk firmly back in place.
You let him lead you toward the food, shaking your head even as a smile spread so wide across your face that your cheeks began to ache. In just a few minutes, you realized how effortlessly he could slip back into your life. Boo Seungkwan was home, and suddenly, everything felt a whole lot brighter.
PRESENT
They were right. The number of listeners had increased exponentially in less than a week, and although you hated to admit it, Seungkwan was right. You were happy with what your presence as co-host was doing for the station, more than happy, actually. Even on the street, people stopped you to say how much they loved the show, how they tuned in every night.
Everyone at the station was celebrating the results, and it felt as though everything had come back to life. Besides, you couldn’t deny it: the show really was that good.
Pulled out of your daydream by the sound of someone lazily tapping on the glass, you see the only other person you trust in your control booth: Hansol. He point his indicator at both of you and flashes up three fingers. Thirty seconds to air.
You nod, keeping your eyes locked on the console. The ON AIR sign bleeds neon red across the studio glass, emitting a low, sixty-cycle hum. You push the faders up, and the bright, tropical synth-pop intro of your show, Love Is on the Radio, fills the booth. You slide Seungkwan’s mic fader up first, then bring yours up a second later.
Instantly, the annoying best friend vanishes out of him. His posture straightens, his chin tilts to the perfect angle for a camera that isn’t even there, and he leans into the microphone.
Seungkwan is usually a very confident man, but watching him in his element always feels like seeing a whole new side of the boy you once knew, or the man you found six months ago in his childhood bedroom at his mother’s house, quietly moping and counting the petals on her hydrangeas because he was bored out of his mind.
“I was meditating, not moping,” he defended himself when you brought the subject up two weeks ago, a hand placed over his heart, looking personally wounded.
You were the one who suggested to Seungcheol that he could offer Seungkwan the position after you ran into him at the party. So now, because of your brilliant idea, if the people of Jeju don’t buy into Seungkwan’s “revolutionary ideas” about love and romance, your reputation is going down the drain right along with his.
“Good evening, Jeju! You’re back with your favorite duo,” you say, leaning into your mic with a practiced, bright energy, settling into your radio voice. “I’m your temporary host, Kang Y/N, and sitting across from me is the man who spent forty-five minutes this morning debating whether or not he’s a Taejoon or a Jungwoo: it’s Boo Seungkwan.”
Seungkwan let out a soulful chuckle that rumbles smoothly through your headphones. “Listen, the new season of Single’s Inferno is a sociological study! It’s about the raw human condition! Hello everyone, I’m Seungkwan. And for the record? I’m definitely a Taejoon. I’m loyal, I’m funny, and I look great in a vest.”
When Seungkwan speaks, his voice drops an octave, dripping with the velvety, honeyed charisma that had made him the nation’s beloved vocalist for more than a decade. By now, you’re trained to ignore the things it does to you.
“You’re a Eunseo at best, dramatic and prone to crying in the back of a van,” you retort, checking the monitor. “But we aren’t here to talk about your identity crisis, my friend. We’re here to talk about the Paradise dates. Kwan, as our resident romance expert, what did you think of the bonfire confession?”
You already knew what Seungkwan thought about them, considering the two of you had watched the episodes together on your couch the night before. Your mom and grandmother had spent the entire evening pampering him so much that, at one point, you found yourself wondering whether he was the real member of the family and not you.
“It was amateur hour, Y/N. If you’re going to confess your feelings, you need atmosphere. You need a build-up. You can’t just blurt it out between bites of grilled sea bream!”
You both move like a well-oiled machine. For the first fifteen minutes, it’s a masterclass in broadcasting. The two of you debate the new episodes of the latest season of Single’s Inferno, practically disagreeing with everything the other says for no reason at all, just for the fun of arguing and rage-baiting each other.
“Spoken like a man who has watched exactly three hundred dramas and participated in zero actual dates,” you tease after he describes how perfect one of the dates in Paradise was.
Not that you knew anything about Seungkwan’s love life, considering the two of you hadn’t reached that topic of conversation yet, even if you had already spilled your heart out to him during one drunken night.
Honestly, the less you knew, the better.
“I am a scholar of the heart!” he defends, a hand over his heart, even if you’re the only one who can see him. “Anyway, before we get to our first caller of the night, it’s time for my favorite part of the show. Let’s open our Time Capsule of Love.”
You hit the transition, a nostalgic, grainy vinyl crackle. “Tonight’s request comes from a listener in Aewol who wants to remember their first summer love,” you announce. “Here’s Perhaps Love by HowL & J.ae.”
As the classic track starts playing, you slide the faders down.
“We’re clear for, like, three minutes,” you mutter, stretching your arms as you stand to refill your water bottle and grab a cookie from the box Chan had left earlier, sometime before the show started.
Seungkwan also stretches back in his creaky old chair. You can feel his eyes following you around the room, tracking your movements, and it doesn’t take much to realize he has something sitting right on the tip of his tongue to comment on or ask you.
It was funny how inseparable the two of you had become since reuniting, how effortlessly you’d slipped back into your old rhythm. How well you still knew him and all his mannerisms, like the back of your hand. But there was still one massive elephant in the room: neither of you had said a word about those twelve years of silence.
You wouldn’t say you were exactly okay with it, but at the same time, you were terrified of bringing it up and ruining everything the two of you had rebuilt over the past six months. You could only hope it wouldn’t all come crashing down around you somewhere in the future.
You raise an eyebrow and cross your arms, the water sloshing softly inside the bottle as the music continues to play. “What?”
“Are you going to Youngjae’s place after this?” Seungkwan asks, trying to sound nonchalant as he pretended to examine his fingernails.
“Don’t know yet. Why?”
Seungkwan spins his squeaky chair a half-inch to the left, leaning his elbows on his knees. The playful, broadcast-ready smile he wore just a minute ago completely dissolves, replaced by a tight, familiar, almost sulky frown.
“Just wondering if you’re parking in his driveway tonight,” Seungkwan says, his tone dangerously passive, “or if you’re still relegated to the visitor’s spot three blocks down so his neighbors don’t start asking questions about the mystery woman sneaking in after dark.”
You almost choke on your piece of cookie. You swallow hard, shooting a panicked glare through the glass to make sure Hansol isn’t paying attention to the booth or your conversation, only to find him lost in his own world as always.
“Keep your voice down, tattletale,” you hiss, tossing the rest of the cookie onto a napkin and sitting back down in your chair. “And for your information, he has a very strict building policy. It’s not about me or our relationship. It’s about his privacy.”
That’s a lie, but you won’t give Seungkwan the satisfaction of being right. And he seems to know it, a scoff slipping past his lips.
“Right.” He drags the word out. “The notorious anti-girlfriend bylaws of Jeju real estate,”
“Kwan, don’t start—”
Seungkwan reaches out, tapping the edge of your console. “Are you listening to yourself, Y/N?Privacy is keeping your relationship off Instagram. What he’s doing is hiding you.”
You were past that stage. Past thinking too much about it. Past pretending you didn’t know that Youngjae was hiding your relationship from his friends, family, and even his neighbors. You knew he was. And it was complicated. Or at least, that’s what he’d been telling you ever since you rekindled your relationship a year ago.
Seungkwan, unlike you, had called it what it was the moment you told him you were back with Youngjae, but that only a small number of people knew. At the time, you thought it was just because Seungkwan hadn’t liked him back in your school days. Now, you were starting to have doubts about… well, everything.
But you wouldn’t discuss that here, much less in the middle of a broadcast with Perhaps Love playing as the soundtrack to this conversation.
“We have an arrangement that works for us. He’s a private person, Seungkwan. Not everyone wants their life broadcasted to the masses like you do.”
It’s a low blow, and you know it the second the words leave your mouth. Seungkwan flinches, just barely, but his dark eyes stay locked onto yours. The air in the tiny studio suddenly feels impossibly thick.
You close your eyes, dragging a hand down your face.
It comes and goes. The resentment you feel toward him for never calling or reaching out, for never answering your letters or your calls. It comes and goes.
“I didn’t meant to.”
You see Seungkwan swallow, his lips pouting slightly like he’s choosing his next words.
“I spent ten years hiding every single aspect of my life to survive in the industry, tokki.” His voice drops into a quiet, raw register that makes your chest ache. It’s worse because he calls you that. “So I know exactly what it looks like when someone treats you like a liability instead of a partner.”
“Why do you even care?” you snap, crossing your arms defensively to hide the way your hands are shaking. You really, really want to know why. “You’re my friend, Boo. Not my life coach.”
“I care because it’s pathetic watching you settle for him!” he fires back, leaning closer until his face is just inches from the mic stand. “You sit here every night, teasing me about my expertise on romance, but at least I know how to treat a girl.”
You open your mouth to argue, but the words die in your throat. He’s looking at you with that same fierce, frustrated intensity he had behind the school, in your spot, all those years ago, when Youngjae invited you out for banana milk. And it makes something strange shift inside your chest.
It has been happening a lot ever since Seungkwan came back into your life.
When you look away to avoid meeting his eyes, the digital clock on the monitor catches your attention. 0:15 seconds until the song ends.
“I’m not having this conversation with you right now,” you whisper, your voice trembling as you reach for the faders.
Seungkwan lets out a quiet, nasal laugh that makes it clear he expected you to avoid the subject. You hate that he still knows you so well—just as well as you know him—and you hate even more how easily the two of you slip back into old habits.
“You’re going to have to eventually,” he grumbles, leaning back into his chair as he adjusts his headphones. The hard edge in his eyes softens into something that looks dangerously like pity, and you hate that even more. “Because if he doesn’t figure out how to treat you right, someone else will.”
You want to ask him what he means by that, but there isn’t enough time.
0:03 seconds.
Hansol pops up behind the glass again, pointing a finger again. You take a shaky breath, give him a thumbs-up, and force the lump in your throat down as you slide the faders up and put your headphones back on.
4 MONTHS AGO
It had barely been a month since Seungkwan had reentered your life like a localized hurricane, and the boundaries of your resurrected friendship were still painfully blurry. You had survived the initial shock of his return, the awkwardness of not speaking for so long, and the surreal reality of seeing a former national idol casually drinking cheap instant coffee in the station’s break room.
That night, however, was the first time the two of you had gotten drunk together.
You were both sitting in a small, slightly dingy pojangmacha tucked away in a narrow alley behind the station. Inside, the air smelled of fried pork belly and spicy rice cakes, cut through by the almost clinical smell of spilled soju. Rain lashed relentlessly against the thick orange plastic tarps surrounding the tent, the sound creating a surprisingly cozy bubble that shut out the rest of the city.
“Watch and learn,” Seungkwan slurred slightly, holding up a fresh, condensation slicked green bottle of soju. He grabbed a stainless steel chopstick from the tin cup on the table.
“One of your many new talents?”
He nodded, a smirk tugging at his lips. “They didn’t teach me this in idol training. I had to learn this in the trenches of company dinners.”
With a flick of his wrist that was entirely too aggressive, he brought the chopstick up against the cap of the bottle. Instead of cleanly popping off, the cap flew violently into the air, ricocheting off the plastic tent wall and landing squarely in your bowl of complimentary radish soup.
You stared down at the floating metal cap, and then slowly raised your eyes to look at him.
Seungkwan froze, his hand still suspended in the air, a sheepish, incredibly boyish grin spreading across his flushed face. “Ta-da?”
“You’re paying for my next bowl of soup, Kwan,” you deadpanned, though you couldn’t fight the laugh that bubbled up in your chest. You fished the cap out with your spoon and flicked it at him. “And you’re a menace to society. It’s a miracle you survived Seoul.”
“Seoul was easy,” Seungkwan retorted, pouring the soju into two tiny glass cups, his coordination slightly compromised by the three bottles already sitting empty at the edge of the plastic table. “Jeju is the real battlefield.”
You laughed, arching an eyebrow. “And why is that?”
“Yesterday, an auntie at the market smacked me with a leek because I couldn’t remember her dog’s name,” he said with a laugh.
“To be fair, Dooboo is a local legend. You disrespected an icon,” you pointed out, picking up your glass. “Cheers to Dooboo.”
“Cheers to Dooboo,” Seungkwan echoed, clinking his glass against yours.
You both threw back the clear liquid. The burn was sharp but grounding, loosening the tight, perpetual knot of anxiety that lived at the base of your spine. You set the small glass back down on the table with a soft thud and exhaled sharply.
The alcohol was doing its job. The twelve-year gap between you was dissolving with every shot, the comfortable, relentless bickering of your childhood sliding right back into place.
For the last two hours, you’d been trading war stories. He filled you in on the absurd reality of dorm life, grueling tour schedules, and the bizarre diets the agency forced on him. In return, you regaled him with the unglamorous chaos of university life and local radio with callers determined to debate the existence of sea monsters, power outages during live broadcasts, and the time you accidentally played a funeral dirge instead of the morning weather jingle.
It felt incredibly and dangerously good. You hadn’t felt this seen, this entirely yourself, in a very long time.
And that was exactly why his guard didn’t just come down, it plummeted.
Your phone, sitting face up next to your chopsticks, vibrated violently, the screen lighting up the sticky table. The name Youngjae flashed across the glass.
The comfortable warmth in your chest vanished instantly, replaced by a cold wave of dread. You were supposed to meet Youngjae for dinner tonight. He had canceled an hour before you got off work — a vague text about “overtime” and “not wanting to push it at the hospital” — leaving you stranded.
That was when Seungkwan had popped his head into the editing booth and dragged you out into the rain.
You quickly reached out, flipping he phone face down with a dismissive motion. Then you reached for the soju bottle, carefully avoiding Seungkwan’s eyes.
“Who was that?” Seungkwan asked, his tone casual, though his inquisitive eyes tracked the defensive stiffness in your shoulders.
“No one,” you lied smoothly, pouring yourself another shot. “Just spam.”
“At one in the morning?” Seungkwan arched an eyebrow, skeptic. He reached across the table, his fingers gently tapping the back of your phone case. “You looked like you just saw a ghost. Is it work? Did Chief Choi find out you’re the one who broke the coffee machine?”
“I didn’t break the coffee machine, it was a structural failure,” you protested automatically, knocking the shot back. The alcohol hit your stomach, loosening your tongue just a fraction too much. “And it’s not work. It’s just Youngjae.”
Seungkwan’s hand stilled. He swallowed a laugh, and you noticed it immediately in the silence that followed.
“Youngjae?” Seungkwan repeated, the playful lilt completely draining from his voice. No, he thought, not again. “Cho Youngjae?”
You just nodded, and he simply couldn’t string together a complete sentence anymore. You took a long sip of soju straight from the bottle, and Seungkwan exhaled slowly through his mouth, trying not to let it show anymore that the mention of Youngjae’s name had bothered him. With any luck, you’d be too drunk tomorrow to remember it.
“Why is he texting you at 1 AM?”
You sighed, dragging a hand down your face. The soju was making it incredibly difficult to maintain the unbothered facade you usually wore.
“I didn’t know you two were still together,” Seungkwan said before you could answer, in what he hoped was a casual tone, though he couldn’t quite tell if his expression helped sell it.
Shortly after Seungkwan left, you and Youngjae started dating. At the time, you were still in contact with Seungkwan, trying to keep up with him as much as you could. During your phone calls, he kept insisting that Youngjae wasn’t the right guy for you. But when you finally decided to listen to him and broke up with Youngjae, Seungkwan disappeared from your life not long after.
“We dated, broke up, got back together, broke up again, and then got back together and—”
“Are you together now?” he interrupted.
You nodded. “We’ve been dating for eight months.”
Seungkwan blinked, the information processing slowly through the alcohol haze. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“That’s the thing,” you muttered, staring down at your empty shot glass. “It’s… a secret. He doesn’t want the hospital to find out. He says it could ruin his chances of getting a spot at this big hospital in Seoul next year. So we don’t tell anyone. We just… sneak around.”
The silence that fell over the table was sudden and deafening, save for the rain hitting the tarp.
When you finally looked up, you physically flinched at the expression on Seungkwan’s face. The boyish, flushed, drunken demeanor was entirely gone. His jaw was clenched so tight a muscle ticked near his ear, and his dark eyes were blazing with a sudden, terrifying intensity.
“He hides you,” Seungkwan stated. It wasn’t a question. It was a condemnation.
“It’s not like that,” you backpedaled, suddenly overcome by the desperate need to defend a relationship you weren’t even sure you wanted to be in anymore. “It’s just practical.”
A frown creased the middle of his forehead. “Why are you doing this? Why are you letting him treat you like you’re something to be ashamed of?”
Because you were terrified of being left behind again. Because Youngjae, with his cold, distant, and conditional affection, felt safer than risking your heart on someone who could truly break it by leaving.
But you couldn’t say that to him. Not yet. Not ever.
“Drop it, Seungkwan,” you warned, your voice trembling slightly. You grabbed the green bottle and practically slammed it onto the table between you. “I mean it. If we are going to be friends again, you drop it. We are not talking about my pathetic love life. We are getting drunk.”
Seungkwan stared at you for a long, almost agonizing moment. The tension between you crackled, charged and unresolved. He looked at the bottle, then at your fiercely guarded expression. Slowly, he reached out and took the bottle from your hand.
“Fine,” he muttered, his eyes dark. He poured you both a brimming shot. “We’ll drop it. For tonight. Drink up, PD-nim. We’re going to a noraebang.”
By 2:30 AM, the combative emotional atmosphere of the pojangmacha had been thoroughly obliterated by a lethal combination of cheap beer, more soju, and the aggressive, blinding neon lights of the noraebang.
You were currently standing on top of a sticky faux leather sofa, clutching a plastic tambourine. The disco ball above you cast spinning, dizzying patterns of purple and green across the tiny, enclosed room. Below you, standing in the center of the room with the microphone cord wrapped twice around his wrist, Seungkwan was giving you an exclusive performance.
“TEARS!” Seungkwan screamed into the microphone, his head thrown back as he unleashed the impossibly high notes of the song.
His vocal control, even while completely blackout drunk, was infuriatingly perfect. He hit the high note, dropped to his knees on the sticky linoleum floor, and pointed dramatically at you.
“Hit it!” he yelled over the instrumental break.
You aggressively smashed the tambourine against your hip, totally off-beat, screaming the background vocals with zero regard for pitch or human decency.
“You’re pitchy!” Seungkwan shouted, scrambling up from the floor. He grabbed a second microphone off the table, and tossed it to you. “Get down here and sing, you coward!”
“Your stage presence is lacking, Boo!” you yelled back, refusing to step down from the sofa. “Give me some emotion!!”
Seungkwan gasped in mock offense. He tossed his jacket onto the floor, jumped onto the small glass coffee table in the center of the room — the table groaning ominously under his weight — and struck a pose better suited to a sold-out stadium than a fifteen-dollar-an-hour karaoke room.
The track switched. The dramatic synth intro of a classic early 2000s heartbreak ballad filled the room.
Seungkwan closed his eyes, clutching the mic with both hands, and began to sing with such exaggerated and theatrical grief that you immediately doubled over laughing. He sank to his knees on the table, reaching a hand out toward you as if you were a lover drifting away on a life raft.
“Why did you leave me?!” he wailed, completely off-script, making the lyrics up as he went. “I gave you my heart, and you gave me a broken tambourine!”
“It was a metaphor for our friendship!” you shrieked back into your mic, tears of laughter streaming down your face. Suddenly, you couldn’t remember the last time you’d laughed that hard. Probably not in years.
You stepped off the sofa, stumbling slightly as the alcohol hit your equilibrium, and marched right up to the table. You pointed your microphone directly at his chest, looking up at him with a defiant, breathless grin.
“You just don’t appreciate my genius!”
Seungkwan dropped the theatrical act, though he didn’t drop his gaze. He reached down and grabbed your microphone hand, pulling you close
For a second, the ridiculous facade completely shattered. You were suddenly entirely too close. Because he was kneeling on the table, you were perfectly at eye level. His chest was heaving, his hair messy and damp with sweat, flushed cheeks, his eyes completely blown out and dark in the spinning neon lights.
“You’re staring, tokki,” he murmured, his voice dropping an octave, the smooth tone vibrating right through the microphone and out into the small room.
“You’re in my space, Boo,” you shot back. You tried to sound authoritative, but your voice came out a little breathless, and you made absolutely no move to pull your hand out of his grip.
He tilted his head, a slow, devastating smirk spreading across his lips. His thumb absently stroked the back of your knuckles. “I think you like it.”
“You’re so arrogant, Boo Seungkwan,” you mumbled, stepping a fraction of an inch closer until your knees were practically brushing the edge of the glass table. “You’ve always been arrogant. When we were younger, it drove me absolutely crazy.”
Seungkwan let out a smug, nasal laugh. “Is that why you were always trying to beat me at stuff?” he teased, leaning in a little closer, the scent of soju and expensive cologne suddenly intoxicating. “Because you couldn’t handle the charm?”
“No,” you said, shaking your head, your eyes tracing the elegant line of his jaw. The spinning purple lights caught the flush on his cheeks. “I was trying to beat you because I was overcompensating. I had the biggest, most pathetic crush on you, and you were completely oblivious.”
The words slipped out with the terrifying ease of a drunken confession, made possible only by the fact that you were, in fact, very, very drunk. And maybe a little carried away by the thought that so many years had passed that none of it mattered anymore.
Or maybe still did… a little.
Seungkwan froze. The playful smirk vanished instantly. His fingers tightened around yours, his entire body going completely still on the table. The karaoke track blared on in the background, a saxophone solo filling the silence, but the air between you had turned to a vacuum.
“You... what?” he breathed, his voice barely audible over the music.
“Oh, don’t look so shocked,” you scoffed, waving your free hand dismissively, though a sudden, hot flush of embarrassment was rising up your neck. “We were fifteen. We spent a lot of time together. It was a statistical inevitability.”
You thought you’d read a article about it somewhere. Or maybe that was just your brain trying to convince itself.
He stared at you, his chest rising and falling rapidly, as if the oxygen had just been sucked out of the room. “You had a crush on me. Back then. Before I left.”
“Massive,” you confirmed, leaning back against the edge of the sofa behind you for balance. You let out a self-deprecating laugh, looking down at your boots. “And then you got on a plane and ruined my entire life. Tragic, really.”
You expected him to laugh. You expected him to tease you, to use it as ammunition for his ego, to make a joke about how he had always known he was irresistible.
But Seungkwan didn’t laugh.
When you looked back up, the expression on his face made your breath catch in your throat. He looked absolutely shattered. The boyish amusement was gone, replaced by a profound, agonizing realization that seemed to physically pain him. He slowly scrambled off the table, standing right in front of you, entirely ignoring the microphone he dropped onto the couch.
“Are you seriously telling me you never realized I had a crush on you back then?” you laughed, throwing your head back. “Jesus Christ. And I actually thought all that fame would’ve made you a little less clueless by now.”
Seungkwan stepped into your space, his hands coming up to gently, almost reverently, cup your face. His thumbs brushed over your cheekbones.
“Y/N,” he whispered, his voice thick with an emotion you couldn’t quite decipher, staring down at you with desperate intensity. “If I had known... I swear to God, if I had known...”
Right then, Seungkwan wanted to kiss you. Desperately.
The urge hit him so suddenly, so overwhelmingly, that it stole the oxygen from his lungs. It wasn’t just a passing thought; it was a physical ache. He wanted to close the distance, press his mouth to yours, and prove to you with absolute certainty that if he’d known, everything would have been different.
For years, Seungkwan had learned how to deal with girls. He had lived his life in a boy group, surrounded by beautiful actresses, stunning idols, and thousands of screaming fans. He knew how to flirt. He knew how to charm. But there was something about you that completely paralyzed him.
Maybe he would never be able to do it. The fear of ruining this—of crossing a line he could never uncross—was paralyzing. And maybe, he thought frantically, that was a good thing.
You were friends, weren’t you?
You had just barely managed to salvage this friendship from the wreckage of the last twelve years. He shouldn’t want to ruin that. He shouldn’t risk terrifying you away when you had just finally let him back in. He should just be profoundly grateful that you were willing to let him be a part of your life again.
But his gaze dropped to your lips, the air practically crackling with the electric, terrifying pull between you. He leaned in, the gap between you closing, his breath warm against your skin.
BEEP.
The song ended with an abrupt, jarring electronic shriek. The machine loudly announced your score in a cheerful, computerized voice: 42.
The spell shattered like a broken mirror.
You both jumped, practically flying apart. The sudden silence in the room was deafening. You immediately spun around, grabbing your coat off the back of the sofa, your heart hammering against your ribs so violently you thought you might actually faint.
Seungkwan cleared his throat loudly, busying himself with untangling the microphone cords, though his hands were visibly shaking.
“The machine is rigged,” he declared, his voice rough and uneven. He refused to look at you, staring intently at the plastic tambourine on the floor. “Forty-two? This machine is completely broken.”
“You were flat,” you lied, your own voice breathless as you practically sprinted for the door, desperate for oxygen. “Completely flat."
By the time you stumbled out onto the streets at 4 AM, the rain had stopped, leaving the asphalt slick and reflecting the streetlights. The freezing sea air hit your flushed face, sobering you up just enough to realize the massive, catastrophic mistake you had just made: you had just confessed your teenage feelings to the man who had just came back to your life.
You stood on the curb, waiting for the taxi Seungkwan had hailed, wrapping your arms tightly around yourself. He stood right beside you, a heavy, suffocating silence settling over the sidewalk. He shrugged off his jacket, stepping close enough to drape it over your shoulders without asking. The fabric was warm, heavy, and smelled devastatingly like him.
“Thanks,” you murmured, pulling it together, refusing to meet his eyes.
“I meant what I said,” Seungkwan said quietly into the night air, staring straight ahead at the empty road. “At the tent. Even if you’re mad at me. You deserve better, tokki. You always have.”
You looked up at him, at the profile of the boy who had once broken your heart, who had only just realized he could have had it all those years ago, and who was now systematically trying to win it back, even if you didn’t seem to realize it yet.
“I know,” you whispered, the lie tasting like ash in your mouth.
PRESENT
“I just don’t know,” Chan mutters, running a hand through his hair, turning on his heel to pace back the other way. “Her profile says she likes hiking and eye contact. What does that even mean?”
The lights in the break room hum with that same high-pitched whine that usually drives you crazy. Tonight, though, you barely notice it, drowned out by the sound of Chan pacing a hole into the cheap linoleum floor.
He glances between your faces, not breaking his pacing for a second. “Is she going to stare into my soul while we eat? What if she’s a serial killer who uses dating apps to harvest organs?”
You lean back in the rickety plastic chair, nursing a lukewarm can of vending machine coffee. Across the small table covered with crumbs, Seungkwan is meticulously trying to free a bag of Honey Butter Chips from the machine’s coils, stubbornly jammed.
“I have great kidneys,” Chan continues. “They’re pristine. I drink so much water.”
Your phone, sitting face up next to your coffee can, buzzes violently against the table. The screen lights up, illuminating the dim space with a harsh white glare, and you don’t even have to look to know who it is. You don’t pick it up, but you see them glowing on the screen.
[Youngjae - 9:14 PM]: Where are you?
[Youngjae - 9:15 PM]: You ignored my call.
[Youngjae - 9:15 PM]: I left my spare keys at my hospital and I’m locked out. Bring me your set ASAP.
Your heart rate skips, a familiar, ugly knot of anxiety tightening in your stomach. You massage your temples, quickly turning your phone off and pointedly ignoring the messages. He knows you’re at work, for crying out loud. He knows your schedule. He knows you can’t leave right now.
“Are we really having this conversation?” you ask.
“If she harvests your kidneys, I get your green leather jacket,” Hansol chimes in from the corner sofa. He doesn’t even look up from his phone, his thumb lazily scrolling. “Put it in your will.”
“I don’t have a will, hyung!” Chan practically shrikes, stopping his pacing to glare at Hansol. He turns his desperate gaze toward the table. “Look, I’m begging you guys. I haven’t been on a blind date since… well, ever. I don’t know the protocol. I need security.”
Seungkwan finally gives the vending machine a solid hip-check. The coil shudders, and the bag of chips drops with a satisfying crinkle. He scoops it up, tossing a triumphant look your way before turning to Chan.
“Security?” Seungkwan echoes, popping the bag open and immediately offering it to you first, a habit you try not to think too hard about. You take a chip. “What are we supposed to do? Tackle her if she reaches for a steak knife?”
“No! Just… be there,” Chan pleads, pulling up a chair and straddling it backward. “Saturday night. That Italian place near the marina. Don Capri.”
“Wow, that sounds expensive,” you say, entirely off-topic, but not wrong. The restaurant is one of the most expensive in the city. You’ve never been there. Not on a date, anyway. “How much is Seungcheol paying you as a junior writer?”
“It’s dimly lit. Romantic.” Chan throws his hands up in the air. “The point is, if you guys are sitting at the table next to us, I’ll feel safe. If she turns out to be crazy, you swoop in and pretend there’s a work emergency.”
“What if the things go well?” you ask, resting your chin on your fist.
“Then, you just eat your free pasta and leave me alone.”
“Free pasta?” Hansol suddenly looks up, his interest momentarily piqued, before his eyes drops back to his screen. “Actually, never mind. I have plans tomorrow.”
Chan lets out a frustrated groan, dropping his head onto his arms on the back of the chair. He looks up at you through his bangs, deploying a pathetic, puppy-dog pout he knows works on you, because it always does.
“Noona? Please? You’re practically my boss. It’s a liability issue if I get murdered.”
You sigh, taking another sip of the terrible coffee. “Chan, I don’t think—”
“We’ll do it,” Seungkwan interrupts smoothly.
You snap your head to look at him. “Excuse me?”
Seungkwan pops a chip into his mouth, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. He looks ridiculously unfairly handsome in his oversized vintage knit sweater. “We will absolutely do it. It’s perfect. It’s fieldwork.”
“Fieldwork?” you repeat, narrowing your eyes.
“We host a romance advice show, Y/N,” he points out, a mischievous glint in his eye. Hansol suddenly looks very interested in the conversation, and you’re dying to know why.
“And that should justify us going on a date with Chan because…?”
Seungkwan looks at you like the answer is obvious. It’s not. And deep down, you know he’s not saying everything.
“How are we supposed to advise the lonely hearts of Jeju if we aren’t out in the trenches, observing modern dating in its natural habitat?” He chews a chip theatrically and far too loud for your liking. “Besides, you’ve been working too hard. You need a good meal. My treat.”
“I don’t need fieldwork, and I don’t need you to buy me dinner,” you shot back, though your stomach traitorously rumbles at the mention of good meal. “And what if Youngjae—”
You stop yourself, but the name hangs in the air like a bad smell.
Seungkwan’s playful demeanor instantly evaporates. The warmth in his eyes hardens into something piercing and unreadable. He slowly sets the bag of chips down on the table.
“What if Youngjae what?” he asks, an eyebrow raising. “Doesn’t want you going out in public with your friends now?”
Here we go again.
“Shut up, Boo,” you mutter, looking away.
“It’s a favor for Chan, tokki” Seungkwan continues, leaning closer across the table, his voice low enough that Chan and Hansol can’t hear. “A free meal. And you get to spend two hours pretending to be my date. I know you’ve been dreaming of the opportunity.”
If only he knew.
In moments like this you wonder whether he really doesn’t remember the night the two of you got drunk and confessed having crushes on each other when you were younger. That maybe he’s just pretending not to remember, exactly like you are.
You scoff, your cheeks heating up despite your best efforts. You won’t giving him the satisfaction. “In your dreams, and maybe in my nightmares.”
If only you knew.
Contrary to what you believed, Seungkwan remembers that night perfectly. He remembers wanting to kiss you in that moment, and every day that followed. He remembers catching himself wishing, with everything he had, that you still felt the same way, even if he doesn’t believe you do.
And if he had to take you on a fake date under the excuse of keeping an eye on Chan, then hell, he’d do it. He’d do anything to make you feel that way about him again.
“So it’s a yes?” Chan asks, completely oblivious to the sudden tension vibrating between the two of you.
Seungkwan don’t even let you open your mouth. “It’s a yes,” he confirms, his eyes never leaving yours. “We’ll be your security.”
Chan lets out a massive sigh of relief, jumping up to grab Hansol by the shoulders. “You hear that, hyung? I’m going to survive! Now, let me show you her profile.”
As Chan drags a deeply reluctant Hansol toward the corner to inspect the photos on the girl’s profile, you let out a long breath and reach across the table to steal another chip. Seungkwan watches you chew, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
“Shut up.”
“I didn’t say anything,” he defends himself, throwing his hands up in surrender.
The break room door swings open, and Seungcheol pokes his head in, looking frazzled. “Five minutes to air, you two. Let’s go, the board is already lit up with callers.”
You grab your notes and your phone, practically sprinting out of the break room to escape the look in Seungkwan’s eyes. You make it down the hallway and push through the heavy double doors into the station’s main lobby, heading for Studio B.
But you stop dead in your tracks.
Standing by the reception desk, drenched from the rain and looking absolutely furious, is no one other than Youngjae.
He is wearing an expensive trench coat, his jaw clenched so tightly that a muscle ticks in his cheek. The poor nighttime receptionist looks terrified, shrinking back behind her monitor as Youngjae taps his fingers aggressively on the glass partition.
“Youngjae?” you gasp, your voice echoing slightly in the empty lobby.
He turns, his eyes locking onto you with laser precision. The relief you would normally feel at seeing him is entirely absent, replaced by a cold, sinking dread. He marches across the lobby, closing the distance in seconds, rainwater dripping from his clothes onto your shoes.
“I told you to bring me the keys,” he hisses, keeping his voice low but laced with venom.
“I go on air in five minutes,” you stutter, taking a subconscious half-step back. “I can’t leave the building, Youngjae. Why didn’t you just wait for me to bring them to you after the show?”
“Because I don’t want to sit here for three hours while you play radio host!” he snaps, stepping closer, his imposing frame crowding your space. “This is ridiculous, Y/N. I have a major surgery tomorrow morning. You think your little late night advice segment is more important than my career?”
“It’s not a little segment, it’s my job,” you defend, your voice trembling slightly. “I have responsibilities here.”
“Responsibilities,” Youngjae scoffs loudly, a harsh, dismissive sound. “You play music and talk to lonely housewives.” He holds out his hand, palm up, expectant and demanding. “Give me the keys.”
You reach into your pocket, your fingers brushing against the cold metal of the spare keys, feeling a sudden and overwhelming wave of humiliation. You are the lead producer of the most popular late night show on the island, yet here you are, being scolded like a disobedient child in the middle of your workplace.
Before you can pull the keys out, a solid figure steps up right beside you.
“Is there a problem here?”
Seungkwan’s voice is completely devoid of its usual warmth, the one he usually reserves for you. It’s cold, flat, and carries a quiet authority you’ve rarely heard him use. That’s a side of him you don’t often see. Seungkwan has always been gentle and soft-spoken with everyone, especially you, despite your usual bickering. So for him to speak like that, you know he’s really not having it.
Youngjae blinks, momentarily taken aback, before his expression curls into a sneer. He looks Seungkwan up and down, taking in the knit sweater and the casual stance. “This doesn’t concern you, Boo. Stick to your silly script.”
“It concerns me when you show up at my workplace screaming at my producer five minutes before a live broadcast,” Seungkwan replies, not moving an inch. He shifts his weight, subtly positioning himself so that his shoulder overlaps yours, creating a physical barrier between you and Youngjae. “You’re disrupting the station.”
“I’m talking to my girlfriend,” Youngjae snaps, his voice rising in volume. He tries to step around Seungkwan to get to you, but Seungkwan mirrors the movement, blocking him flawlessly.
“She’s working,” Seungkwan states simply.
“I don’t care if she’s working! She’s my—”
“If you don’t lower your voice,” Seungkwan interrupts, his tone dropping to a whisper, his eyes locked onto Youngjae’s, “I will have security escort you out. And trust me, I know exactly how to get someone thrown out of a building.”
The silence in the lobby is deafening. The receptionist is staring openly now. You can hear the rhythmic ticking of the wall clock.
Youngjae scoffs, trying to mask his intimidation with bravado, but he takes a step back. “You think you’re still a big shot, don’t you? You’re just a retired idol playing host at a local station.”
Seungkwan don’t rise to the bait. He don’t even blink. He just stares Youngjae down with an intensity that makes the air feel thin.
“Youngjae, enough!” You finally find your voice, and it surprises you how steady it sounds. The humiliation burns away, leaving behind a sharp, clean anger at the way he’s speaking to Seungkwan.
You step around Seungkwan, pulling the keys from your pocket. You don’t place them in Youngjae’s waiting hand; instead, you drop them onto the small glass coffee table next to him. They land with a loud, metallic clatter.
“I am at work,” you say, your voice ringing clear and authoritative in the quiet lobby. “You don’t come here and disrespect me. You don’t disrespect my colleagues. And you certainly don’t belittle what I do.”
Youngjae looks at the keys, then back at you, his eyes narrowing. “Are you serious right now? You’re making a scene over this?”
“No,” you correct him. “You made the scene. I am ending it. Take the keys and leave, Youngjae. Now.”
He stares at you, genuinely shocked. You’ve never spoken to him like this before. You’ve never pushed back. But standing here, with Seungkwan’s unyielding presence at your back, you feel a sudden, powerful surge of clarity. You are tired of shrinking.
Youngjae snatches the keys off the table, his face flush with a mix of embarrassment and fury.
He shoots one last, venomous glare at Seungkwan before turning on his heel. “We are talking about this later,” he throws over his shoulder, pushing through the front doors and disappearing into the rain.
The heavy doors swing shut, leaving a ringing silence in their wake.
Your adrenaline spikes, then immediately crashes. Your knees feel a little weak. You let out a shaky exhale, pressing the heels of your hands against your eyes. “Oh my god. I’m so sorry. I am so sorry you had to see that.”
Seungkwan turns to you, and the intimidating aura is gone. What replaces it is soft, immediate concern. He reaches out, his hands hovering around you as if he wants to pull you into his chest, but instead he settles for gripping your shoulders, his thumbs pressing reassuringly against your collarbones.
“Don’t apologize,” he says fiercely, his voice rough. “Don’t you ever apologize for him, Y/N.”
“He was so loud,” you whisper, humiliated tears pricking the corners of your eyes. “Everyone heard.”
“Good,” Seungkwan says stepping closer. His thumb brushes a stray tear from your cheek, the touch shockingly gentle. “Let them see that you don’t let anyone walk all over you. You were incredible just now.”
You look up at him. The lobby lights catch the deep brown of his eyes, turning them into something almost golden with protective pride that makes your chest ache. He isn’t looking at you with pity. He’s looking at you like you hung the moon.
You want him to kiss you.
And normally, you would say it’s because you were feeling vulnerable, but you know that isn’t it. Being with Seungkwan just inches away from you like this makes you feel like the teenage girl who was hopelessly in love with him. Honestly, you’ve been feeling this way ever since he came back into your life.
“Two minutes!” Seungcheol’s voice booms from down the hallway, echoing through the corridor.
Seungkwan lets his hands slide down your arms, giving your hands a quick, firm squeeze before letting go. You just nod to yourself, taking a deep breath, but as you turn toward the studio doors, he caught your elbow.
“Tokki, wait,” he starts, his voice dropping to a serious register. He steps closer, his shadow falling over you. “We need to talk about what just happened. About the way he treated you.”
You pull your arm back, shaking your head so hard your hair whips around your face. “I can’t, Seungkwan. Not now. I have a broadcast to get through.”
“You’re just going to pretend he didn’t try to dictate your entire life in front of your colleagues?”
“Please,” you cut him off, voice cracking. You look at the studio doors, desperate for the sanctuary of the booth. “Just… leave it alone. For tonight. If you care about me, just leave it alone.”
Seungkwan watches you, jaw tight, clearly wanting to push it further. Frustration and aching sympathy flicker across his face. He finally gives a short, stiff nod. “Fine. But we’re talking about this later.”
You don’t answer, just turn and walk toward Studio B, the weight of the night pressing down on you.
FIVE MONTHS AGO
Seungkwan’s house was entirely too quiet when you arrived. Usually, his home was a chaos of neighborhood gossip, the television blaring something, his sisters’ friends coming and going, and the smell of something delicious simmering on the stove. But today, the air felt subdued.
His mother met you at the front door with a deep, exhausted sigh. “He hasn’t left that room in three days. Ever since the official press release about his retirement hit the news cycle on Tuesday, he’s just been lying there. He won’t eat. He barely talks. It’s like all the light just drained right out of him.”
“I’ll handle it,” you promised, offering her reassuring smile. You gripped the manila folder in your hand a little tighter. “He just needs a push.”
You marched up the familiar wooden stairs, your socks padding softly against the floorboards. You knew exactly the kind of existential dread Seungkwan was currently drowning in. For eleven years, his entire identity had been tied to a grueling, relentless schedule. He was an idol, for crying out loud. He was a performer.
Now, standing on the other side of that massive, terrifying decision to walk away, the silence was probably deafening. He had jumped off the cliff, and he was currently waiting to see if the parachute was going to open.
You were here to be the parachute.
You pushed the door to his childhood bedroom open without knocking. The curtains were drawn tight, casting the room a gloomy and artificial twilight despite it being two in the afternoon.
Seungkwan was lying flat on his back in the center of his bed. He was wearing a faded gray sweatshirt and soft sweatpants, his arms resting limply over his stomach. He was staring blankly up at the ceiling, looking so profoundly lost and exhausted that it made your chest physically ache.
“Is this a wake?” you asked, your voice cutting through the stale air. “Because I’m not wearing black.”
Seungkwan jolted slightly, his head snapping toward the door. His eyes were dark, rimmed with the red, puffy evidence of a sleepless night. “Y/N? What are you doing here?”
“Intervention,” you announced simply.
You walked straight past his desk, didn’t bother to take off you oversized cardigan, and threw yourself unceremoniously onto the mattress right next to him.
The bedsprings groaned in protest as you landed flat on your back, your shoulder practically brushing against his. You crossed your ankles, folding your hands over your stomach, and mirrored his exact posture, staring up at the ceiling.
For a long moment, Seungkwan was too stunned to speak. He just turned his head, staring at your profile in absolute bewilderment.
“You’re invading my misery,” he finally muttered, his voice raspy and completely devoid of its usual bright energy.
“Well, misery loves company,” you countered easily, keeping your eyes on the faded, peeling glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to his ceiling. “Besides, we used to do this all the time. Remember? We spent half of our freshman year lying on this exact bed, staring at those stupid plastic stars.”
Seungkwan let out a hollow, humorless breath, turning his gaze back up to the ceiling. “Yeah. Usually because you were having a meltdown about a chemistry exam.”
“We used to lie here for hours,,” you continued softly, the memory bringing a bittersweet tightness to your throat. “Just talking. Planning out how we were going to conquer the world. We had it all figured out.”
“Now I’m almost thirty, unemployed, hiding from the paparazzi in my childhood bedroom, and you’re running a local radio station on an island we swore we’d escape.”
“Hey,” you admonished gently, shifting your weight so you could bump your shoulder against his. “My local radio station happens to be the second highest rated afternoon program in the district. And that is exactly why I’m here."
You reached over, slapping the manila folder onto his chest. He grabbed it instinctively before it slid off.
“What is this?” he asked, his brow furrowing as he looked at the logo on the cover.
“That is a job offer,” you declared, turning your head to look at him. “Yoona’s co-host is transferring to the morning news division next month. We need someone who can talk endlessly, who understands the entertainment industry, and who is incredibly desperate for a distraction.”
He frowned, his nose scrunching slightly in protest. “I wouldn’t call myself desperate.”
“Maybe not,” you shrugged. “But you do need a reason to get out of this bed, Kwan. And I need someone who won’t trip over the microphone cables. Help out your oldest friend, will you?”
Seungkwan stared at the folder, his thumb tracing the edge of the paper. You could see the gears turning in his head, the terrifying prospect of a new routine warring with the safety of his depression.
Before he could overthink it and hand the folder back, you let the tough-love producer persona drop entirely. The anger and the resentment from the past eleven years had been quietly eroding ever since he showed up at the recreation center, and seeing him like this—so broken and unsure—wiped out whatever was left of your pride.
“I missed you so much,” you whispered, the confession tumbling out of you before you could stop it.
You closed the remaining distance between you, turning on your side and resting your head gently against his shoulder. The fabric of his sweatshirt was soft, smelling faintly of fabric softener and the familiar scent that was just him.
Seungkwan froze for a fraction of a second, his breath hitching audibly in his chest, though his voice still sounded playful when he spoke. “Well, don’t go soft on me now.”
“Okay, forget it,” you said, struggling to stand as you pulled the folder off his chest.
But then, Seungkwan’s arm came up. He wrapped it securely around your shoulders, pulling you a fraction closer until you were tucked perfectly against his side. His other hand reached over, his long fingers finding yours in the space between you and grabbing your hand, intertwining your fingers with a desperate, crushing grip.
He leaned his head down, pressing his lips to the top of your head in a long, lingering kiss.
“I missed you every day,” he murmured into your hair. “Every single day, Y/N.”
You squeezed his hand, a sad smile touching your lips. “Liar. You forgot me.”
“And how could I forget you, tokki?” he asked softly, using the childhood nickname that instantly made your heart skip a beat.
You tilted your head up just enough to look at his face. “Are you still calling me that?”
“Always,” Seungkwan replied without a second of hesitation. He finally looked down, his eyes meeting yours in the dim light of the bedroom. The exhaustion was still there, but the absolute, unwavering certainty in his gaze took your breath away.
You stared at him, the weight of the last decade hanging in the six inches of air between your faces. You had spent so long building walls to keep him out, but lying here, tangled up with him in the quiet sanctuary of his room, it felt like no time had passed at all.
“Promise you won’t disappear this time,” you asked, your voice barely a whisper, entirely stripped of its usual sarcasm. It was a plea. A genuine, terrifying surrender.
Seungkwan looked into your eyes, tracking the slight tremble of your lower lip, the fearful hope shining in your gaze, and his heart physically violently hammered against his ribs. Swallowing down the desperate, burning need to kiss your lips, Seungkwan tightened his grip on your hand and forced a soft, reassuring smile.
“You’re going to get tired of me,” he said, his voice incredibly gentle. “I promise.”
He leaned down, carefully, deliberately, and kissed you on the forehead again. It was sweet. It was safe. It was the absolute maximum amount of restraint he was capable of mustering.
“I’ll take the job, PD-nim,” he whispered against your skin, closing his eyes as he breathed in the scent of your perfume. “I’m not going anywhere.”
PRESENT
The reservation at Don Capri was for 8:00 p.m. By 8:05, you’re huddled in a corner velvet booth with a perfect line of sight to Chan’s table, holding a leather-bound menu high enough to hide your face but low enough to keep table four in view.
“He’s sweating,” you whisper, adjusting the menu slightly. “I can see a bead of sweat on his temple from here. He’s going to dehydrate before the appetizers arrive.”
Across from you, Seungkwan let out a soft, amused hum. He didn’t bother hiding behind his menu. Instead, he sits perfectly relaxed against the velvet, looking entirely in his element.
“He’s fine, tokki. She just laughed at whatever he said,” Seungkwan observes, taking a slow sip of his water.
The second he shuts his mouth, something metallic crashes to the floor.
Seungkwan’s eyes widen. “Though he just knocked over the salt shaker. Give him ten minutes, if he drops his fork, we trigger the station emergency text.”
“Well, at least she doesn’t look like a serial killer,” you note, peering critically at Chan’s date again. She’s pretty, with an easy smile and, to her credit, she seems genuinely charmed by Chan’s nervousness.
“See? Fieldwork. I told you it would be fine.” Seungkwan reaches across the table, his fingers catching the top edge of your menu and pushing it down, forcing you to look at him. “Now stop spying. We are supposed to be blending in. If you keep staring at them, people are going to think we’re private investigators.”
You scoff, though your voice comes out a little breathless. “Blending in? We are sitting in a romantic Italian restaurant, hiding behind potted ferns. We look ridiculous.”
“We only look ridiculous because you’re acting like a spy,” Seungkwan corrects. “If we want to be convincing, we need to act like we belong here. Like we’re on a actual date. So stop slouching.”
And you don’t know it yet, but Seungkwan is fully intent on turning this into a actual date. Or at the very least, showing you how you deserve to be treated on one.
You straighten up, reflexively pulling your jacket tighter. “I am not slouching. I’m trying to be inconspicuous. Which is hard to do when you’re dressed like that.”
Seungkwan looks impeccable, actually. He’s wearing a navy lightweight sweater layered over a striped button-down, the collar and cuffs peeking out; a look so effortlessly devastating it made at least three women trip over their own feet on his way to the table. Your heart had done much the same when he showed up at your door dressed like that.
Not that you would say that out loud, anyway.
“Like what?” he asks, a playful glint in his eye as he leans back, looking entirely too relaxed for a stakeout.
“Like you’re going to a premiere, not babysitting a blind date,” you counter.
“If we’re going to be security, we have to look the part. If I look like a scrub, they’ll think we’re just two random people loitering. If I look like this,” he gestures to his outfit, “we’re a couple enjoying a nice, expensive dinner.”
You do your best to ignore him referring to the two of you as a couple.
He caught your eye and held it, the playfulness fading into something more deliberate. “Besides, you look beautiful tonight. Even if you are trying to hide behind the menu.”
You roll your eyes, ignoring the way your pulse skips. “Stop flirting with me, Boo Seungkwan.”
“Trust me, tokki,” Seungkwan says, a smirk tugging at his lips. You’ve never seen this side of him. “You’ll know when I’m flirting with you.”
A waiter approaches the table before you can say a word. He glances between the two of you, his gaze lingering on Seungkwan’s polished attire before softening when it lands on you.
“Good evening,” the waiter greets in a hushed tone. “Can I start you two off with a bottle of wine? We have a beautiful Sangiovese that pairs perfectly with the chill in the air tonight. Are we celebrating a special occasion?”
You open your mouth to stammer out a polite refusal, to explain that you were just friends having a quick bite, but Seungkwan beats you to it.
“We aren’t celebrating an anniversary, if that's what you mean,” Seungkwan smiles, the warmth in his expression entirely genuine as he looks at the waiter, and then at you. “But it is a special occasion. I finally convinced her to let me take her to dinner.”
The waiter chuckles. “Well, then, congratulations are in order for the gentleman. And for the lady, I promise the food will make the wait worthwhile. Shall I bring the wine?”
“Please,” Seungkwans nods. He don’t look at the menu; he keeps looking at you, eyes searching. “And we’ll put out food orders in now, too. We’ll start with the burrata, please. And for the main… Tokki, you still love the mushroom risotto, don’t you? With the truffle oil?”
You blink, startled. It’s been years since you mentioned that preference, during a crowded high school lunch, of all things. “I... yes. I do.”
“Two orders of the mushroom risotto,” Seungkwan says, turning back to the waiter. “And please, hold the olives for the lady. She hates them.”
The waiter beams. “Coming right up. A wonderful choice for such a lovely couple. I’ll be right back with your wine.”
As the waiter glides away, you stare at Seungkwan, your mouth slightly parts. Your fingers nervously curls into the heavy linen napkin on your lap. You could probably dwell on the fact that the waiter keeps referring to you as a couple, but only one thing is on your mind right now.
“You remembered that?” you whisper, almost disbelieving. “The mushroom risotto?”
Seungkwan leans his elbows on the table, resting his chin on his fingers. “I remember everything about you,” he says simply, shrugging slightly. “Besides, you always look at the past section first, but you invariably order rice dishes when you’re stressed. And right now, you’re tapping your foot against the table leg.”
You immediately still your foot, a flush of heat rising to your cheeks. He is paying attention. He is always paying an agonizing amount of attention to you.
“You didn’t have to put on the whole performance for the waiter,” you murmur, looking down at the flickering candle to avoid the heat of his gaze. “He probably thinks we’re together now.”
“That’s the point of blending in,” Seungkwan says softly. “But it wasn’t a performance. If I am taking you out to dinner, I’m going to do it right. You deserve to be taken out to a place with real tablecloths and good lighting.”
He doesn’t elaborate more. He simply picks up his water glass, clinks it against yours, and smiles. It’s the closest he has come to referencing your love life all evening, but he doesn’t cross the line. He keeps the focus entirely on the present, on the two of you in this dimly lit booth, slowly forgetting why you came in the first place.
The waiter returns, pouring two glasses of the dark red wine. Seungkwan picks his up, holding it out toward you.
“To fieldwork,” he toasts, a teasing smile playing on his lips.
You pick up your glass, the crystal clinking softly against his. “To Chan keeping both his kidneys.”
You take a sip. The wine is incredible, rich, complex, and warming you from the inside out. For the first time all week, the perpetual knot of anxiety in your chest begins to loosen. You lean back into the velvet booth, allowing yourself to actually look at the man sitting across from you.
“So,” you start, feeling a sudden urge of liquid courage. “If this were a real date, what would the great Boo Seungkwan talk about?”
Seungkwan laughs, a sound that rumbles over the ambient noise of the restaurant. “If you really want the full experience, you have to know the fine print.”
You arch an eyebrow, fighting a smile. “The fine print?”
“Yes. I’m incredibly demanding.”
“Oh, I’m sure.”
Seungkwan roll his eyes and leans forward, resting his forearms on the table. The candlelight dances across his features, highlighting the playful glint in his eyes.
“I require a lot of attention, tokki. You should know.” He winks at you. “I’m the guy who wants to know exactly what made you laugh on your dive to work, and why you always steal my pens during per-production eve though you have five of your own.”
“Yours are better and more expensive.” You lift a shoulder in your best you-got-me shrug.
Seungkwan doesn’t care. He’d buy a million pens just for you to steal if it made you happy.
He reaches across the table, his index finger lightly tracing the base of his wine glass. “And if this were a real date, I wouldn’t be looking at Chan right now. I’d probably tell you that the candlelight makes your eyes look absolutely incredible.”
Your breath hitches. The banter had shifted gears so smoothly you almost got whiplash. God, you’re supposed to be here to babysit Chan and his date, but right now the only thing you can think about is Seungkwan. You’ve practically forgotten table four exists.
“And then,” he continues, his voice sending a shiver straight down your spine, “I’d spend the rest of the appetizer course trying to figure out if you’re actually as unaffected by me as you’re pretending to be, or if I’m allowed to hold you hand across the table.”
Heat rushes to your cheeks, completely betraying your cool facade. “And what’s your conclusion, Boo?” you challenged, though there’s far less bite in your voice than usual. You can’t believe you’re actually flirting with your best friend right now.
“My conclusion,” he murmurs, his gaze dropping briefly to your lips before snapping back up to hold you stare, “is that you’re definitely not unaffected. You’ve been shredding your napkin for five minutes.”
You are affected. More than you want to admit, and definitely more than you want him to notice. You’ve been like this ever since Seungkwan came back, maybe even before that, when he existed only through blurry livestreams and phone screens.
You look down. The linen napkin in your lap is indeed thoroughly twisted between your tense fingers. You drop it immediately, clearing your throat, but you refuse to let him win that easily.
“You’re very confident in your methods,” you note, leaning forward so that you are mirroring his posture. You tilt your head, letting a slow smile cross your lips. “But I’m curious. You’ve laid out your entire strategy. What makes you think you’d survive my moves?”
Seungkwan pauses, the confident smirk faltering just a fraction as his eyes widen slightly. “Is that a challenge, tokki? What exactly are your moves?”
“Well,” you start, dropping your voice to match his intimate volume. “If this were a real date, I wouldn’t need to put on a performance. I’d just use what I already know."
You reach across the table, your fingers lightly grazing the cuff of his striped button-down, ostensibly to brush away a piece of invisible lint. You feel him tense under your touch.
“I’d tell you that you don’t need the expensive sweater to impress me, even though navy looks undeniably good on you,” you murmur, looking up through your lashes. “I’d point out that you always rub your thumb against your index finger when you’re trying to play it cool. just like you’re doing right now.”
Seungkwan’s hand stills against the table, his breath catching audibly. You bite your lip without thinking, and immediately watch his eyes drop to the movement.
“And then,” you continue, imitating him and thoroughly enjoying the sudden, flustered darkening of his eyes, “I’d remind you that I know exactly what you sound like when you’re genuinely caught off guard. And I’d make it my mission for the rest of the night to hear it.”
Seungkwan visibly swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing. The playful banter vanishes completely, replaced by a heavy, magnetic tension that completely short-circuits his brain. You can practically see the gears jamming as he stares at you, completely charmed and entirely at your mercy.
“You know, I’m just... invested in the mission,” you whisper, pulling your hand back and offering him an innocent, victorious smile.
“Right. The mission,” Seungkwan breathes out, his voice slightly rougher than it was a moment ago. He looks thoroughly wrecked by your counter-attack, and thoroughly entertained by it, too.
He reaches out, his fingers grazing your wrist as you reach for your water glass. The fleeting contact sends a jolt of electricity straight to your heart.
“Well, for the sake of the mission, I think we should keep up at the act. In fact, if the waiter comes back, I might just to lean in a little closer.”
“Don’t push your luck, Boo,” you warn, though a traitorous smile brakes across your face.
The burrata arrives, but neither of you pays any attention to it. The air inside the booth feels electric, every glance and teasing smile tightening the tension between you. The complicated reality of your life outside the restaurant fades into the background, replaced entirely by the thrill of Seungkwan’s undivided attention.
He’s flawlessly attentive, anticipating your needs before you voice them, teasing you gently, looking at you with such unwavering focus that the rest of the restaurant seems to disappear.
Once again, you’re laughing more than you have in months—maybe even years. You feel beautiful, interesting, completely captivating under Seungkwan’s gaze. It feels like you’re on an actual date. A hell of a good one, if you’re being honest.
By the time the waiter brings the check—which Seungkwan immediately snatches up before you can even think about reaching for your purse, shooting you a look that brooks absolutely no argument—you feel like you’re floating.
“Chan survived,” Seungkwan notes as he signs the receipt, subtly gesturing toward table four, where Chan and his date are bundled into their coats, flushed and smiling. “No organs harvested tonight.”
“Mission accomplished,” you agree, sliding out of the velvet booth.
As you stand, Seungkwan is already there, holding your coat open for you. You blink, faintly stunned, but slip your arms into the sleeves anyway. His hands linger lightly on your shoulders for a second longer than necessary, and the weight of his touch steals your breath all over again.
“Thank you,” you whisper, turning to look up at him.
“Anytime, tokki,” he smiles, stepping back to let you lead the way out of the restaurant.
TWO MONTHS AGO
Your mother’s inn was perched on a precipice, a jagged, flat-topped plateau of rock where the wind always smelled of salt. You could hear the waves crashing against the cliffs all night long, a rhythmic, slightly violent lullaby that had soundtracked your entire life.
The inn felt like a stubborn relic by now, while most of the city had sprouted sleek, glass-fronted luxury hotels and neon-lit resorts. It was weathered by the sea spray, its white paint peeling in places to reveal the sturdy, dark stone beneath, but there it stood: strong, and holding on.
You family quarters were tucked away at the back on the ground floor. That night, Seungkwan had insisted on walking you home after the show ended.
It started raining all of a sudden, and your mother was outside taking care of her plants when the two of you reached the door, soaking wet. She immediately insisted Seungkwan stay the night instead of walking home in the rain, even though he lived just down the street.
“Aigoo! Look at you both!” she shrieked, dropping a small trowel. “Y/N! Why didn’t you use an umbrella? And Seungkwanie! You’ll catch a cold and lose that voice of yours!”
“It’s just a little water, Auntie,” Seungkwan panted, trying to wipe his eyes, though he looked like he’d just climbed out of the ocean.
“Absolutely not,” she commanded, grabbing both of your elbows and hauling you inside the kitchen. “You are not walking home in this, Seungkwan. It’s pitch black and the wind is high enough to knock you off the cliff.”
“Mom, he lives five minutes down the street,” you reminded her, shivering as the air conditioning hit your wet skin.
“Five minutes too long! The road is slick, and your mother would kill me if her only son got pneumonia on my doorstep.” She was already rummaging through the linen closet, tossing a thick, oversized towel at Seungkwan’s head. “You’re staying. We have the guest room made up, and I’ll find some of your brother’s old clothes. Go, shower! Both of you!”
Seungkwan caught the towel, peeking out from under the white terry cloth. He looked at you, a hesitant, slightly mischievous glint in his eyes. He knew, as well as you did, that staying the night meant more than just avoiding the rain, it meant being back in the intimate, domestic bubble of your childhood, with sleepovers and everything that came with them.
You just shrugged. “You heard her.”
“I don’t want to be a burden...” he started, though his feet were already moving toward the hallway.
“The only burden is your chattering teeth,” your mother countered, already heading toward the stove to put on a pot of ginger tea.
You stood in the center of the kitchen, watching him. Seungkwan looked so out of place in your home, yet he smiled at your mother and thanked her with an ease that didn’t belong to the image you had of him. You didn’t know it, but he felt more at home there than he ever did in his apartment back in Seoul.
“Well,” you sighed, wringing out the hem of your shirt. “I guess we’re watching something here tonight.”
Seungkwan grinned, the water dripping from the tip of his nose. “Then hurry up, tokki. I’m not starting our study without you.”
Thirty minutes later, you left your room with a towel wrapped around your head, already dressed in your pajamas as walked down the hallway toward the living room, listening to your mother and grandmother’s voices as they talked to Seungkwan.
“Honestly, Seungkwanie, you look so thin. Does Pledis not feed their retirees?” your grandmother clucked, setting down a platter of golden-brown pajeon and a bottle of strawberry milk for him at the coffee table.
“Halmoni, you’re the only one who truly understands my nutritional needs,” Seungkwan chirped, his eyes crinkling into that sweet smile that had weaponized fans for more than a decade. He was already very comfortably settled on the sofa.
“Halmoni, stop,” you protested, placing a hand against her back in an attempt to guide her away. “He’s going to get an ego, and I’m the one who has to work with him tomorrow.”
“Oh, hush,” your mother dismissed you with a wave. She wiped her hands on her apron and sat on the edge of the armchair, fixing Seungkwan hair with a look that was equal parts maternal and deeply intrusive. “Leave the poor boy alone, Y/N.”
You could see it in her eyes as the gears in her head turned at terrifying speed, preparing whatever invasive question she was about to ask next. Your mother rarely believed in delicacy, privacy, or minding her own business. Especially when Boo Seungkwan was involved.
“Now, Seungkwanie, answer your Auntie honestly.” You squeezed your eyes shut the second a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, already bracing yourself. “A handsome, successful man like you, finally back home in Jeju... you must have girls throwing themselves at you. Do you have a girlfriend tucked away somewhere in Seoul?”
Your grandmother nodded enthusiastically, not missing a beat as she sat down next to your mother. “Yes! We were just talking about this in the kitchen while you were showering. You know, when you two were teenagers, constantly attached at the hip, we always used to say it was only a matter of time. We always thought you and Y/N would end up together.”
God, that was worse than you could’ve imagined. Even if you actually agreed with her.
Your jaw practically unhinged. You froze right behind the sofa, your hands tightening their grip on the towel wrapped around your wet hair. “Halmoni! Mom! What is wrong with you?”
Seungkwan, to his credit, didn’t choke on his bite of pajeon. But a slow, blooming red flush crept up the back of his neck, visible even under the collar of the borrowed sweatshirt. He looked up at you over his shoulder, his eyes sparkling with a dangerous amount of amusement, before turning his polite smile back to the two women.
“No girlfriend, Auntie,” Seungkwan said politely, though his voice had dropped into that smooth tone that always made your pulse jump. “The group kept me pretty busy. I never really found anyone who could put up with me.”
He paused, taking a slow sip of his strawberry milk. His gaze drifted back up to catch yours, a thoroughly devastating smirk playing on his lips.
“But...” he continued, his eyes locking onto yours, “I have to admit, Halmoni has excellent intuition. I always thought we made a pretty perfect pair, too.”
You let out a strangled gasp, your face immediately burning hot. You grabbed a small embroidered throw pillow off the back of the sofa and chucked it directly at his head.
“Aigoo!” your mother scolded, though she was trying and failing to hide a massive grin as Seungkwan easily dodged the pillow with a laugh. “Y/N! Where are your manners? You don’t throw things at our guest.”
“He’s not a guest, it’s Seungkwan!” you shot back, completely flustered as you marched around the sofa to grab a piece of pajeon, avoiding Seungkwan’s entirely entirely too-smug expression. “And both of you need to stop encouraging him.”
“We’re just stating the facts,” your grandmother stated placidly, patting Seungkwan’s knee. “It’s nice to have you back, Seungkwanie. It feels like things are finally exactly where they’re supposed to be.”
“You know, Seungkwan,” your mother turned back to Seungkwan, her eyes sparkling with a sudden, mischievous memory. “Y/N was always your biggest supporter. Even when you weren’t here to see it.”
A cold spike of dread shot through your chest. “Mom. No.”
“In fact,” she continued, ignoring your frantic eye signals, “she kept a little... archive. In the back of her closet. It’s still there. All those albums and the rare photocards—”
This had to be a nightmare.
“Mom, I swear to God—”
“Photocards?” Seungkwan’s head whipped toward you again, his eyebrows arching toward his hairline. A slow, smug grin began to spread across his face. “Rare ones?”
“I don’t know what she’s talking about,” you muttered, your face heating to a shade of red that could rival the ON AIR sign back at the station.
“I’ll go get the binder!” you mother chirped, already scurrying toward the hallway.
“Mom! Don’t you dare!”
You scrambled after her, but it was too late. Within seconds, your mother returned, triumphantly hoisting a thick, plastic-sleeved binder and a dusty box. She dropped them onto the coffee table with a heavy thud.
Seungkwan leaned forward, his eyes wide with delight. He flipped the binder open. It was a chronological history of his career: rare photo cards you’d traded for, newspaper clippings from his first win on Music Bank, and even a crumpled receipt from his first fan meeting in Seoul.
“Is this…” Seungkwan traces the edge of a photocard where he's sporting a questionable bowl from his first studio album. “Y/N, even I don’t have this one.”
He looked at the box, pulling out a lightstick that had been carefully preserved, its battery long dead but the diamond inside still gleaming. He looked from the collection to you, his expression shifting from teasing to something much softer, much more complex.
“You kept everything,” he whispered.
You stood by the TV, arms crossed tightly over your chest, feeling exposed in a way that had nothing to do with radio broadcast. You felt like the teenage girl again, sitting on the parapet, watching the boy you loved walk away toward a life you couldn’t follow.
“It’s just... memorabilia,,” you lied, your voice tight in your throat. “For the history of Jeju’s most famous export.”
Another lie. That entire collection had been your way of staying close to Seungkwan after he cut you out of his life without a single explanation. You didn’t just want to support his career, you wanted to feel close to him somehow, no matter how ridiculous it made you feel.
And honestly, you’d owned far more than what was left in that box. At one point, you even bought a life-size cardboard cutout of Seungkwan. But after one particularly angry night, you threw half of it away. The remaining pieces were only there because your mother had saved them.
Seungkwan stood up, the binder still open to a page of his handwritten lyrics you’d printed out years ago. “Y/N. Why didn’t you ever tell me about this?”
The frustration that had been building for months — of the twelve-year silence, of Seungkwan sliding back into your life as if he hadn’t left a gaping hole behind — suddenly boiled over.
You looked him dead in the eye, your chin trembling just slightly. “Well, you left, didn’t you?”
The silence that followed was terrible. Heavy. Your mother and grandmother, realizing they’d accidentally stepped into a minefield, quietly retread to the kitchen.
Seungkwan flinched as if you’d slapped him. The smugness was gone. His glow was gone. He looked down at the binder, at the version of himself that had been a start while you stayed behind.
He opened his mouth to speak, but you cut him off before a word could leave his lips. “Let’s just watch, okay?”
PRESENT
The drive back to your house is suspended in silence. It isn’t the uncomfortable, suffocating quiet you’re used to sharing with Youngjae after an argument; it’s a warm stillness. The ambient glow of the dashboard illuminates Seungkwan’s profile as he navigates the winding coastal roads, the faint sound of a lo-fi track humming through the car speakers.
As the tires crunch onto the familiar gravel of the inn’s precipice, the sound of the ocean immediately rushes in to fill the space. Waves crash violently against the rocks below, creating a wild soundtrack for the storm brewing in your chest.
Seungkwan shifts the car into park but leaves the engine idling. The heater blows softly, maintaining the comfortable, intimate bubble you’ve been trapped inside all night. He doesn’t immediately reach to unlock the doors. Instead, he unbuckles his seatbelt and shifts in his seat, turning fully toward you.
You stare out the windshield at the peeling white paint of your mother’s inn, suddenly completely unwilling to open the door. Opening it means the “fieldwork” night is over. It means stepping back into the cold reality where you are the secret girlfriend of a man who doesn’t respect you.
“So…” you start, voice sounding a little smaller than you intended. You turn you head, sinking slightly into the leather set to look at him. “We’re successfully completed the dinner portion of our research.”
Seungkwan rests his arm along the back of your seat, eyes tracing the line of your face in the dim light. “We did. I’d say the data we collected was highly successful.”
And the more e you tried to piece everything together, the more confused you became. Was Seungkwan actively flirting with you? Was he serious about what he confessed that night when you were both drunk? Or was this all just concern disguised as something else, his way of trying to save you from Youngjae?
You couldn’t tell anymore, and that uncertainty was driving your thoughts into complete chaos.
You let out a soft, nervous breath, your eyes dropping to Seungkwan’s mouth for a fraction of a second before snapping back up to his eyes. “What happens now, then? In the spirit of a comprehensive study... what are your moves at the end of a date?”
“My moves?” he echoes, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly tone that sends a shiver straight down your spine.
“Yeah,” you whisper, suddenly hyperaware of the small space between you inside the car. “Do you just... say goodnight and drive away?”
“No,” Seungkwan murmurs, leaning a little closer. The faint scent of expensive wine and cedarwood wraps around you. “If it were a real date, I’d walk her all the way to her door. I’d wait until she got inside safely. And I’d still ask her to text me after, just so I could be absolutely sure.”
“And then?” you press, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird desperate to be set free.
Boo Seungkwan’s gaze drops to your lips. This time, he doesn’t even try to hide it, his tongue darting out to wet his own. “And then, if she were looking at me the way you’re looking at me right now...” His voice lowers even more, rough around the edges. “I’d kiss her goodnight.”
The air in the car vanishes at the same time it does in your lungs.
Every rational thought—the fact that you are still technically dating Youngjae, the fact that you work together, the fact that this could shatter the fragile equilibrium of your friendship—is completely eclipsed by the magnetic pull of the man sitting beside you. Your best friend.
You had spent a year starving in the dark, and Seungkwan was suddenly offering you a feast in the light.
Your gaze drops to his lips, slightly parted, before lifting back to his eyes, darkened and blown wide with anticipation.
“Then kiss me,” you breathe, barely believing the words have left your mouth.
Seungkwan freezes. For a single, agonizing millisecond, he just stares at you, his eyes searching yours frantically, as if trying to confirm he heard you correctly, making sure it isn’t a joke or a mistake.
Whatever he finds in your expression broke the last remaining thread of his restraint.
He closes the distance between you in a heartbeat. His hand rises, long fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of your neck, and he pulls you forward just as his lips crash against yours.
There isn’t a hint of hesitation in the way his lips move against yours—only certainty. It’s fifteen years of waiting, of quiet longing, yearning in high school hallways, on parapets, and in agonizingly small radio booths, finally shattering wide open.
His lips are warm and soft against yours, tasting faintly of wine and the chapstick he’d applied before driving you home. The hand on the back of your seat rises to grip your jaw, tilting your head to deepen the kiss, and you gasp against his mouth, a soft, involuntary sound. Seungkwan takes it as permission for his tongue to swipe between your lips.
You melt against him completely, your hands flying up to grip his navy-blue sweater, afraid that if you don’t, you might dissolve into a puddle in his passenger seat. Seungkwan’s kiss is mind-blowing, addictive, and so much more than you ever dreamed it would be when you were a teenager.
The center console digs uncomfortably into your side, but you don’t care. You pull yourself closer, your fingers sliding from his chest up into his soft hair, tugging gently at the strands. Seungkwan groans, a low, incredibly attractive sound that vibrates against your lips as he grows bolder, pulling you over his legs to straddle his lap in the driver’s seat, your skirt riding up considerably.
You don’t hesitate, practically throwing yourself into Seungkwan’s lap, his arm flying to your hips as you giggle when your head lightly hits the car ceiling. Seungkwan likes the sound of your laughter, but he thinks he might have just fallen in love with the little gasp and moan that slip out when he kisses you again.
It’s dizzying, entirely consuming; you feel like your head is spinning. For the first time in months, you don’t feel like you’re shrinking; you feel like you’re the absolute center of the fucking universe.
When you finally pull apart to catch your breath, neither of you moves very far. Seungkwan keeps his forehead resting against yours, your chests rising and falling unevenly in the quiet interior of the car. But when you open your eyes again, his expression isn’t blissful. It’s troubled, worried.
Your stomach drops instantly. Scared of what he might say next, you whisper: “What’s wrong?”
“Y/N,” Seungkwan says softly, his breathing uneven. “I’m not strong enough to pull away from you right now. So if this was just a kiss for research... I need you to be the one to stop this before I—”
You silence him with another kiss, your arms winding around his neck to pull him impossibly closer. Seungkwan make a soft sound against your mouth when you catch his lower lip between yours, your hips rolling against him involuntarily.
Both of you let out shaky groans at the same time when you feel the hard press of him where your bodies meet. Seungkwan’s head tips back instinctively, exposing the long line of his throat, and you immediately take the invitation, kissing your way along his neck while his hands slide down to your exposed thigh.
His fingers give light, lingering squeezes as they slowly travel higher, dangerously close to where you want him the most. The anticipation alone is enough to make you shiver, unsure if you’ll survive the moment his hands finally reach the place you’ve bee aching for him to touch.
You can feel the heat radiating off his body, his scent enveloping you in a dizzying cloud of desire.
Seungkwan’s fingers dance along the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, the light touches leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. His touch is electrifying, igniting a fire within you that threatens to consume you entirely. Your hips rock forward involuntarily, seeking more friction, more contact with the hard length pressing insistently against your core.
“Please,” you whimper against his neck, your voice ragged with need. “Touch me, Seungkwan.”
He groans at your words, his fingers inching higher until they brush against the damp fabric of your panties. You gasp at the contact, your head falling back against the steering wheel as he begins to rub slow circles over your clothed sex. The thin barrier of your underwear does little to dull the sensation, and you can feel your arousal soaking through the material, coating Seungkwan’s fingers.
“Fuck, Y/N,” he breathes, his eyes dark with desire as he watches you fall apart beneath his touch. “You’re so wet for me already. I can feel you throbbing against my fingers.”
Emboldened by your moans, Seungkwan hooks his fingers into the waistband of your panties and pulls them aside, exposing your dripping core to the cool air of the car. He wastes no time before running a finger along your slick folds, gathering your arousal before bringing it to his lips. His tongue darts out to taste you, his eyes fluttering shut as he savors your flavor.
“God, you taste divine,” he murmurs, his voice rough. “I could eat you out all night long.”
His words send a shiver down your spine, and you find yourself rocking your hips forward, desperate for more of his touch.
Seungkwan takes the hint and slips a finger inside your heat, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing in slow circles. You cry out at the intrusion, your walls clenching around his digit as he begins to pump it in and out of you slowly.
“Look at you,” Seungkwan growls, his eyes locked on where his finger disappears inside you. “So tight and perfect. I can’t wait to feel you wrapped around my cock.”
The thought of him inside you sends a wave of heat through your body, and you find yourself fisting his hair, tugging him closer as you grind down on his hand. Seungkwan responds by adding a second finger, scissoring them inside you as he continues to stroke your clit with his thumb.
“Seungkwan,” you gasp, your hips bucking wildly as you chase your impending orgasm. “Don’t stop, please.”
He leans forward, capturing your lips in another kiss as his fingers continue to work you over. His tongue delves into your mouth, tangling with yours as he swallows your moans and whimpers. You can feel your release building, your walls fluttering around his fingers as he brings you closer and closer to the edge.
With one final thrust of his fingers and a particularly hard press of his thumb against your clit, you come undone. Your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave, your body convulsing as you scream your pleasure into Seungkwan’s mouth. He holds you through it, his fingers continuing to stroke your sensitive flesh as you ride out the aftershocks of your climax.
As you come down from your high, Seungkwan slowly withdraws his fingers from your still-throbbing core. He brings them to his mouth once more, licking them clean of your juice before pulling you into one more kiss. You can taste yourself on his tongue, the flavor a heady mix of sweet and tangy that has your core clenching with renewed desire.
But as you lose yourself in the kiss, the reality of the situation begins to sink in. You’re still in Seungkwan’s car, parked outside of your mother’s inn. At any moment, someone could come looking for you, catching you in a compromising position with your best friend.
The realization hits you not as a gradual dawning, but as a visceral, physical blow. It starts in your stomach, a sudden, plummeting sensation of nausea. You aren’t just exploring a connection. You are cheating. You are cheating on the man you are still technically tethered to, and in doing so, you are dragging Seungkwan into a mess he doesn’t deserve.
You look at Seungkwan’s face—open, hopeful, glowing with the anticipation of what comes next—and the guilt that floods you is suffocating.
You can’t do this to him. You can offer him a fragment of yourself while you are still tied to someone else. You see the way he shifts, his hand moving down to find yours, his fingers interlacing with your own, a silent offer to take this further, to stay, to bridge the final gap between you.
No.
The word echos in your mind, sharp and final.
You pull your hand away as if you’d been burned.
Panic begins to set in, and you pull away from Seungkwan, your chest heaving as you try to catch your breath. “We can’t... We shouldn’t have done this,” you pant, your eyes wide with fear.
Seungkwan frowns, his brows drawing together in confusion. The warmth in his eyes flickers, replaced by a jagged, sudden uncertainty. “Y/N? What is it?”
“I...” Your voice fails you. You try to speak, but the words stick in your throat. The air in the car suddenly feels too thick to breathe. It feels like the walls are closing in, the tinted windows transforming from a shield into a prison.
“Did I... did I cross a line?” Seungkwan asks, his voice dropping, stripped of its earlier confidence. Hurt is already beginning to cloud his features. “I’m sorry, I just—you asked me to—”
“It’s not you,” you gasp, fumbling for the door handle. Your hands are shaking so violently you can barely get a grip on the lever. “It’s not you, Seungkwan. It’s me. It’s everything.”
“Y/N, wait,” he says, reaching out to grab your arm, his touch gentle but firm, trying to ground you. “Talk to me. You’re scaring me. We don’t have to do anything else. We can just sit here. Just talk.”
You can’t look at him. If you do, you know you’ll shatter. You know you’ll stay. You know you would trade your sanity for the feeling of his lips on yours, for the way his hands roam over your body, touching you in ways you’d only ever dreamed about, and that is the most dangerous part of all.
You jerk your arm back, your breath coming in short, ragged gasps. The engine is still idling, the low hum vibrating through the floorboards, matching the frantic, uneven thudding of your heart.
“I can’t,” you whisper, the words barely audible. “I can’t do this. I can’t be this person.”
Seungkwan’s expression falls, his brow furrowing in concern and hurt. “Y/N, wait—”
But you don’t give him a chance to finish his sentence. In a moment of sheer panic, you scramble out of the car, not even bothering to fix your skirt as you flee up the path to the inn’s front door. You can hear Seungkwan calling after you, but you don’t dare look back.
Your hands are shaking as you fumble with your keys, finally managing to unlock the door and slip inside. You lean against it, your heart pounding in your chest as you try to process what just happened.
And for hours, you just stand there, trapped in the hallway of your childhood home, the silence pressing in on you from all sides.
A MONTH AGO
It was Seungkwan’s birthday that night. And despite his repeated protests that he wanted a quiet night in with you and his parents, his group members had blatantly ignored him, flying in from Seoul that afternoon and bringing with them a overwhelming wave of noise, expensive gifts, and a decade’s worth of inside jokes you knew nothing about.
You had been invited—or rather, Seungkwan had threatened to drag you out of the radio station by your ankles if you didn’t show up.
“Here, Y/N, you need to try this cut,” Seokmin announced loudly over the sizzling of the grill, leaning across the table to drop a perfectly cooked piece of pork belly onto your plate. “Seungkwan used to burn the meat all the time when the for of us lived together, so I had to learn how to cook to survive.”
“My cooking skills are great!” Seungkwan defended himself immediately, grabbing his tongs and glaring at Seokmin.
You laughed, covering your mouth as you chewed. Sitting there with them felt surreal, you spent years watching these men on television or through a tiny phone screen, but in person, they were just loud, fiercely loyal brothers who clearly adored Seungkwan just as much as you.
“Don’t listen to them, Y/Nie,” a soft voice chimed in from the end of the table.
You looked over to see Jeonghan resting his chin on his hand, offering you a smile that was practically lethal. He was wearing a simple black shirt, but he somehow still look like he belonged on a billboard in Times Square.
“Seungkwan has many talents. Though, he is notoriously bad at sharing.”
You opened your mouth to reply, fully intending to agree with Jeonghan, but before you could even form a syllable, Seungkwan shifted his chair. He moved a full six inches to the left, strategically placing his broad shoulders directly in your line of sight, entirely blocking Jeonghan from your view.
“Okay, hyung, that’s enough,” Seungkwan said, his ears turning a faint shade of pink. He furiously flipped a piece of meat on the grill. “Eat your pork.”
You leaned back, trying to peer around Seungkwan’s arm. “I was just going to say—”
“No, you weren’t,” Seungkwan interrupted, tossing a piece of lettuce onto your plate with entirely too much force. “You don’t need to talk to him.”
You bit your lip to suppress a massive grin.
Ever since they arrived, Seungkwan has been doing everything he can to keep you far away from Jeonghan. All of it because of the comment you made months ago about thinking he was handsome, inflamed by you bring it up a few more times just to annoy him, insisting that Jeonghan’s face belonged in a painting.
An as soon as you were introduced, you didn’t miss the opportunity to announce that Jeonghan was your bias when asked, something the oldest member of the group took full advantage of, delighting in the sight of Seungkwan’s ears burning with jealousy every time he spoke to you.
It was a very, very fun night.
“Funny that it’s not a collection of his you have shoved in the back of your closet,” Seungkwan whispered, just loud enough for you to hear as he squeezed your waist.
You rolled your eyes, slapping his hand away. “Shut up.”
That was another one of those things you hadn’t talked about yet, and you had no intention of discussing it there with his members watching.
“Are you hiding her from me, Kwan-ah?” Jeonghan teased, his voice dancing with amusement as he leaned sideways to catch your eye again. “Y/N, did he tell you I was dangerous?”
“He’s blocking my view of the painting,” you agreed playfully, thoroughly enjoying the way Seungkwan’s jaw clenched, his tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek.
“I am going to throw you both into the ocean,” Seungkwan threatened, pouring himself a shot of soju. He pointed his stainless steel chopstick at you. “And you. Stop encouraging him. You’re supposed to be on my side. It’s my birthday.”
“I’m on the side of objective beauty,” you teased, bumping your shoulder against his.
Seungkwan rolled his eyes, but a reluctant, fond smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. He was more than happy to see you getting along well with his friends, even if he was quietly sulking for your attention.
He leaned in closer to you, dropping his voice so the others couldn’t hear over the sizzling meat. “You’re terrible. I fly my friends down here to meet you, and you immediately try to run off with the visual.”
“You’re a visual too, Boo,” you whispered back, patting his chin, the playful banter suddenly dipping into something much warmer. “Don’t be so jealous.”
Seungkwan’s eyes darkened, a flash of genuine emotion breaking through the easygoing atmosphere. “I’m not jealous,” he murmured, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second. “I just know what’s mine.”
Your breath hitched, the ambient noise of the restaurant suddenly fading into the background.
After the night you got drunk together and traded teenage confessions, Seungkwan had started being flirty with you more and more. Your mother and grandmother certainly weren’t helping, constantly fueling the idea that the two of you belonged together.
But before you could unpack that, Joshua clapped his hands together from across the table, catching both of yours attention.
“So, Seungkwan,” Joshua said, raising his glass in a toast. “Now that the escrow officially closed on the Gangnam apartment last week, what’s the plan? Are you buying a place here in Jeju?”
You froze, your chopsticks hovering halfway to your mouth. You turned your head slowly, staring at the side of Seungkwan’s face.
He had sold his apartment? The massive, luxury penthouse in Seoul that he had spent the last five years decorating? The apartment that anchored him to the capital, to the industry, to the life he had built away from you?
Seungkwan’s entire body tensed as he slowly lowered his tongs. He didn’t look at Joshua or his members. He only looked at you, reading the absolute shock radiating across your features.
“You... sold your apartment?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, entirely oblivious to the other four men at the table.
“Ah,” Jihoon winced softly from across the table, realizing the sudden, drastic shift in the atmosphere. “He didn’t tell you.”
“I was going to,” Seungkwan said quickly, turning fully toward you. A flash of panic crossed his eyes, clearly bracing himself for you to be angry. “Y/N, I swear I was going to tell you. The paperwork just finalized.”
“You sold it,” you repeated, the reality of the situation settling heavy and absolute in your chest. Selling that apartment wasn’t just a financial decision. It meant his retirement wasn’t a temporary hiatus to clear his head. It meant he was not going back.
It meant he was staying for good. That the boy you loved all those years ago—the one who broke your heart by leaving and not speaking to you for the twelve years that followed—was actually back, and he wasn’t going anywhere, just like he promised while lying beside you in his childhood bedroom.
It was too much to process in a room full of people and five pair of eyes on you.
“Excuse me,” you managed to say, your voice breathless as you pushed your chair back from the table. “I just need to use the restroom.”
You didn’t wait for his response. You slipped out of the private room, the noise of the restaurant hitting you like a physical wall as you navigated the crowded hallway toward the back exit. You didn’t go to the restroom; you pushed through the heavy metal door that led to the quiet, dimly lit alley behind the building.
The cold night air hit your flushed face, but it did nothing to slow the frantic beating of your heart.
He was staying. He was actually, permanently staying.
The heavy metal door creaked open behind you. You didn’t need to turn around to know it was him. You could feel his presence, the familiar, grounding gravity that had always pulled you in.
Seungkwan stepped into the alley, letting the door click shut, cutting off the noise of the restaurant. He shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his slacks, stopping a few feet away from you.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, his voice apprehensive. “I shouldn’t have let you find out like that. I wanted to tell you properly.”
You turned to face him, leaning back against the brick wall of the restaurant. You let out a long, shaky breath, shaking your head. “I’m not mad, Kwan. I’m just... stunned. That’s a massive deal. Your whole life was in Seoul.”
Seungkwan visibly relaxed, the tension bleeding out of his shoulders when he realized you weren’t upset, just overwhelmed. He took a slow step closer, the faint light from a nearby streetlamp catching the sharp angles of his face.
“My career was in Seoul,” Seungkwan corrected softly. “My life... my life hasn’t been there for a very long time.”
“But why?” you asked, your voice filled with genuine wonder. “You loved that penthouse. You worked so hard for it. Why would you give it all up?”
Seungkwan stopped right in front of you. He didn’t hesitate. He looked down at you with a raw, terrifying honesty that made your knees weak.
“Because I found a reason to stay here,” he said, his voice a vibrating hum that went straight to your bones. “Because everything I have ever actually wanted is right here. On this island.”
He reached out, his warm fingers gently wrapping around your wrist, his thumb brushing over your racing pulse.
“I’m staying for good, tokki,” he promised, his eyes entirely focused on yours. “I told you that you’d get tired of me.”
You shook your head, not understanding why your eyes were suddenly burning, threatening to fill with tears. “I could never.”
A smile spread across Seungkwan’s face. “Well, then, great. Because I plan on keeping you as close as I can.”
A lump formed in your throat, thick and suffocating. You wanted to throw your arms around his neck. You wanted to tell him that you were terrified, but that you wanted him to stay close to you more than you wanted to breathe. That you wanted to close the distance between you right at that moment.
But then, your phone buzzed violently in your pocket, and you flinched as if you’d been burned, the spell cast over you shattering.
Once again, you knew exactly who it was without even looking. Youngjae had texted you ten minutes ago to say he was waiting two blocks down, parked near the pharmacy to reduce the possibility of someone known see his car.
The ugly reality of your secret life came crashing down, entirely ruining the beautiful thing Seungkwan was offering you. You were still trapped in the dark, and you couldn’t drag him down into it with you.
You gently, painfully pulled your wrist out of his grip. “I have to go,” you whispered, the words tasting like ash in your mouth. “My ride is here.”
Seungkwan’s jaw tightened again. He looked down the street, toward the dark corner where he knew, and you knew, Youngjae was hiding. The disappointment flickered in his eyes, but he didn’t argue. He just took a slow step back, giving you space.
“Right,” Seungkwan grumbled, his voice entirely devoid of the warmth it held seconds ago. “Have a good night, Y/N.”
You couldn’t leave him like this. Not on his birthday. Not after he had just implicitly confessed to altering the entire trajectory of his life for you.
You stepped forward, closing the distance he had just created. You placed your hands flat against his chest, feeling the steady, strong beat of his heart beneath the fine fabric of his shirt. He froze, his breath catching as you tipped your chin up.
“Happy Birthday, Kwan,” you whispered.
Before he could react, you leaned up and pressed a soft, lingering kiss directly to the tip of his nose. It was an old habit, a childhood gesture of pure, unfiltered affection that you hadn’t used in more than a decade.
He sharply inhaled, his eyes fluttering shut as his hands twitched at his sides, desperate to reach for you.
But you didn’t give him the chance. You pulled away, abandoning the warmth of his orbit, and turned on your heel. You walked back into the restaurant to say goodbye to his members, leaving him standing alone beneath the flickering streetlamp. Then you slipped into the passenger seat of Youngjae’s waiting car and disappeared into the night.
PRESENT
You didn’t show up to work for the two days that followed the events in Seungkwan’s car.
Yesterday, you called Seungcheol, claiming a sudden, violent stomach bug. Today, it was a vague text about a “family emergency,” and Seungkwan knows exactly what the emergency is: you’re hiding from him.
He had sat in his idling car for five minutes that night, gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white, fighting the overwhelming urge to get out, walk to your door, pound on it, and demand answers to why you ran, what you were thinking, and how he could make you stop worrying.
But he didn’t. Seungkwan had promised himself he would never be the reason you felt cornered, so he stayed in the car a moment longer, than turned the wheel and drove away instead.
Now Seungkwan sits at the desk in Studio B, his hands resting flat against the cool surface as he stares at your empty chair, the digital clock on the monitor blinks relentlessly: 8:45 PM.
Normally, this was the time the tiny broadcast room would be vibrating with frantic, pre-show energy. You would be shuffling through your printed notes, chewing absently on the end of a blue ballpoint pen, and shooting him exasperated looks as he deliberately tried to distract you. The air would be filled with a comfortable banter.
Tonight, the silence is deafening.
He reaches across the console, his fingers brushing lightly over the tape marker that designates your microphone levels.
He misses you. He misses your laugh; he misses the way your eyes crinkle when he finally manages to catch you off guard. He spent twelve years running from his feelings, and now that he has finally stopped running, the object of his affection is sprinting in the opposite direction.
The soundproof door clicks open, breaking him out of his spiraling thoughts.
Hansol and Chan step into the studio, bringing a sudden wave of chaotic energy with them. Hansol looks entirely unfazed, a pair of oversized headphones resting around his neck and a half-empty iced matcha latte in his hand. Chan, on the other hand, looks like he’s walking to his own execution, clutching your production clipboard to his chest like a bulletproof vest.
“Hyung,” Chan starts immediately, his eyes wide with panic as he stares at the massive audio console. “I’m telling you right now, I don’t know what half of these buttons do. If I hit the wrong slider, are we going to accidentally broadcast submarine sonar across the entire island?”
“You’re not going to broadcast sonar, Chan,” Seungkwan sighs, rubbing his temples. “Just touch the faders Hansol marked with the green tape. Don’t touch the red ones. The red ones drop the delay.”
Chan shifts his weight, still staring nervously at Seungkwan. “What if I need to drop the delay?” he presses. “What if a caller starts swearing? What if someone confesses to a crime? Do I hit the red button then?”
Hansol claps a hand down on Chan’s shoulder, unfazed. “If someone confesses to a crime on a local romantic advice show, you let it ride, man. That’s just good ratings.” He shrugs. “Just breathe. You survived a blind date where you thought your organs were going to be harvested. You can survive pressing a plastic button.”
Chan visibly grimaces at the mention of the date, the very date that had been the catalyst for Seungkwan’s entire world tilting off its axis.
The solution Seungcheol had found for your absence was to put Chan in your place, with Hansol supervising him. Yesterday, Seungkwan had tried to manage on his own, but it was clear he didn’t really know what he was doing without you there, aside from talking nonstop, trying to hide that he was lost.
“You guys don’t have to do this,” Seungkwan says, finally looking up at them. His voice lacks its usual bright edge. “I can try run the boards myself again. Cheol hyung said it was fine if we just played an acoustic set for the second hour.”
Hansol takes a slow sip of his matcha, his observant eyes scanning Seungkwan’s face. Hansol is famously quiet, but he misses absolutely nothing. He’s seen the way Seungkwan has been pacing the halls like a caged animal for the past two days without you there, and Seungkwan knows he understands—without needing to ask—that something happened between the two of you, even if he chooses not to intrude.
“We’re doing it,” Hansol says smoothly, pulling out your chair and nudging Chan into it before taking a seat on the tiny sofa against the back wall.
“Hansol, we—”
Buy he shakes his head, raising a hand to make Seungkwan stop talking. “You look like you haven’t slept since Saturday,” Hansol says calmly. “If you try to run the boards and talk at the same time tonight, there’s a high chance of a catastrophe. Just focus on the mic. We’ve got the tech.”
Seungkwan offers a tight, grateful smile. He pulls his headphones over his ears just as the clock hits 09:00 PM.
Seungcheol taps at the glass, giving a thumbs-up, while Chan—holding his breath and looking absolutely terrified—slides the green-taped fader up. The familiar intro of Love on the Airwaves floods Seungkwan’s ears.
He closes his eyes for a fraction of a second, channeling every ounce of his professional training to push the heartbreak down into his chest. He opens them again, leans into the microphone, and forces his smooth, charismatic radio voice to the surface.
“Good evening, Jeju,” Seungkwan purrs into the mic, though the usual playful lilt is tempered by a softer, more melancholic undertone. “Welcome to Love on Airwaves. It’s just me again tonight. Our lovely, brilliant producer and co-host, Y/N, is taking a well-deserved couple of days off. So you’re stuck with just my voice, and a very nervous Lee Chan running the boards behind me. Be gentle with him, folks.”
He pauses, letting the instrumental track swell for a few seconds. “It’s chilly tonight. The kind of night that makes you want to stay inside and think about the people you miss. The lines are open. Talk to me, Jeju.”
The first thirty minutes of the show are a blur of standard calls. A college student stressed about finals, a husband looking for anniversary gift ideas, a girl who can’t decide if she should text her ex. Seungkwan navigates them all with his usual empathy and wit, but it feels hollow.
He keeps instinctively turning his head to his right, waiting for you to chime in with a sarcastic remark or a grounded piece of advice, only to find Chan staring back at him in sheer terror.
“Alright, our next caller is on line four,” Seungkwan prompts, motioning to Chan.
He frantically presses the glowing yellow button. “Let’s welcome Yujin from Seogwipo,” Chan says clicking the mouse to patch the caller through. “Yujin, you’re on the air with Seungkwan.”
“Hi! Oh my gosh, I can’t believe I got through,” a youthful, slightly breathless voice crackles over the studio monitors. “Hi Seungkwan-ssi. I’m a huge fan.”
“Thanks for tuning in, Yujin-ssi,” Seungkwan replies, his tone dripping with honeyed warmth. “What’s on your mind tonight? Is there a boy giving you headache?”
“Actually, I have more of a personal question to you Seungkwan-ssi,” Yujin says, her voice stabilizing.
“Oh? Ask away.”
“Well,” she begins, and there’s a slight pause. “You’re always giving us such amazing advice about love. But you’re so private about your own life! So my friends and I were debating, and we wanted to call in and ask the expert himself.”
Seungkwan feels a slight prickle of apprehension, and he sees Chan freeze, his hand hovering over the equalizer dials, waiting for Seungkwan to give him a signal to cut the call.
But Seungkwan just keeps his voice light. “Yeah?”
“What is your ideal type, Seungkwan-ssi? And don’t give me the standard PR answer about someone with a good heart. We want the details!”
The jazz music in the background suddenly feels very loud, and the timing is almost ironic. It feels like the universe is playing a trick on him. In the corner of the room, Hansol lets out a low chuckle, clearly entertained. Chan looks between Seungkwan and the control board as if wondering which button he could press to save his ass.
It was a softball question. An easy and harmless prompt. The standard protocol was to describe a vague, generalized concept: someone who likes the same music, someone who enjoys long walks, someone kind. It was the answer he had given in a hundred different magazines and a thousand different interviews.
But as Seungkwan looks at your empty chair, at the blue pen abandoned on the desk, his media training completely vanishes. The exhaustion, the longing, and the absolute certainty of his feelings override his filter entirely.
“My ideal type,” Seungkwan repeats softly. The radio-host persona drops away, leaving his voice raw, deep, and devastatingly sincere.
He leans closer to the microphone.
“She’s… stubborn,” Seungkwan starts, his eyes fixed on the tape marker on the desk. “Incredibly stubborn. The kind of stubborn that makes you want to pull your hair out, but also makes you respect her more than anyone else in the world.”
Through the glass, Seungcheol sits up a little straighter. Hansol stops drinking his matcha, his eyes narrowing slightly as he realizes exactly what Seungkwan is doing.
He knew about Seungkwan’s feelings for you. He was the only person, besides Seungkwan himself, who knew. Now you’ll finally know too, or at least now you’d be sure, in case Seungkwan hadn’t made it so painfully obvious on Saturday night.
“She works too hard,” Seungkwan continues, his voice wrapping around the words with a tender reverence. “She’s super tough to the others, but really, she has the softest, most fiercely loyal heart I’ve ever encountered. When she’s stressed, she taps her foot against the table leg and clicks her pens.”
Over the line, Yujin and the room go completely silent.
“She smells like lavender,” Seungkwan murmurs, his eyes glazing over slightly as the memory of the car engulfs him, the heat of your skin, the frantic beat of your pulse beneath his thumb. “She has this laugh she tries to hide behind her hand, but when it slips out, it’s the greatest sound I’ve ever heard. She’s brilliant. She’s so much brighter and more capable than she gives herself credit for. But sometimes… sometimes she forgets her own worth. Sometimes she lets people treat her like she’s ordinary, and it breaks my heart, because there is absolutely nothing ordinary about her.”
The studio is dead silent. Chan’s jaw has practically on the ground, his hand hovering frozen over the faders, his brain still trying to process that Seungkwan is, in fact, talking about you.
“Wow,” Yujin finally breathes over the line, her voice trembling slightly. The playful, gossipy tone is completely gone, replaced by something closer to awe. “Seungkwan-ssi… that doesn’t sound like a type. That sounds like a very specific person. You… you sound like you’re already in love.”
Seungkwan doesn’t even flinch. He doesn’t try to backtrack, or laugh it off, or play it as a joke. He stares directly into the microphone, his heart completely exposed to the airwaves. “I am,” he confesses, the two words falling from his lips with staggering, undeniable weight.
Seungcheol stands on the other side of the glass, a smile tugging at his lips, his eyes wide as his hands hover near his head in disbelief. Chan lets out a shocked grunt Seungkwan is certain has just gone out over the broadcast, and Hansol chuckles softly in his corner. Seungkwan already knows he’ll never hear the end of it once the dust settles.
“I’ve been in love with her since we were kids,” Seungkwan says, the emotion finally cracking in his voice, turning it thick and rough. “Since before I even knew what the word meant. I spent twelve years away, and I never—not for a single second—found anyone who could replace her. I came back here for her.”
He swallows hard, his fingers curling into tight fists on the desk.
“I think I pushed too hard recently,” he admits softly, not just to Yujin, but to the thousands of cars, kitchens, and lonely bedrooms tuned in across the island. “I think I scared her. I wanted so badly to pull her into the light that I didn’t realize how blinding it might be. But I just want her to know…”
Seungkwan leans in until his lips are nearly brushing the foam of the mic.
“I just want her to know that I’m not going anywhere. I don’t care how long it takes. I don’t care how messy it gets. She is the only person I want. And I am just… I am really hoping she’s listening right now.”
He pulls back, his chest heaving slightly. Then he nods at Chan.
Chan, looking as though he had just witnessed a religious awakening, frantically pushes the fader up, cutting the call and flooding the airwaves with the slow, melancholic intro of a piano ballad.
Seungkwan rips his headphones off and buries his face in his hands, the adrenaline crashing out of his system, leaving him completely drained.
From the sofa, Hansol lets out a low, slow whistle. “Well,” he mutters, setting his matcha down. “If she wasn’t listening, half the island is definitely going to text her about it in the next five minutes. You don’t do anything halfway, do you?”
Seungkwan doesn’t answer. He just stares at the glowing dials of the soundboard, the echo of his own confession still ringing in his ears, praying to whatever universe is out there that somewhere, in the safety of your bedroom, you had heard him.
TWENTY YEARS AGO
It was early October, the magical pocket of time on Jeju Island when the humid heat finally broke, replaced by a cool, salty breeze that carried the sweet, earthy smell of impending autumn. The orange groves that defined Seungkwan’s neighborhood were heavy, the green fruit just beginning to tip into shades of sunset, preparing to blaze a golden-orange trail across the island.
But Seungkwan, at ten years old, was currently less interested in the cooperative biology of citrus and more interested in beating you to the stone parapet behind Jeju-si High School.
“Slowpoke!” he yelled over his shoulder, his small legs pumping hard through the deep, black volcanic sand. His feet, caked in wet earth and salt, left flying arcs as he ran. “I’m going to get the best spot!”
You were ten paces behind him, gasping and laughing in equal measure. He always did this. He’d start the race before you even agreed to it. “Seungkwan, stop! We said we were just going to gather shells!”
“Winner decides the game!” he shouted back, and that was when disaster struck.
It happened in slow motion. The sand shifted beneath his feet, right where a small cluster of driftwood lay buried. He tripped. Hard. His center of gravity vanished, his body pitching forward, landing with a heavy thud right where the wet shore began.
The laughter died in your throat. “Seungkwan!” You scrambled toward him, your heart pounding.
When you reached him, he was sitting up, staring down at his knee with an expression of pure, unadulterated shock. The fall had split the skin. It wasn’t deep, but it was ugly, the bright red of blood oozing through a coat of dark sand.
Then, the floodgates opened. It wasn’t just a cry; it was a full-blown dramatic event. He gasped for air, his face crumpling, a sound that started as a moan ascending into a loud, wet sob. He wailed. He howled.
“Shh, shh!” You panicked, throwing a glance back toward the street, convinced the entire village would think you were trying to kidnap him. “You’re okay! It just stings. You’re fine!”
He pointed at the knee, his finger shaking, but the only sound he could make was a high-pitched, stuttering breath. The tears were running down his cheeks, mixing with the sand, and he was getting so loud he couldn’t even hear you trying to comfort him.
You tried the logical approach. “Seungkwan, look! I’ll run to your aunt’s cafe. I’ll get a bandage. I’ll get a frozen yogurt! I’ll get two!”
He shook his head violently. He wouldn’t let you leave, and he wouldn’t stop screaming. The sound was slicing right through your nerves.
“Seungkwan, listen to me,” you said, getting closer. “Stop crying. Please.”
His mouth was still wide open, and he was inhaling for another monumental wail when you made an impulsive decision. A split-second, desperate choice to save both of your eardrums and your reputation as his responsible friend.
You grabbed his shoulders, leaned forward, and slammed your mouth over his.
The impact was clumsy. It was sandy, salt-stained, and a little wet. His nose was in the way, and your teeth clicked. But it worked.
His crying stopped instantly. The air rushed out of him in a stunned huff.
You pulled back quickly, your cheeks burning with an intensity that rivaled the mid-summer sun. You didn’t look at his knee. You stared straight at him.
His eyes were wide, round saucers. The tear tracks were still wet on his face, but his wailing was gone, replaced by a stunned, blinking silence. He was staring at you like you’d just manifested wings and turned into a seagull.
For what felt like a lifetime, the only sound was the rhythmic crash of the waves and the faint buzz of a passing Vespa on the road far behind you. The sand felt cold beneath your hands.
“You...” he started, his voice a whisper, the wail having vanished without a trace. “You just...”
You were blushing so hard it felt like your face would catch fire. You grabbed your shorts, jumped up, and immediately started dusting the sand off your knees, incapable of meeting his eyes.
“You were too loud,” you said quickly, your voice unusually high. “I didn’t know how to make you stop.” You pointed toward the main road. “I’m going to get that bandage. Stay here.”
And then you ran. You ran without looking back, away from the beach, away from the confused boy with the scraped knee and the silent stare.
That was the only time you ever spoke about it. When you returned with the bandage, he didn’t mention it. When you walked home, holding two frozen yogurts and not talking, you didn’t mention it. The moment became a shared secret, sweet memory tucked so deep into the closet of your friendship that you eventually convinced yourselves it never really happened.
PRESENT
The static from the radio filled the silence of your bedroom, a low, buzzing hum that mirrored the frantic noise in your own mind. You sat perfectly still on the edge of your bed for several minutes, phone clutched in your hands, its screen glowing with the digital dial of the radio station you had worked at for the last seven years of your life.
He had done it. He had actually done it.
Boo Seungkwan had just broadcasted his heart to the entire island of Jeju, stripping away every ounce of his private life to lay his soul bare on the airwaves. Every word he spoke had been a precise strike against the walls you had spent the last decade building.
A tear slipped free, hot and fast, tracing a path down your cheek before falling onto the screen of your phone. You had spent the last forty-eight hours drowning in guilt and confusion, suffocated by the reality of your secret, toxic relationship with Youngjae, and the terrifying, blinding light Seungkwan was offering.
But hearing his voice crack over the radio, hearing him publicly, fearlessly claim you in a way Youngjae never would, snapped something inside you. It was like waking up from a decade long fever dream. The paralyzing fear evaporated, replaced by a sudden, desperate clarity.
You didn’t even bother changing out of your sweatpants. You grabbed your thickest coat, shoved your feet into your boots, and ran out the door.
The walk to his house was a blur of cobblestones and the erratic rhythm of your own heartbeat. When you reached the door, his mother told you he hadn’t come home yet, that he had called to say he’d be late.
Your chest tightened with a brief spike of panic before instinct took over. You knew exactly where he went when his mind grew too loud. It was the same place you went, too.
You park the car near the edge of the cliffside path and begin the steep descent toward the hidden cove behind the school.
The wind whips your hair across your face, carrying the biting scent of sea salt and freezing rain. As you reach the bottom of the path, moonlight breaks through the clouds, illuminating the jagged volcanic rocks that bordered the crashing ocean.
And there he is.
Seungkwan is sitting near the edge of the water, a solitary silhouette against the dark expanse of the sea. His knees are pulled up to his chest, his coat collar turned up against the wind. Seeing him sitting on those exact rocks sends a violent jolt of memory straight through your system of the morning you said goodbye all those years ago.
You take a deep breath, the freezing air burning your lungs, and pick your way carefully across the uneven terrain. He doesn’t hear you approach over the roar of the waves until you are right beside him. You don’t even hesitate, sitting down on the cold stone next to him, close enough that your shoulders are nearly brushing.
Seungkwan jolts, his head snapping toward you. His eyes are wide and red-rimmed, catching the fractured moonlight. For a moment, he only stares at you, as though afraid you’re a mirage conjured by his own desperate mind.
You don’t let him say anything before you do. “You left.” Your voice isn’t loud, but it cuts through the sound of the ocean with absolute precision.
Seungkwan flinches as if he’s been physically struck. He opens his mouth, a panicked apology already forming on his lips, but you hold up a hand to stop him.
“Let me finish,” you plead, your voice trembling but resolute as you pull your legs close to your body and rest your chin on your knees. “Please.”
You look out at the churning black water, unable to meet his eyes yet. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see him nodding for you to continue.
“You left. You got on a plane, and you became a star. And I need you to know… I understand that. I know you had a dream, and I know the industry is a meat grinder. I watched you on television, and I was so incredibly proud of you. I am proud because you listened to me, and you didn’t look back. You did everything you said you were going to do.”
You pause, swallowing hard against the tight knot forming in your throat. Right now. This is the moment when everything comes crashing down around you both. You just hope you can put it all back together afterward.
“But understanding it doesn’t change the fact that you didn’t speak to me for twelve years,” you continue, your voice cracking slightly. You finally turn to look at him, letting him see the raw edges of your wound. “You didn’t just move away, Seungkwan. You completely erased me. You made me feel like the years of friendship meant absolutely nothing to you.”
Seungkwan closes his eyes, a tear escaping the corner of his lashes and tracking down his cold cheek. He bites his lip hard, forcing himself to listen, to take the hit he knows he deserves.
“I had whiplash from it,” you confess, wrapping your arms around yourself against the chill. “I developed this horrible… this complex. I spent the rest of high school feeling completely disposable. If the person who knew me best, the person I loved most in the world, could just drop me without a second thought, then I must not be worth keeping.”
You let out a watery, self-deprecating laugh. “I was a ghost. I was so incredibly sad, Seungkwan. I didn’t start breathing again until I went to university in Busan and forced myself to become someone else, someone who didn’t care, someone who didn’t get attached.”
Someone who would settle for a man like Youngjae just because he promised he wouldn’t leave. The unspoken words hang heavily in the air between you, but you don’t need to say them. Seungkwan understands.
“And now you’re back,” you say, seeing that he wants to interrupt, but you can’t stop now. “And it’s like those twelve years never happened. Telling everyone I’m your favorite childhood friend, confessing and kissing me as if you never broke my heart. How am I supposed to react, Seungkwan?”
You shake your head, your lips pressing into a thin line as you fight to hold back more tears. You know he promised you he wasn’t going anywhere, that he’s was back for good. But that doesn’t lessen the fear you felt that night he kissed, much less erase the twelve years of radio silence.
“You can’t blame me for being afraid that one day you’ll wake up and decide that being here isn’t enough again. Because this time, I’m not sure I’ll be able to survive being without you.”
“Y/N,” Seungkwan whispers, his voice shattering on your name.
He shifts, turning his entire body toward you. He reaches out, his hands trembling violently as they hover over yours, terrified to touch you, terrified you’ll run away again. Everything makes sense to him now. He understands it all with painful clarity, he sees that you weren’t running from him, or rejecting his feelings for you; you were just scared.
“I am so sorry,” he chokes out, the devastation in his eyes making your breath hitch. “I am so, so desperately sorry for what I put you through. You were never disposable. You were the only thing that kept me sane.”
“Then why did you stop calling?” you ask, the question that has haunted you for a decade finally tumbling free. “Why did you cut me off?”
Seungkwan lets out a shaky breath, scrubbing a hand over his face. “When I first debuted, the attention was… completely unmanageable. The sasaengs were relentless. They hacked our phones within the first three months. The company did a sweep of all our personal belongings, our contacts, everything, to see where our vulnerabilities were.”
He reaches into the inner pocket of his coat and pulls out a worn, dark leather wallet. His fingers are stiff from the cold as he flips it open.
“They found this,” he says quietly, holding the wallet out toward you.
Tucked into the clear plastic window, its edges frayed and its colors slightly faded, is a photo strip. It’s the two of you in a cheap photo booth at the Jeju summer festival. You’re laughing, your head thrown back, while a fifteen-year-old Seungkwan looks at you with an expression of such pure, unguarded adoration that it makes your heart stop.
“I carried it with me everywhere,” Seungkwan murmurs, his eyes fixed on the photograph. “It was my anchor. But when the management team found it, they panicked. They thought you were my secret girlfriend. They told me that if the fans found out who you were, they’d destroy your life.”
You stare at the photo, your vision blurring with a fresh wave of tears. He hadn’t forgotten you. He had been carrying you in his pocket across every continent, for twelve years.
“They gave me an ultimatum,” Seungkwan went on, his voice hardening with residual anger. “Cut all contact, change my number, and pretend you didn’t exist, or they would pull me from the debut lineup. They told me it was the only way to protect you.”
He looks up from the wallet, his dark eyes locking onto yours.
“I was a terrified kid,” he confesses, the guilt heavy and absolute in his voice. “I believed them. I thought breaking my own heart was the price I had to pay to keep you safe. But I was wrong.”
He reaches out then, his warm hands finally closing over your freezing ones and drawing them into his lap.
“I should have fought for you,” he says, his thumb tracing your knuckles. “I should have fought the company. I should have found a way. I spent a decade completely miserable because I was too much of a coward to demand the one thing I actually wanted. I let you think you didn’t matter to me, and that is the greatest failure of my life.”
The silence returns, but this time it isn’t a chasm. The resentment and anger you’ve carried for so long simply dissolve, washed away by the crushing weight of his confession. He hadn’t abandoned you. He had martyred himself.
You look down at his hands holding yours, the warmth seeping through your skin and thawing the ice that has encased your heart for years.
“I called Youngjae,” you say suddenly.
The words are abrupt, instantly shifting the atmosphere. Seungkwan stops his movements for a second, his breath catching in his throat. His eyes drop to your mouth before darting back up to your face, terrified of what’s coming next.
“I called him from the car on the way here,” you explain, your voice steady now, carrying an absolute, undeniable certainty. “I broke up with him.”
Seungkwan’s grip on your hands tightens slightly, his chest rising and falling in rapid, shallow breaths. “Y/N…”
“I told him I couldn’t do it anymore.” A profound weight lifting from your chest with every word. Your breath turns to white mist in the cold air. “I told him I was done hiding in his shadow. I told him I deserved better.”
You pull your hands from Seungkwan’s grip, but only so you can reach up. You frame his face with your palms, thumbs gently wiping away the dampness on his cheeks. His skin is freezing, but his eyes burn with a desperate, wild hope.
“And I told him,” you whisper, leaning in until your foreheads rest together, “that it has always been you. Even when I was furious with you. Even when I hated you. It was always you, Seungkwan.”
A ragged, beautiful sound escapes Seungkwan’s throat, a cross between a sob and a laugh. The tension that has been holding him together for weeks finally snaps.
His hands fly up to grip your waist, entirely abandoning restraint as he pulls you off the cold stone and practically onto his lap. “Y/N,” he breathes against your lips, your name completely saturated with devotion.
When he kisses you this time, it isn’t the frantic, hot and overwhelming collision of the car. It’s a homecoming. A deliberate, agonizingly slow sealing of a promise.
His lips are soft, warm, tasting of salt and absolute relief. He kisses you like he’s trying to pour eleven years of unspoken love directly into your veins, his fingers tangled in your hair as he holds you against him, as though you are the only thing tethering him to the earth.
You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him flush against you, melting entirely into the embrace. The cold wind, the crashing ocean, the messy reality of the radio station, and the fallout that will inevitably come tomorrow, all of it fades into insignificance.
When you finally break apart, you’re both breathless, your faces flushed despite the freezing temperature. Seungkwan keeps his arms locked securely around your waist, resting his chin in the crook of your neck. He lets out a long, heavy exhale, burying his face in your coat.
“I’m never letting you go again,” he murmurs against your skin. “I don’t care who finds out. We’re doing this. We’re doing it in the light.”
You close your eyes, resting your cheek against the top of his head, feeling the steady, strong beat of his heart against your chest. For the first time in a decade, the phantom ache of abandonment is entirely gone.
“I know,” you whisper, pressing a kiss to his hair. “I know we are.”
# NAVIGATION | MASTERLIST | PERMANENT TAGLIST
Every ask & comment gives me life 💗 If you’re enjoying it, don’t forget to reblog, helps so much and gets the fic out there!!
Settle in with your coziest blanket and grab some popcorn, because it's time to SVTFLIX & chill! Hosted by @100vern, SVTFLIX is a Seventeen collab inspired by all of our favorite K-dramas. Whether you're in the mood for a romantic comedy that breaks the fourth wall or angsty magical fantasy, our talented cast of writers has you covered.
🍿 WHO'S WATCHING ✷ Sign up for the taglist here.
📺 ADD TO WATCHLIST ✷ Posting period is May 15th — July 15th.
Most of these titles include adult content, which is restricted to those 18 years of age or older. Minors are not welcome to engage with this content and will not be tagged in fics that contain it, even if requested.
📺 True Romance, starring Choi Seungcheol
after going on a blind date with false pretenses with the ceo of your company, things take a turn when he asks you to marry him to keep himself from ending up in an arranged marriage.
pairing: ceo!seungcheol x f. reader
genre: romance, smut, fluff, fake engagement, rom com at times, angst
rating: 18+
warnings: cussing, explicit sexual content, lying
✷ director: @straylightdream | pilot | full series
✷ inspired by: business proposal
📺 Business Proposal, starring Yoon Jeonghan
finding out your boss is a misogynistic pig when you're up for the biggest promotion of your life is, to put it mildly, minorly inconvenient. finding out your ex is also a candidate? majorly infuriating. sometimes the only way to win is to not play… but other times the guy working a dead-end job at the convenience store near your apartment agrees to fake marry you so long as he gets what he wants out of the deal. too bad you can't stand each other.
pairing: jeonghan x f. reader
genre: fake dating, marriage of convenience au; mutual annoyances to lovers, miscommunication; crack, fluff, angst, smut
rating: 18+
warnings: capitalism, misogyny, adult content
✷ director: @100vern | pilot | full series
✷ inspired by: no gain no love
📺 Guard of the Heart, starring Joshua Hong
You have a lot of standards to meet. You’ve always had. Your family, your company, your fans, they all expect the best from you. And while it is your company who signs your checks, you have yet to disobey your family. So, when your mother demands you go on a blind date to find yourself a competent husband to take over the family business, you listen. You go on a blind date and meet with the worst possible man you could imagine — Joshua Hong. Annoying, careless, Joshua, who manages to make an impression on you nonetheless. But you refuse to fall for him or his shenanigans, especially after the series of events following your first meeting.
pairing: demon!joshua x idol!f. reader
genre: romance, strangers to lovers, bodyguard romance, magic
rating: 18+
warnings: smut, blood, graphic descriptions of violence, obsessive fans, death threats
✷ director: @jakedustry | pilot | full series
✷ inspired by: my demon
📺 You Again, starring Wen Junhui
it's been 10 years. since you last saw jun. since the break up that rocked you. since you've been back to this town. since you thought about any of this. but leave it to one of your closest friends to draw both you and jun back in and send your world spiraling again.
pairing: jun x f!reader
genre: attempts at humor, fluff, angst, smut, exes to ?
rating: 18+
warnings: smut, past relationship issues
✷ director: @starlightkyeom | pilot | full series
✷ inspired by: our beloved summer
📺 Our Rented Marriage, starring Kwon Soonyoung
out of options when your roommate becomes engaged to her boyfriend, you find hope that maybe there you'll find your ground when you meet kwon soonyoung, your landlord, and the man who asked you to marry him for the sake of rent.
pairing: soonyoung x f. reader
genre: slice of life, romantic comedy, angst, marriage of convenience, strangers to lovers, slow burn, suggestive
rating: 18+
warnings: alcohol, smoking, miscommunication, harassment, misogynistic environments/workplace
✷ director: @mellow-wishes | pilot | full series
✷ inspired by: because this is my first life
📺 Truly Madly Deeply, starring Jeon Wonwoo
Jeon Wonwoo is a brilliant programmer. The "what if" of your college years, he's back in your life in the most dramatic way. Yours and Wonwoo's internal Cells villages get into a state of chaotic, hilarious situations and things get interesting. Your Love Cell finally started to wake up from its deep slumber after your last devastating heartbreak. Jeon Wonwoo, has come to wake up every single Cell in your brain in the best way possible, to heal and to learn. To love again.
pairing: wonwoo x reader
genre: friends? to lovers, romance, fluff, slight angst, comedy, fantasy au, mutual pining
rating: 18+
warnings: strong language working environment, mentions of eating due to stress, past relationships, suggestive, a tiny little miscommunication, wonwoo is down bad
✷ director: @lovelylonelinesssvt | pilot | full series
✷ inspired by: yumi's cells
📺 Crossing the Bridge to You, starring Lee Jihoon
When Jihoon returns to Daeho after three years, the last thing he expects is running into a woman who claims to be his fiancé. You, who have been stuck in Jinyowon for the past three years, rattle his world with your eccentric yet kind nature. Your boldness is new to him but so is your naivety; will he get his happy ending despite the tragedy that has bound him to guilt? Will you get yours after opposing your mother? Only time will tell.
pairing: sorcerer!jihoon x priestess!f. reader
genre: angst, fluff, fantasy, strangers to lovers, marriage of convenience
rating: 18+
warnings: graphic descriptions of violence, near death situation, memory loss, constant suffering, blood, posession and usage of weapons (swords, bow and arrow), murder, corpses, mentions of suicide, self-blame, lack of freedom and being locked up, messed up timeline of AOS s2 plot
✷ director: @cherrymayz | pilot | full series
✷ inspired by: alchemy of souls
📺 Crumpled Paper and Metal Stars, starring Lee Seokmin
Your second semester of grad school has begun. Everything should be relatively easy, you've completed a semester and most of the people in your cohort adore your kindness and sunshine like disposition. Just as you're getting settled, an anonymous post ignites your semester. Instead of an easy sixteen weeks of learning, you're balancing teaching, a post that has the attention of literally everyone, and the personification of a gray cloud: Lee Seokmin.
pairing: grad student!seokmin x grad student!f. reader
genre: grumpy x sunshine, angst, university au, cohorts to lovers, fluff, secret relationship and the angst that comes with it, anonymous confession
rating: 18+
warnings: alcohol, seokmin is the grumpiest (lowk to the point where he's an asshole), mentions of academic burnout, mentions of a sick parent, suggestive scenes
✷ director: @gentleisa | pilot | full series
✷ inspired by: dear m
📺 Oops!! We Broke the Plot, starring Kim Mingyu
You and Mingyu are childhood friends and two self‑aware comic characters that are forced into clichéd romcom roles you both hate. On the page, he’s the perfect jock and you’re the villainess; off the page, you’re a nerd–queen duo secretly in love. Fed up with scripted drama and unwanted love triangles, you rebel, glitching the comic as the Writer fights to force you back into place. What follows isn’t a romcom but a battle for agency, freedom, and the right to choose each other.
pairing: mingyu x f. reader
genre: romantic comedy, smut, angst, drama, childhood friends to lovers, meta, breaking the fourth wall(?)
rating: 18+
warnings: smut/nsfw content
✷ director: @xomakara | pilot | full series
✷ inspired by: extra-ordinary you
📺 Universal Error, starring Xu Minghao
Being a doctor is hard work. Running your own fan page with over a thousand followers and translating a Chinese webtoon every week? Even harder. Being an avid reader and fan girl of the popular Chinese Webtoon, "Universal Error" turns your life upside down for the better as you translate it every week for your leaks page. However, when the finale turns dark and the main character, Xu Minghao's ending is left open-ended and undetermined. You thought your life couldn't get any worse, until an unforeseen circumstance happens that ends with you waking up in an alternate reality with Xu Minghao's life in your hands. Will you be able to change his reality or would you be left with a Universal Error yourself?
pairing: xu minghao x f. reader
genre: fluff, angst, smut, strangers to lovers, thriller, suspense, fantasy
rating: 18+
warnings: smut/nsfw content, talks about murder, weapons, blood
✷ director: @livmarauder | pilot | full series
✷ inspired by: w: two worlds apart
📺 Cyber Love is Bullshit, starring Boo Seungkwan
You hate Love Alarm and everything that it stands for, especially since it's the reason why your last relationship ended. Now navigating through a society where people rely a machine to dictate who you fall for, you find a lone soul like yours who makes you believe in love again.
pairing: seungkwan x reader
genre: fluff, angst, smut, strangers to lovers, found family?
rating: 18+
warnings: talks of infidelity, sexual content
✷ director: @aeristudios | pilot | full series
✷ inspired by: love alarm
📺 Rabbit, starring Vernon Chwe
Revenge is the only thing that kept you alive after your family’s betrayal. When the police force you to earn your place by infiltrating the same syndicate that destroyed you, you step back into a world that feels far too familiar - especially Vernon, who seems to see right through you.
pairing: vernon x f. reader
genre: mafia, criminal, angst, smut
ratings: 18+
warnings: violence, criminal behavior, explicit language, explicit content
✷ director: @sailorsoons | pilot | full series
✷ inspired by: my name
📺 You Think You Know a Guy, starring Lee Chan
Chan’s grandmother says she disapproves, but he knows she doesn’t mind so long as he proves he can turn a profit before he's given a role in the family business. That’s the easy part, Chan thinks, since a friend in Tokyo says business is booming for his own boyfriend rental service. So he hires four good looking guys— the himbo, the stoic romantic, the playboy, and you, the pretty one. The hardest part, Chan thinks later, is stopping himself from looking your way. (Or: allegedly straight Chan questions his sexuality when all he can think about is the guy who works for him.)
pairing: boss!chan x afab reader
genre: fluff, angst, smut, strangers to lovers
rating: 18+
warnings: questioning sexuality and gender, employer/ee dynamic, queer themes, accepting family/friend group, accidental but non-malicious misgendering; reader is afab, uses she/they pronouns, and looks androgynous
✷ director: @imnotshua | pilot | full series
✷ inspired by: coffee prince
Please note that all information above is subject to change, including story content and posting deadlines. Writing is meant to be fun, so while all involved are encouraged to post by the deadline, we understand that shit happens! Our talented group of authors are as excited to release their work as you are to read it, so please be patient and kind. Thank you so much for your interest! ✷
pairing: seungkwan x reader
word count: 1.9k
warnings: a couple of swears i think, kissing, seungkwan being unfairly cute
summary: You have really bad migraines, and a great boyfriend.
A/N: This one's for us, @wheeboo.
You haven’t been dating Seungkwan for very long when the first migraine hits.
It’s not your first migraine. It is the first migraine you’ve had since you started going out with Seungkwan, though, and you don’t know how he’s going to handle it. You should have known that telling him you have to cancel on a date because you’re sick wasn’t going to help, though.
You hear the doorbell to your apartment ring. Once, twice, and then your phone is ringing, and you’re suddenly afraid that the noise might make you throw up. Your doorbell rings again, and you groan, forcing yourself up and to the door. You're not sure how you make it, but you do.
“Hi,” your boyfriend says breathlessly when you open the door, and you wince at the brightness of the shitty apartment hallway lights. You do manage to vaguely register how cute he looks, though.
“Hey.” Your hand lifts to your forehead and you push in on it, an attempt to stave off the pain that’s beginning to increase, your eyes squeezing shut.
“Are you okay?”
You forgot where you were for a second, your eyes peeking open to look at him again. He’s got a couple of grocery store bags in hand, and you wince.
“Honestly, I feel awful right now.”
Seungkwan steps forward and you let him in, closing the door behind you. He sets his bags down and then he’s pulling you in for a hug. You rest your forehead against his chest, reveling in the warmth of it against the place where your impending migraine looms. You almost whine when he pulls away, hands on your biceps as he assesses you.
“What’s wrong? Is it your stomach? Do you have a cold? I brought stuff for everything, just in case.”
“Headache.”
Seungkwan looks surprised, a hand lifting to press against your forehead. “Do you have a fever? Chills? Runny nose?”
Your eyes squeeze shut again, leaning into the warmth of his palm. “Migraine, Seungkwan. I get really bad migraines.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. Sorry.”
“Did you just apologize?” You shrug, and Seungkwan tsks. “Do you need Advil or Tylenol? I have both.”
“Advil would be great.”
Seungkwan instructs you back into the darkness of your room. You have no idea what he’s going to do, but you willingly oblige, another apology on the tip of your tongue before you see the look on his face and decide against it.
By the time your door cracks open, the pain has begun its increase. Seungkwan enters and you swallow the Advil he offers with a glass of water. He sits on the edge of your bed as you do, watching you, and you wince when your phone dings. He reaches for it immediately, switching it to silent.
“Thank you,” you say softly. “I can’t really see straight right now.”
“What?”
You open one eye as you lean back against your headboard, finding him among the zig zags and blurry lines. “Everything’s a bit blurry at the moment.”
“Should I be concerned?”
You can’t help but smile at that, despite the fact that you feel so nauseous you could cry. “No,” you assure him. “I just need to wait it out. Fucking sucks.”
Seungkwan is quiet for a minute, and you let your eyes fall shut. You know he’s processing, and you wonder if he thinks you’re exaggerating like most people do. Then his hand finds your leg and he squeezes, and you think that maybe he’s not like most people.
“Can I do anything else? Lights off, no noise, right?”
You nod, then realize he probably can’t see you very well in the dark. “Yeah.” You pause. “Could you…”
You hate asking for help. Seungkwan knows, and he squeezes your knee again. “I don’t mind,” he assures you.
“I need to eat something small. Maybe crackers? I don’t know if I have any, though.”
“I bought some.”
He’s out the door and back in a flash. You thank him, forcing a couple of crackers down before you lie back down on the bed. You can’t think about much as the pain hits its peak. You want to cry, but you know that only makes it worse; you feel like you need to throw up, but you know you don’t actually have to. You just have to wait for the meds to kick in, and there’s nothing else to do about it.
You’re about to apologize to Seungkwan again because you’re embarrassed that he’s seeing you like this, but he speaks before you can.
“Do you want me to go? I want to stay,” he adds quickly, “but if I’m making it worse…”
All you can feel, above the pain and the nausea, is an overwhelming sense of affection.
You are down so bad.
“Please stay.”
You wake up maybe an hour later and the pain is gone. You still feel weak, but better. The best part about waking up, though, is that your boyfriend is still there when you do.
“Seungkwan?”
He looks away from his phone and over at you in surprise. “Hi! I didn’t know you were awake.”
“Mhm.”
“Feeling better?”
You nod. “A million times better.”
You register his arm under your head, his side pressed to yours, and you can’t help but snuggle in closer. You surge forward to press a kiss to his cheek, and he lets out a sigh.
“You just recovered and you want to jump me already?” He shakes his head. “Insatiable.”
It’s him that kisses you full on the mouth right after, though.
“Okay,” Seungkwan says suddenly, attempting to remove his arm from around you, but you whine in protest and cling to him even tighter. You absolutely refuse to move from his side. He snorts, offering an affectionate hair ruffle before his hands leave you completely. You pout but don’t complain as he sits up a bit, because his hands have now begun furiously typing on his screen, which can mean only one thing: your boyfriend means business. About what, you have no clue.
You wait, head resting against his chest. Your eyes are beginning to shut again now that your body is done fighting itself. You always have the best sleep after a migraine.
“Do you get…” Seungkwan pauses, and you drowsily look up to find him squinting at his screen. “Auras? Do you get auras?”
You blink. “Huh?”
“Do you get auras before a migraine?”
You’d laugh at how serious he looks right now, but you think that would get you in trouble, so you stick to simply answering his question. “Sometimes, yeah. Depends on how bad it’s gonna be.”
“So an aura can kind of tell you how much pain you’ll be in later?”
You think about it. “Kind of? I couldn’t measure how much pain I’ll be in when it hits, but when I start to get blurry vision I know it’ll be a bad one.”
Seungkwan simply nods, and begins to type something out again. You’re confused but amused nonetheless. You have no idea what he’s doing, but he’s got his thinking face on — and he looks hot as hell. You’re blatantly ogling him when he asks the next question.
“You said you get blurry vision sometimes. That happened today, right? Earlier?” You nod. “What about like, numbness anywhere?” He looks a bit concerned as he says the last bit, and you squeeze his side.
“Only sometimes. That one is pretty rare for me. Usually, I’ll be in pain by then, so the numbness doesn’t freak me out because I know why it’s happening.”
He nods, much like a scientist when recording lab results, and you attempt to peer at his phone. He pulls it away easily and you pout, but he ignores you.
“Do you get any warning signs before a migraine?”
You shake your head. “That part really sucks — I get the blurry vision before the pain comes, but I don’t notice anything before my vision starts to zigzag.”
Seungkwan hums. You’re incredibly endeared. “It says here that some people prefer ibuprofen, some prefer acetaminophen, and that some people need prescription painkillers. What about you? I remember that Advil is the only thing that works for your cramps, right? Is it the same for your migraines?”
You suddenly realize exactly what he’s doing.
You can’t do anything but stare up at him as he finishes his sentence, suddenly feeling so overwhelmed with fondness for the man beside you that you think you might be sick. He glances down at you when you don’t respond, concern etched across his face.
“Are you Googling how migraines work right now?”
You watch as Seungkwan flushes pink, stammering a bit before he answers. “Maybe,” he mumbles, looking away from you, and you’re positive that you’ve never been more into anyone, ever.
“Are you writing down what I tell you so you know how to help me when I have one?”
It’s quiet for a split second, and then Seungkwan is brushing you off of him, rolling onto his side and away from you. “Nope,” comes his muffled reply, and you feel so downright giddy that it makes your head spin.
“Seungkwan,” you try, and you hold back a giggle when he simply huffs in response. You reach for him, hand sliding over his waist as you tuck yourself into his back. “Baby.”
You both seem to realize what you’ve just said at the same time. The pet name is new, but you can’t help that it slipped out when he’s being so cute. You worry that he hates it for a second when he tenses up, but then his body softens again and he rolls back to face you.
“I’m only looking at you because you just called me ‘baby’, and that’s almost as embarrassing as me making a note about your migraine symptoms and treatments.”
You want to make a comment about how you calling him ‘baby’ didn’t feel embarrassing at all — in fact it felt quite right — but you’ll address that later. “Thank you so much for your sacrifice,” you say sarcastically.
Seungkwan pouts at your teasing, but his tough exterior doesn’t last long. It never does with you. His hand finds your waist and he pulls you in, both of his arms wrapping around you as he pulls you close.
“Thanks, Kwanie.” Your words are a whisper against his neck, and he pulls back to look at you in surprise.
“Thanks for what?”
Your finger traces the collar of his t-shirt, avoiding his eyes. “Wanting to look after me like that. It means a lot.”
It’s quiet for a few moments before your boyfriend is suddenly on top of you, legs tangling with yours. You adapt quickly, a hand lifting to run your fingers through his hair, and you can feel it when he sighs against you. Then he nuzzles his face into your neck as he murmurs, “Having a migraine sounds so scary, babe. I’m sorry.”
Babe.
You barely even flinch when he says it, trying it out for himself. You like the way it sounds coming from him. You like it a lot.
“It is scary,” you admit. “But it helps when someone tries to understand.”
Seungkwan nods, his head lifting from your neck to rest his chin on your chest. “I’ll continue to do my best, then.”
He looks at you, soft smile on his lips, and all you can do is smile back. When you mouth another “thank you”, he doesn’t say anything. The kiss you receive in return is his answer.
pairings: idol!Seungkwan x creative director!reader, exes to lovers!, second chance romance, documentary, inspired by our beloved summer, fluff!! little bonus at the end ♡︎
“From first love to forever — they found their way back, and built a life worth remembering."
word count: 3.8k
They were each other’s first love — inseparable in high school until the pressures of chasing a dream tore them apart. Years later, a reunion documentary brings them face-to-face again, stirring up old wounds, lingering feelings, and the truth behind why she walked away. Through anger, regret, and unspoken love, they find their way back to each other — proving that some loves don’t fade with time; they simply wait to be found again.
You were halfway through a mind-numbing meeting when your phone buzzed.
The client’s voice droned on about font hierarchies and "branding synergy," but the unknown number on your screen was far more intriguing — and slightly alarming. You never answered calls from unknown numbers. Still, something about this one made your thumb hesitate.
You excused yourself quietly, slipping into the hallway of your office building, sleek and cold under the late afternoon light.
“Hello?”
“Y/N-ssi?” A woman’s voice, polite and practiced. “This is Kim Hyejin from KBC Productions. I’m calling about a new documentary project we’re producing—”
You cut her off automatically. “I’m not interested.”
She hesitated. “I haven’t explained what it is yet.”
“I’m still not interested,” you said, softer this time but firm. “I don’t do interviews. I don’t—”
“It’s a follow-up to Youth in Bloom,” she interjected quickly, as if ripping off a bandage.
You froze.
The title hit like a physical blow. Youth in Bloom.
A ten-part documentary filmed during your senior year of high school. What was supposed to be a small, local project about "ordinary students" had gone unexpectedly viral, thanks to its central, unplanned focus: the bickering, undeniable chemistry between you and Boo Seungkwan.
The world had loved you two. "High school sweethearts," they’d called you. "Opposites attract." You had been everywhere — memes, fan edits, late-night variety shows reminiscing about your dynamic.
And then, just months after filming ended, you broke up. Publicly? No. Brutally? Absolutely.
You drew in a shaky breath. “I… don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“We want to revisit the original cast, see how everyone’s lives have changed in the last ten years,” Hyejin pressed gently. “The audience still remembers you. They’d love to see where you and Boo Seungkwan are now.”
You almost laughed at that. Where we are now?
You were a creative director at a mid-sized design firm, working long hours in a windowless office. He was one of the most recognizable idols in the country, adored by millions.
Worlds apart. Exactly as you’d intended when you ended things.
“I’m sorry,” you said finally, voice clipped. “But I have no interest in reopening that part of my life.”
She didn’t argue further.
Across the city, Seungkwan stared at his reflection in the practise room mirror, frustrated with himself for not being able to get this one dance move right.
But nothing could prepare him for what his manager casually said while scrolling on his tablet, "KBC wants you for a Youth in Bloom reunion, nostalgia, first love... the fans will eat it up,"
"No," Seungkwan replied without hesitation.
His manager blinked, "It could be good PR--"
"I said no," Seungkwan repeated, voice like steel.
When the manager left, Seungkwan slumped against the mirror onto the floor, eyes closed and face buried in his hands. The frustration from both the dancing and having to think of all the things he's been through with you was too much. He told himself he didn't care. Told himself he'd forgotten you.
But later when he's all alone on his bed, scrolling through old clips and photos, tears rolled down without him even realising.
"Yah, can I borrow your notes? Seungkwan asked, leaning over your desk with a cheeky smile.
"No," you replied flatly.
"Why not?"
"Because they're mine,"
He pouted dramatically, and you rolled your eyes. He's always been a loud one, while you were quiet, focused on grades and determined to stay out of trouble. You didn't like him at first, but somehow he grew onto you.
Later that day, Seungkwan found a neatly photocopied set of notes in his locker and he grinned like he'd won a battle.
Daily life with him slowly became routine. He'd walk you to class, steal your snacks and chase you around the library, which ends up with detention for the both of you. He was like a ray of sunshine in your life and you didn't know exactly when it stopped being annoying but when he held an umbrella over you even when he was soaked one rainy afternoon. You swore you felt your heart skip a beat.
And that's how you started, for 1321 days.
The studio felt suffocating when he walked in.
Time had done something to him — broadened his shoulders, sharpened his features, wrapped him in the effortless confidence of a man who had the world’s applause at his feet. But when his eyes found yours, for just a heartbeat, you saw the boy you used to love.
"Y/n-ssi," he greeted you with a small nod, voice polite.
"Seungkwan-ssi," you replied, matching his tone.
The director grinned. “Great! Let’s start with some catch-up shots. How long’s it been since you’ve seen each other?”
“Ten years,” you said.
“Nine,” Seungkwan corrected without looking at you.
Your chest tightened. He remembered.
"I don't love you anymore, Seungkwan"
Despite the countless times you practised these five words in front of the mirror, they still felt like acid in your mouth but you said them anyway.
He stood on his porch, stunned, rain pouring on both of you, "What are you talking about?"
"I just don't", you kept your arms wrapped around yourself, nails digging into your palms to keep yourself from breaking and showing any sign of hesitation.
His breath caught, like you'd struck him, "That's not true."
"It is," You forced the words out, "You're debuting soon and I-- I just can't do this anymore,"
He stepped closer, desperate. "But you're the only thing that's kept me going--"
"Stop," you cut him off, voice cracking, "Please, just...stop. I'm done,"
For a moment, he just stared at you, rain sliding down his face, unsure if it was water or tears. Then, quietly:
"If you walk away right now...I won't come after you."
Your heart shattered and you looked up to meet his eyes one last time before turning away.
You didn't look back.
That was the last reason out of five for why he hates you.
Seungkwan keeps a little note of the list on his phone. It made him feel better to pretend there were reasons to hate you instead of love you—though, more often than not, he caught himself erasing the hate and replacing it with things that only made him love you more.
When other classmates asked for your notes you would refuse every time, even to him. But you would always stuff a brand new copy into his locker and explain it slowly to him if he didn't understand.
2. She picks fights too easily.
“Yah! Don’t think I’m scared of you just because you’re older!” you shouted at the three seniors, your voice sharp enough to make the entire hallway go silent.
One of them sneered. “And don’t think I won’t hit you just because you’re a girl.”
Your blood boiled. You took a step forward—only for a firm arm to stop you.
“Y/N,” Seungkwan said, sliding in front of you, shielding you with his body. His tone was calm but urgent. “Hey, baby, it’s okay. Look at me. Let’s not do this here, alright?”
He kept his eyes on you, not the seniors, as if reminding you that they weren’t worth it.
Only later did he learn that you were defending him from their trash talk.
His thumb paused on the line, and despite the ache in his chest, he let out a quiet, bittersweet laugh, remembering how fiercely you’d defended him that day.
3. No sense of romance.
“But the cherry blossoms are the prettiest this time of year," Seungkwan whined.
"We can go next year. I’m busy today," you said apologetically.
He sighed quietly. It was always next year.
But that night, as you walked home together, you suddenly pulled out a handful of pink paper confetti you’d cut yourself and tossed it over his head.
“They’re not as pretty as the real thing,” you said shyly, “but I didn’t want you to miss them.”
Seungkwan looked at you then, eyes wide, heart light. He didn’t think he’d ever been happier.
4. She only shows her soft side to me.
"You're dating who?"
"Y/N," Seungkwan repeated calmly to his friend, who still looked unconvinced.
"But why her? I mean, she’s cute, sure, but she’s rude. I don’t get it."
Seungkwan’s expression softened, a small, almost private smile tugging at his lips. “You don’t know her like I do,” he said quietly. “You’ve never seen how kind she can be when no one’s looking.”
He'd lost count of how many times he'd defended you, but it only made him fall harder -- because only he ever got to see that soft, unguarded side of you.
And finally, reason five.
He hated that you made him fall so deeply in love… only to leave when he loved you the most.
He locked his phone and dragged a hand over his face, exhaustion and longing weighing him down. No matter how many reasons he wrote, he could never make himself stop loving you.
Filming continued the next day at the old town library where you used to have late night study sessions, it hasn't changed one bit. Same creaky floors, same sunlight slanting through the tall windows.
He’s already seated when you walk in. For a moment, it’s like being seventeen again — him slouched over textbooks, you scolding him for doodling in the margins.
“Y/N-ssi,” he greets coolly.
You take the chair beside him because the director tells you to. His cologne is subtle but warm, and it unsettles you more than you want to admit.
“This is ridiculous,” you mutter as you open a random book for the camera.
He smirks faintly. “You still hate being told what to do.”
Your eyes flick to his. “You remember that?”
“I remember everything,” he says simply, not looking up.
Your pulse stutters and you excused yourself to step out for air.
The next location was the school rooftop. You couldnt help but smile as a fond memory of stolen kisses and secret hugs between classes flickered through your mind. The same rusted fence, the same peeling paint, and the same endless sky stretched above you, untouched by time.
You stand side by side for the cameras, pretending not to feel the weight of his presence.
“This place hasn’t changed,” you murmur.
“Except us,” he replies.
The director prompts for “memories of this spot.”
Seungkwan’s voice is even. “I remember that she never believed in me.”
It’s like a punch to the gut.
The crew chuckles awkwardly, thinking it’s a joke. You know it isn’t.
Later, when you find him by the stairwell, you whisper, “You didn’t have to say that.”
“Isn’t it true?” he asks, eyes cold. “You left when I needed you most. Told me I wasn’t worth waiting for.”
“I never said that—”
“You didn’t have to,” he cuts in, voice low. “You walked away like I didn’t matter.”
And then he’s gone, leaving you trembling in the echo of his anger… and your own regret.
That night, Seungkwan opens his phone and adds to his list:
6. I hate that no matter how much I try to resent her...I still want her to look at me the way she used to.
He turned off the screen, but sleep never came.
The next day’s filming brought you to your curated art exhibition — a space that felt nothing like the high school memories they’d been dredging up. Here, everything was deliberate: the soft wash of warm light against white walls, the quiet hum of strings playing in the background, the polished wood floors that clicked softly beneath every step.
Seungkwan entered with the crew, his hands in his pockets, eyes scanning the room without expression. He wasn’t sure what he expected — minimalistic modern pieces, maybe. Something detached, like how you’d seemed when you first met again.
Then he saw it.
Tucked in the center of the gallery, given its own spotlight, was a painting that stopped him in his tracks.
A couple under an umbrella in the rain.
The strokes were soft yet heavy, textured with layers of gray and muted blues. The boy’s face was angled toward the girl, not fully detailed but unmistakably tender — eyes warm, lips parted as if he were about to say something. The girl’s face was hidden beneath the curve of the umbrella, but her hand — small, pale — clutched the sleeve of his jacket desperately, like letting go might break her.
Seungkwan’s heart slammed against his ribs. He didn’t have to guess what night this was. He knew it. That night. The night you told him you didn’t love him and walked away in the rain while he stood there, feeling like the world had ended.
He stepped closer, and that’s when he noticed the small placard beside the frame.
“Untitled — Selected by curator Y/N.”
His breath caught.
You hadn’t just painted this — you’d chosen to display it. Out of all the pieces in this gallery, you’d given this one the centerpiece, the light, the space.
He stared at it for a long time, the buzz of the crew fading into nothing.
Maybe she did love me, a thought whispered, unbidden. Maybe she always did.
He turned away when a camera operator called for him, but the image of the painting stayed burned behind his eyes. Even at night, he kept replaying the painting in his mind, almost reaching for his phone to ask what you meant. Almost.
7. I hate that she still finds a way to hold me even when she’s not here.
Morning came and so with the noise.
Filming moved to a music show, crowded with artists and staff. Among the lineup was Haeri, the rookie idol who had recently been vocal about admiring Seungkwan.
He greeted her politely, gave her the same warm professionalism he gave any junior. But she lingered near him often, beaming when cameras swung her way. He didn’t think anything of it—until the articles dropped that evening:
“Haeri and Boo Seungkwan: Secretly Close?”
“‘He’s My Ideal Type,’ Haeri Gushes — Sparks Fly on Set!”
The next day on set, you avoided him completely. No small talk. No accidental glances. Just distance, thick and cold.
Seungkwan noticed but he remained silent, maybe he’s just overthinking or maybe you were just in a bad mood today. He didn’t want to overstep and embarrass himself, so he only stared longingly in your direction when you avoided for the third time that day.
The shoot ran long. As Seungkwan left the set, heading toward the back corridor, he caught voices up ahead — two staff members speaking in low tones near the stairwell.
“…I felt so bad for her back then,” one was saying. “She broke up with him right before his debut. Everyone thought she was heartless, but… you know why she did it, right?”
The other sighed. “Yeah. She came to us crying, said she didn’t want to hold him back. Said he deserved to chase his dream without feeling guilty for leaving her behind. She asked us not to tell him because… she wanted him to go without hesitation.”
“God,” the first murmured. “He never knew. Must’ve hated her all this time, thinking she just dumped him. Poor guy.”
Seungkwan froze.
The words sank deep, each one cutting and healing all at once. His throat tightened, vision blurring as realization hit him like a tidal wave:
She loved me. She always loved me.
All the anger, the resentment, the “reasons” he’d kept as armor crumbled in an instant. And all that remained was longing — raw, overwhelming, undeniable.
He walked out of the building without a word, his feet carrying him on instinct through familiar streets until he reached a tiny Japanese sukiyaki restaurant.
The spot that belonged to the both of you.
It smelled of simmering broth and soy, of comfort and familiarity. The low hum of conversation filled the small space, but Seungkwan heard none of it. He sat in your old booth, shoulders hunched, staring at the condensation running down his glass of soju.
The staff’s voices still echoed in his head.
She didn’t want to hold him back.
She asked us not to tell him.
She loved him enough to let him go.
His chest ached so fiercely he almost laughed. All those years he’d convinced himself he hated you — when the truth was, you’d loved him harder than he’d ever understood.
The bell above the door jingled softly.
“Found you,” came your voice, soft, almost uncertain.
He looked up, cheeks flushed from the alcohol and his eyes glistening with tears, almost like he's silently asking how did you find me? why did you come find me?.
You stood in the doorway, hair slightly damp from the night air, breathing hard like you’d been searching everywhere. The moment your eyes met, the room seemed to shrink down to just the two of you — no crew, no cameras, no years between.
“Why are you here?” you asked gently, stepping closer.
He swallowed hard, fingers curling against the table. “Because… this was ours,” he said, voice rough. “And I didn’t know where else to go.”
You slid into the seat across from him. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The air was heavy — thick with years of silence, hurt, and unspoken words pressing down on both of you.
He didn’t look at you right away, just stared at the small bottle of soju on the table like it held the answers to everything he couldn’t say. His fingers tapped once against the glass, a nervous habit you remembered all too well.
To break the suffocating quiet, you reached for the bottle and poured yourself a shot. The liquid shimmered under the warm light as you lifted it with both hands, more for courage than thirst, and took a slow sip. It burned all the way down, but steadied you enough to speak.
“You missed filming,” you said finally, voice soft, careful. “They were worried.”
He didn’t look at you right away. Just reached for the soju, poured himself a shot, and downed it in one go. Then he poured another, setting the bottle down with a quiet clink. “I couldn’t do it,” he admitted finally. His voice was low, rough. “Not after what I heard.”
Your brows furrowed. “What… what do you mean?”
He exhaled shakily and finally looked at you — really looked at you. “I know why you left.” His words were barely above a whisper, but they cut through you like thunder. “I heard the staff talking. You didn’t want to hold me back. You… you loved me enough to walk away so I could chase my dream.”
Your breath caught. The glass in your hand trembled.
“And I hated you for it,” he went on, his voice beginning to crack despite his effort to hold it steady. “I told myself you were selfish, cold. I made lists on my phone — stupid lists of reasons to hate you because it was easier than admitting I was still in love with you. All this time, Y/N… I’ve been angry at you for loving me in a way I was too blind to see.”
You blinked rapidly as tears welled and spilled over. “I thought you’d hate me if I told you the truth,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “I thought… if you stayed because of me, you’d resent me one day. I couldn’t be the reason you gave up everything.”
He let out a shaky, incredulous laugh, shaking his head. “Everything?” His gaze locked on you, unwavering, raw. “Y/N, you were everything. I would’ve given up the world for you, and I still would.”
The words hung there, trembling in the space between you, and for a long moment neither of you moved.
Then he reached across the table, his hand finding yours — warm, steady, trembling just slightly as though he was afraid you’d pull away. “Don’t leave again,” he murmured, almost like a prayer. “If you still love me… don’t you dare leave me again. Keep loving me. Please.”
You gripped his hand tightly, tears slipping freely down your cheeks now. “I never stopped,” you whispered, voice fierce through the softness. “Not for a single day.”
Something in him shattered — the walls he’d built, the bitterness he’d clung to, all of it crumbling as he leaned forward and captured your lips in a kiss.
It was tentative at first, almost unsure, but quickly deepened, desperate and aching, carrying every word you’d both left unsaid for years. The taste of soju lingered between you, warm and bittersweet, but it didn’t matter.
Outside, the world kept moving — rain tapping gently against the windows, strangers laughing over their meals — but here, in this small booth, time stilled.
When he finally broke the kiss, his forehead rested against yours, his breath mingling with yours. “This was always home,” he whispered, voice raw. “You. It’s always been you.”
And for the first time in years, you didn’t walk away.
Final Interview – For the Documentary
The cameras were smaller this time, the crew quieter — just a simple one-on-one wrap-up interview for Youth in Bloom. The room was softly lit, decorated with small props from the shoot: a stack of worn textbooks, a tiny potted cherry blossom, and a photo of the old school rooftop.
Seungkwan sat across from the interviewer, wearing a cream knit sweater, his hair styled simply. He looked comfortable — but there was a light in his eyes that hadn’t been there at the start of filming.
“Looking back,” the interviewer began, “what’s the biggest thing you’ve taken from this experience?”
He hesitated for a moment, then smiled — a small, genuine smile. “That some things… never really leave you,” he said softly. “People, memories… sometimes they stay with you, even when you think you’ve let them go.”
The interviewer tilted her head. “Do you mean Y/N?”
He chuckled lightly, not flustered like he might’ve been weeks ago. “Maybe. Maybe not. But I think… I learned that when something matters that much to you, it’s worth holding onto. Even if it takes time to find it again.”
“Do you have any regrets?”
He shook his head, gaze dropping briefly to his hands before meeting the camera. “Only that I didn’t say what I felt sooner. But… I’ve said it now. And that’s enough.”
The interviewer smiled knowingly but didn’t press further. “Any last words for the viewers who’ve followed this story since the beginning?”
Seungkwan’s smile softened even more, the kind that crinkled his eyes. “Thank you for remembering who we were back then,” he said. “And for letting us be who we are now.”
They wrapped filming soon after. As the crew packed up, he glanced to the side of the room where you stood just out of frame, leaning casually against the wall, watching him.
When your eyes met, he gave you a tiny, almost imperceptible nod — we did it.
You smiled back, your heart so full you could hardly breathe.
Epilogue – Some Time After
The documentary had been out for three weeks.
Three weeks of online buzz, nostalgic edits, and comments about “how much they’ve both grown.” Some fans guessed; others just called it “the ending they deserved.”
But here, in your apartment on a lazy Sunday morning, none of that mattered.
You sat cross-legged on the couch in one of his old T-shirts, flipping idly through your phone while Seungkwan knelt by the coffee table, trying to assemble the shelf you’d been meaning to put together for months.
“Didn’t know world-famous idols did their own furniture assembly,” you teased.
He glanced up, smirking. “Didn’t know my girlfriend would just sit there and make fun of me instead of helping.”
You laughed, warmth blooming in your chest as you watched him. After a while, you joined him on the floor, handing him his coffee exactly how he liked it.
“Seungkwan,” you said quietly.
“Hm?”
“Why did you say yes to filming the documentary?”
He paused, gaze lingering on you, soft and unguarded. “Honestly? Because I wanted to see if I could find you again. And I did. Not just in the filming, but… here.” He gestured around — to the apartment, to you, to everything you’d built back together.
You smiled, leaning your head on his shoulder. “I’m glad I found you too. I always do.”
He pressed a kiss to the crown of your head, his voice low but certain. “And I’ll always be right here to find.”
Outside, the world moved on. Inside, with crooked shelves and shared mornings, you had what mattered most.
Little Bonus : Ten years later ~
The camera opened on a bright, sunlit living room. Toys scattered across the floor, little sneakers by the door, and a faint melody of children’s laughter coming from somewhere down the hall.
“Mr. and Mrs. Boo, thank you for letting us film this,” the producer said warmly from behind the camera.
Seungkwan appeared first, holding one of the twins — a sleepy little boy with his same dark eyes. He was dressed simply in a soft gray sweater and sweatpants, hair slightly tousled, but the way he looked down at the child in his arms made it impossible to mistake him for anyone other than a man deeply, happily in love with his life.
“It’s strange,” he admitted, glancing at the camera with a smile. “Ten years ago, we did something like this. Back then, it was… complicated. Painful, even. Now?” He glanced toward the hallway. “Now it’s just… home.”
As if on cue, you entered carrying the other twin — a little girl with your nose and his cheeks. She babbled happily as you adjusted her on your hip and came to sit beside him on the couch.
“Do you ever think about that first documentary?” the producer asked.
You and Seungkwan shared a look — one of those silent exchanges only long-time partners can have. He chuckled.
“All the time,” he said. “It’s funny… that was supposed to be a story about two kids who grew up together and drifted apart. But really? It ended up being about finding each other again. And everything that came after.”
The little boy in his arms stirred, and Seungkwan kissed the top of his head gently.
“What do you hope people see in this one?” the producer asked.
“That we made it,” you answered softly. “Through everything. And that… love can change shape, but it doesn’t have to end. Not if you take care of it.”
Seungkwan’s hand found yours, squeezing gently.
The camera lingered as the twins wriggled in your laps, giggling when Seungkwan made a silly face. You leaned against his shoulder, and he kissed your temple without thinking, completely unposed.
The screen faded to black as his voice — recorded later in the interview — played over the final shot:
“People used to ask me what home felt like. It’s not a place. It’s not even a moment. It’s them. It’s us. Always us.”
description: a part of the 17 Seconds 2 Score collab!
When a burst pipe leaves national athlete Boo Seungkwan temporarily homeless, the universe decides to have a laugh and send him to the one person he’s been too busy to see—his best friend. What should’ve been an easy, familiar arrangement turns strangely complicated; between his chaotic training schedule and the small ways you keep circling each other, nothing feels as simple as it used to. Living together blurs lines you’ve never questioned before. There's a net neither of you have crossed, but maybe it's time to break the match point.
a/n: happy late birthday to seungkwan </3 and a late bday gift to myself as well because WHEW was this self indulgent? anyways, i love these two so much that i quite literally came back from the dead and am about to bury myself back in guys!! hope y'all enjoy :) rbs, comments and asks are always appreciated! <3
unbeta-d ayy we ballin
BOO SEUNGKWAN ARRIVES IN NINGBO AS KOREA’S TOP CONTENDER
Seoul Sports Daily—Updated 10:42 AM KST
South Korean, world No. 1 Boo Seungkwan landed in Ningbo early Tuesday morning ahead of the 2025 Asian Badminton Championships, entering the tournament as the player to beat after a dominant start to the season.
Despite arriving on one of the earliest flights of the day, the 27-year-old looked composed as he passed through the international arrivals hall, greeting a small crowd of fans with a polite wave before joining his coaching staff.
A Season of Near-Perfect Form
Boo enters Ningbo following one of the strongest opening halves of any season in recent years, having claimed titles at both the All England Open and Swiss Open, and making back-to-back finals appearances across the European circuit. His consistency has secured him the world No. 1 ranking for the first time in his career, with analysts citing his precision and improved court coverage as the primary reasons behind his surge.
“His level this year has been unbelievable,” national team coach Baek Taeyang said. “He’s cleaned up his errors, he’s sharper at the net, and his stamina is better than ever. When Seungkwan is playing like this, he can beat anyone.”
Managing Expectations and Fatigue
Asked directly about the pressure of entering as the top seed, Boo only offered a faint, practiced smile.
“I try not to think about rankings too much,” he said. “You focus on what’s in front of you. One match at a time.”
Reporters also questioned both Boo and Coach Baek about fatigue, noting the tight tournament schedule that will begin past the Asian Championships.
Baek brushed off concerns. “Everyone is tired,” he said. “This part of the season is demanding for every athlete. What matters is that he’s mentally ready.”
Boo himself responded lightly when pressed about his workload.
“It’s been a long few weeks,” he admitted. “But that’s the job. You train, you travel, you adjust. Once the games start, everything else fades.”
Eyes on Ningbo
With several top players also in peak form, this year’s championship is expected to be one of the toughest fields of the season. Even so, most predictions place Boo at the top of the bracket, citing his confidence, momentum, and tactical discipline.
“Right now, he’s the most dangerous player in the draw,” said one international analyst. “Everyone else is chasing him.”
South Korea’s first-round match is set for Thursday, where Boo is expected to lead the lineup in the men’s singles.
The apartment has settled into a different kind of quiet since Seungkwan left.
You move through the day like you always do, going to work and coming back, but there’s an odd, hollow stillness every time you step outside.
You know he had to leave early. You know national team travel always means dawn flights and half-packed bags and rushing out before the sun fully rises. You know all of that. But waking up alone still felt like a dip in cold water. You weren’t expecting him to stay long enough for breakfast, but some part of you had imagined brushing your teeth while he tossed shirts into his suitcase, or making some tired joke about him wearing the wrong socks again. Instead, you’d rolled over to an empty space and the dip in his pillow almost non-existent.
He left you a note on the fridge, stuck under the same cat magnet you’ve had since college. A text too.
You tell yourself you’re just being ridiculous—oversensitive, maybe a little sleep-deprived—but there’s a small, persistent sting you can’t quite soothe. You replay fragments of the night before in your mind, trying to convince yourself you didn’t imagine reaching toward him, or that he didn’t notice if you did. The fear that you might have made things uncomfortable blurts into your thoughts at odd moments, like while you’re brushing your hair or waiting for the microwave to beep.
So when the article pops up in your notifications the next day, you hesitate to open it.
He looks exactly like he always does on travel days. Polished, calm, but a bit tired around the eyes. There’s a photo of him walking through the airport with a carry-on rolling behind him, another of him stepping into the venue with his coaches.
You slow down when you reach the paragraph about fatigue. The quote is familiar because it’s the kind of line he’s given since he was sixteen and someone first shoved a microphone in his face.
It’s been a long few weeks. You train, you travel, you adjust. Once the games start, everything else fades.
You know what he means. You’ve always known. When he’s working, everything else shrinks to the edges. People misunderstand that sometimes and assume he’s cold or rigid, but he’s not. He just burns at a pace that doesn’t leave much room for anything else.
Still, the words land somewhere tender.
When you scroll back up to the pictures, a strange feeling catches you off guard—almost like your mind whispering that he should be here instead, sitting at your counter eating breakfast or lazing around on the couch. It’s not possessiveness, not really, just that brief, unwarranted tug of that’s my boy, followed immediately by the reminder that he isn’t, and that you have no business thinking something so careless in the first place.
You glance at the fridge again. The note hasn’t moved.
You reach for it without thinking, then stop just before your fingers touch the paper.
You shouldn’t read into any of this. You know that, but still you stand there for another moment, and wonder if he feels any of this. If the tired look in his eyes was just fatigue, or if he left something unsaid too.
The team dinner stretches much longer than it needs to, mostly because everyone keeps drifting into small conversations and forgetting the time. Jungwoo is arguing with one of the girls from the mixed doubles team about who snores louder, Jeonghan keeps stealing food from the plate nearest to him, and a few of the younger ones are buzzing with the kind of energy only travel and nerves can create. It should feel exciting, the way it usually does before a tournament, but tonight Seungkwan feels strangely out of it.
He laughs when someone teases him about zoning out, but the smile doesn’t quite hold. He picks at his food, nods when he’s spoken to, and checks his phone once under the table. The last message between you is still the same, something short on both sides, polite in a way that feels unfamiliar. He locks the screen quickly, pretending he wasn’t hoping for something else.
When they finally head back to the hotel, he’s relieved. The hallway is dim when he reaches his room, and he sighs loudly upon shutting the door after bidding Jeonghan a good night.
Seungkwan sits on the edge of the bed for a moment before pulling out his racket. Changing the grip is part of his usual routine, something familiar and repetitive, but tonight his hands hesitate. He thinks of the morning he left. Were you mad at him? Was that why he wasn't receiving your random updates throughout the day?
His chest pulls a little at the memory, subtle and annoying, like a muscle he forgot he’d strained.
Once the new grip is in place, he tests the racket lightly. The room is too still. He crosses to the wall near the closet and taps a shuttle against it, soft and rhythmic. It’s something he’s done since he was young, a way to steady his thoughts, but it only seems to make the unease clearer tonight.
He thinks about calling you. Not for anything important, but maybe just to hear your voice for a minute.
But the thought of it makes his stomach tighten, because he’s suddenly aware of every small thing he might reveal without meaning to. So instead he sets the phone face-down on the bedside table and returns to the slow, repetitive sound of the shuttle tapping the wall.
Seungkwan keeps going until his arm begins to ache, and then a little more. He only stops once Jeonghan raps back in annoyance from the other side, grumbling loud enough for it to pass through the wall.
The sound snaps him out of it. He lowers the racket, suddenly aware of how long he’s been standing there and how restless he must seem. He mumbles an apology through the wall even though Jeonghan’s probably already half-asleep again, then returns to the bed and sits down heavily.
He reaches for his phone again out of habit, thumb hovering over the screen for a moment before he unlocks it. Nothing new. No message from you. He scrolls up your chat anyway, just far enough to see the way the conversation used to look when you were both less careful with each other. It only makes him more restless.
He plugs his phone in, turns off the lamp, and lies back against the stiff hotel pillows. The ceiling is dark, the room too quiet, and his mind refuses to settle. He tells himself it’s just nerves for tomorrow. That he just needs to fall asleep, and once he steps on court everything will fall back into place.
You keep up with the tournament almost without meaning to.
It starts as a quick glance at the schedule before work, then a check while your coffee is cooling on your desk, and by mid-morning you’ve accepted that you’re not fooling anyone, least of all yourself. His first-round match begins just after eleven, and you tell yourself you’ll only look once, just to settle your nerves, but the point tracker refreshes faster than your rational brain, and soon you’re watching the little numbers climb like it’s second nature.
Seungkwan wins both sets easily with neat and clear margins of 21-12 and 21-9.
It should make you relax, but you stay on the page longer than necessary, scrolling through the brief match summary until there’s nothing left to read.
You try to refocus on work. You half-succeed. Your fingers move over your keyboard, but at the edges of your attention, you’re thinking about him in Ningbo, probably cooling down or sitting with his teammates, towel around his neck, hair damp. You wonder if he’s thinking about anything other than the next round. You wonder if he even has space in his head for much else. It’s not a fair question, so you don’t follow it too far and instead pull out your phone.
You wait a second, maybe out of habit, maybe out of nerves, before typing the same thing you’ve sent him after every early-round win since you were both teenagers.
Youwell done!! atb for the next one
You lock your phone, expecting nothing for the next hour. During tournaments he usually disappears into ice baths or physio or debriefs, so you slide your phone away and go back to pretending you’re productive. But it buzzes almost immediately.
Boo
thank you!! just finished cooling down 🥲
You stare at the message for a second too long. He never replies this fast during championships. Your hands hover over the keyboard before you force them back down.
You
good. don’t overdo it
Boo
i never do 😇
You
liar
There’s a pause, long enough that you assume the conversation’s done, until your screen lights again.
Boo
are you on a break?
You glance around the office, everyone hunched over screens or tapping away at keyboards, the afternoon dragging in that familiar, sluggish way.
You
not really. just sneaking a minute
Boo
stop sneaking. go drink water or get back to work lol!
You
worry about yourself
Boo
i am!! i have a match tomorrow!!!
also i’m drinking water RIGHT now
You roll your eyes at your phone, but your stomach does that embarrassing, traitorous flip anyway. You type back quickly before you can overthink it.
You
good. stay hydrated and stop texting me go prepare or smth
His reply comes in less than a minute.
Boo
can’t. im in the team bus, going back to the hotel lolz
and texting you counts as recovery 👍
You shake your head, fighting a smile, but you don’t push the conversation further.
By the time you’re packing up to leave, the sun is low enough to tint the windows gold. You slip your phone into your bag, try not to replay the earlier messages, and head home with that odd mixture of pride and something heavier sitting under your ribs.
At home, the apartment greets you with the same quiet as before. You kick your shoes off, set your bag down, and walk straight to the fridge. The note he left is still there, the cat magnet holding it like a tiny weight. You touch the edge of the paper without meaning to, tracing the little uneven slant in his handwriting.
You shouldn’t miss him like this. Not after one night. Not when he’s done this trip a hundred times before. But the space between his last message and now feels wider than it should.
You heat up dinner, sit at the counter, and scroll through the tournament feed. Someone’s posted a short clip from his match—a clean drop shot near the net, the kind he only pulls out when he’s feeling sharp. He looks focused, steady, but there’s a brief moment as he walks back to position where his eyes flick toward something off-camera and his expression goes distant.
You know that look. He gets it when he’s thinking too far ahead.
Your phone lights again just as you’re setting it down. It’s Chan, calling instead of texting, which is never a good sign at this hour.
You answer with a cautious, “Hello?”
He doesn’t even say hi. “I want to die.”
You blink. “What happened now?”
“Everything,” he groans dramatically, the sound of him shuffling around in the background loud enough to tell you he’s pacing. “Work was hell, Vernon almost made me cry, my boss thinks I’m a robot, and I was this close—", you can practically see him pinching his fingers together “—to buying soju on the way home.”
You straighten up. “Chan.”
“But I didn’t!” he interrupts, proud. “I remembered I have dignity. And a liver. So I bought ice cream instead. Which means I’m being responsible. And since I’m being responsible, I deserve company. Your company.”
You sigh, already reaching for your keys even though you planned to stay in. “Where are you?”
“The park outside your building,” he says immediately, as if he knew you’d cave. “Hurry, my ice cream is melting. And also my will to live.”
You find him exactly where he promised, slumped dramatically on a park bench beneath the streetlamp, two convenience-store bags at his feet and a half-melted ice cream bar in his hand. His hair sticks up in three different directions, and he looks like the physical embodiment of a sigh.
He spots you and perks up immediately. “There you are! My emotional support human.”
“You called the right hotline,” you joke lightly, sitting beside him.
He shoves a second ice cream bar into your hand without ceremony. “Eat. Suffer with me.”
You unwrap your ice cream while he launches into a rapid-fire account of his awful day. Something about a coworker sending the wrong files, something about his boss asking him to redo a project at 5 p.m., something about the universe being personally against him.
You listen, nodding and making the appropriate sounds, letting his chaotic energy pull you out of your own head. At one point he gestures so wildly the rest of his ice cream falls off the stick and onto the ground.
He stares at it like he could burst into tears any moment. “This is what I get for trying.”
You shake your head. “We can get another one.”
“No,” he says firmly. “This is symbolic suffering.”
You bump your shoulder lightly against his. “Drama queen.”
Chan sighs loudly and leans back on the bench, letting his legs stretch out in front of him. For a while neither of you talk and just sit there eating, listening to the faint hum of cars passing on the nearby road. The air is warm, the park quiet, and it feels strangely grounding.
After a few minutes, he glances sideways at you. “So. You? How’s… life?”
You keep your gaze on the path, tracing a line with your shoe. “Fine.”
“That’s fake,” he says immediately, and when you don’t argue, he nudges your knee with his. “Come on. I had the worst day of my year and I’m out here trauma dumping. Your turn.”
You take a slow breath, staring at the small patch of grass in front of you. “It’s nothing serious. Just… weird. I don’t know.”
Chan gives you a moment, waiting for you to continue. When you don’t, he leans forward, elbows on his knees.
“This is about Kwan, isn’t it?”
The question lands too cleanly. You blink at him, startled, and he lifts a brow like he’s been waiting for you to catch up.
"I mean," he continues, shrugging. "I did think that the two of you living together would've been a mistake."
Your head jerks up. “Okay, thanks—”
“No, not like that,” he says quickly, waving a hand before you can glare him into silence. “Not because I thought it would go bad. I just knew it would… do something. To both of you.”
You frown slightly. “Do what?”
Chan gives you a look that’s annoyingly gentle. “Make everything harder to ignore.”
You open your mouth, but he keeps going, voice softer than before. “I’ve known you both long enough to see when you’re pretending not to feel something. And the two of you have been pretending for so long I’m shocked the universe hasn’t tripped you on purpose yet.”
You stare at him, unsure what to do with the sudden weight in his words. He picks at the wrapper in his lap, lips pressing into a thin line before he speaks again.
“And honestly? I was surprised he even agreed to stay with you. He was kinda…" he mumbles quietly, "I dunno. He was trying to avoid you for a bit. Said he’d get too comfortable.”
“Too comfortable?” you repeat quietly.
“Yeah,” Chan says, nodding. “Because you make people feel like they can breathe a little easier. And he knew that. And he hated that. Because—” He stops, sighs dramatically. “Because he’ll kill me if I say it.”
You narrow your eyes. “Say it.”
Chan hesitates, then gestures vaguely, like the words are floating somewhere within arm’s reach. “Fine. But I want it on record that Kwan threatened bodily harm. With a racket.”
“Chan.”
He meets your eyes, resigned. “He liked you. Back in uni.”
Your heart stumbles.
“He told me not to say anything unless I wanted to spend the rest of my life dodging shuttlecocks. Very violent, that man, I'll tell you.”
You stare at him, barely breathing. “And now?”
Chan exhales through his nose, leaning back against the bench. “Now? I don’t know. But the way he looks at you hasn’t changed. And the way you’re acting right now tells me something definitely changed for you.”
You sit with that, the night humming softly around you. Chan nudges you again, gentler this time.
“Look,” he says, “I’m not telling you to confess. I’m not telling you to be dramatic. Just… stop pretending it’s nothing. It’s clearly not nothing.”
You swallow, hands tightening around the half-melted ice cream. “I don’t even know what I’m supposed to do.”
“You could start by admitting you feel something,” Chan says simply. “Out loud. To someone. Even if it’s just me.”
For a moment, you don’t speak.
“I miss him.”
Chan smiles, small and relieved, like he’s been waiting all his life to hear you say that.
"Cool. You could tell him that too!"
"Hell no."
He groans like you’ve physically injured him. “Awesome. Fantastic. We’re back to square one.”
You frown. “There was never a square two.”
“I was so close,” he mutters, flopping back against the bench. “I thought we were making progress. I was practically a shareholder in your love life through uni, you know? I was so invested but nothing ever happened.”
“We don’t have a love life.”
“Exactly,” Chan says, pointing at you with his ice-cream stick. “And yet here I am, investing emotionally for the last five years or so, getting zero returns. Terrible market conditions. Maybe I am stupid after all."
You snort. “Seeing as it took you twenty-six years to realize, you definitely are.”
He shrugs, accepting it like a badge of honour. “Anyway, Kwan looked sharp today.”
"You watched?”
Chan gives you a flat, offended look. “Do you think you’re the only one who keeps up? Of course I watched. He barely broke a sweat.”
You roll your eyes but your chest warms a little. “Yeah. He played well.”
“And tomorrow’s draw isn’t bad either,” Chan continues, waving his stick like a pointer. “He’s got that Thai kid. Good defense, annoying footwork, but Kwan can take him.”
“I know,” you agree quietly.
Chan shoots you a sideways look. “Yeah, you know. You’ve probably already watched, like, ten clips.”
“Shut up.”
“No,” he says simply. “I’m making an observation.”
You’re about to argue when he adds, far too casually, “Also, if you’re too scared or stupid to call him, I’ll do it.”
Your entire body whips toward him. “You will not.”
Chan stands by it immediately. “I absolutely will. I’ll FaceTime him right now. I’ll pan the camera to you and everything.”
“Chan.”
You lunge when he starts tapping at his screen, but he twists away like the slippery little gremlin he is, holding the phone above his head. “Too late! Look at me go!”
“Chan!”
You grab at his wrist, and he’s laughing so hard he nearly drops the phone, but he still manages to hit the call button.
“End it! End it right now!” you hiss, trying to wrestle his arm down.
“No can do,” he wheezes. “The market demands results.”
“You’re deranged! Give it—”
You manage to hook your arm around his neck in a half–headlock, because desperation makes you resourceful. Chan yelps, still laughing, still trying to wiggle free.
Neither of you notice the ringing stops. Or that the call connects.
You only notice when a flat, unimpressed voice cuts through.
“…Are you both done?”
The two of you freeze, like deers caught in the headlights.
Slowly, so slowly that you can feel the humiliation rising from your neck, you both turn your heads toward the screen.
There he is.
Seungkwan sits propped up against a stack of hotel pillows, hair damp from a shower, wearing a loose cotton t-shirt that makes him look unfairly soft. The room behind him is dim, the lamp casting a warm, tired glow across his face, but none of that matters because of the expression he’s wearing.
His eyebrows are raised just a fraction, not in surprise, but in a quiet, exhausted disappointment that somehow feels worse.
He blinks once, and the silence stretches long enough for you to hear Chan swallow beside you. You awkwardly release him, and he straightens his shirt, clears his throat like a man regaining dignity that was never there to begin with, and then smiles brightly at the screen.
“Hey, Kwan!”
Seungkwan’s gaze shifts to him first. “Hi,” he says flatly. “Are you… okay?”
“Yeah, great,” Chan says. “Just enjoying life. Ice cream. Fresh air. Neck pain.”
Seungkwan stares at him for a second too long. Then his eyes slide toward you.
You offer a small, mortified wave. “Hi.”
His expression softens immediately, like someone rewired his entire face. “Hey,” he says, voice warming. "Didn’t expect to see you.”
“She attacked me,” Chan says unhelpfully.
You smack his arm. “Did not.”
“Oh? Because I distinctly remember—”
“Chan,” Seungkwan warns lightly, and Chan snaps his mouth shut, looking as chastened as someone like him can ever look.
There’s a pause, one that feels surprisingly comfortable after all the chaos, and then Seungkwan shifts a little in his seat, adjusting his phone.
“What are you two even doing outside this late?” he asks, tone edging back toward normal.
Chan perks up. “Stress relief.”
You nod. “He had a rough day.”
“I’m very delicate,” Chan adds. "But so did she."
Seungkwan’s eyebrows pinch together immediately, that slight, instinctive worry settling into his expression before he even speaks.
“You did?” he asks, "What happened?"
You blink. “Nothing serious. Just work.”
He doesn’t look convinced. Not even a little. You can see the shift in his posture, the faint tightening around his mouth, the way he leans a little closer to the screen like proximity might help. But maybe he realises that outside is not the best place to do this, so he doesn't push.
He exhales quietly. “Okay. As long as you’re alright.”
Chan makes a satisfied noise. “See? Emotional support athlete.”
Seungkwan’s lips twitch. “And emotional support idiot,” he adds, glancing at Chan.
“Hey!”
You laugh, the tension diffusing, and the conversation drifts into something easier. Chan tells Seungkwan about Jiwon's blind-date-gone-wrong, Seungkwan snorts and shares a story about Jungwoo forgetting his accreditation at the venue and trying to convince security he was “definitely a player,” which only made them more suspicious, and for a few minutes it feels natural—like the three of you are just hanging out instead of being in two different cities on a video call that should never have happened.
But eventually, you catch sight of the time on your lockscreen.
“It’s late,” you say, nudging Chan with your elbow. “Chan, he has a match tomorrow. Let him sleep.”
Chan nods solemnly, even though he looks like he’s barely listening. “You’re right. Athletes need rest.” He turns the phone back to himself. “Goodnight, Kwan. Crush it tomorrow. Don’t embarrass me.”
Seungkwan rolls his eyes, amused. “Goodnight, you two.”
Chan ends the call before anyone can say anything else and you barely breathe before he turns to you with a smug grin.
“You’re welcome,” he announces, stuffing the phone into his pocket like he just performed a public service.
You groan. “I actually hate you.”
You watch the Round of 16 on your television that afternoon, the match unfolding with the kind of control that never gives you much room to worry. Seungkwan looks composed from the first rally, not explosive but just efficient in the way top seeds usually are in early rounds. His opponent tries to force pace, but nothing really disturbs him. A few sharp smashes, some patient net work, one long rally that ends with him walking away before the shuttle even hits the floor. When he closes the second game by an almost identical margin as the first, you turn the TV off before the post-match interview can start.
He doesn’t message right away. He never does during tournaments. He has a whole checklist of things to do first—cooldown, press, physio, shower. You leave your phone facedown on the coffee table and go back to whatever you were doing before the match started, though you keep finding excuses to walk past it.
When it finally buzzes, it’s been almost an hour.
Boo
won :)
You reply with a simple awesome!, short enough that it shouldn’t mean anything, but you reread it once as if you’re checking for tone before putting your phone away again.
He sees your message sitting on the bench in the locker room, hair still damp, one leg stretched out as a trainer works on his calf. He doesn’t let himself linger on it. There’s still recovery to finish and footage to glance at and another match tomorrow. Still, the corners of his mouth lift at your reply, quick and almost automatic, like it’s a habit he hasn’t bothered to break.
The quarterfinals make you sit up a little straighter. His opponent looks sharper than the last, the kind of player who tests footwork patterns more than brute strength. The rallies stretch a little too long for your liking, and you catch yourself tightening your grip on the cushion beside you a bit more often than you’d like. Seungkwan edges ahead near the end, takes the first set 21–16, and you settle a bit deeper into the couch without realizing.
The second set wobbles in the beginning, out of his balance and control. He sends a clear long, then clips the tape on a drop, then hesitates at the net in a way that he usually doesn’t. You can tell when he’s annoyed; there’s a way his shoulders square, like he’s trying to shut something out. But he steadies himself the way he always does—one long rally to reset, another to settle the pace, then finally a clean push that forces his opponent off his game. He closes it 21–19.
You stop focusing on the broadcast as soon as Seungkwan shakes hands with the umpire and walks off the court, throwing a small wave at the fans in the stands.
Seungkwan doesn’t text for a long time, and neither do you. He’ll be in the locker room again, probably annoyed at himself even though the scoreline was fine, and he gets overwhelmed after matches that he’s made silly mistakes in. Bombarding him with messages won’t make it any better, so you wait for him to reach out of his own accord.
Eventually, the text comes.
Boo
done for today.
don’t know what that was… but uh you’re probably heading to sleep so good night :)
You
you good?
don’t worry about it
you’ll do great
Seungkwan reads it sitting on his bed, the sheets pulled up to his waist, hair finally dry. For a second he almost replies, almost says something about how his mind wouldn’t shut up all match, how he kept thinking of everything and nothing at the same time, how Baek could tell from the first rally that something was off. But he deletes the half-typed message because sending it would make it feel more real than it already is, and sets his phone facedown, before switching the bedside lamp off.
His phone pings long after he’s fallen asleep.
You
tomorrow’s a new day after all
You tune into the broadcast a few minutes before Seungkwan’s match, just in time to catch the tail end of the first semifinal. The hall is loud even through the broadcast, the kind of noise that only happens in late-stage tournaments with home-players. The scoreboard shows the result already sealed.
Wen Junhui, World No. 2 and the second seed in the championship, closed out a clean win, barely looking tired.
You watch him wave at the crowd before the camera cuts away. Somewhere behind the broadcast feed, in another tunnel, Seungkwan will hear that result. You wonder if it’ll sit heavy on him or if he’ll tuck it away the way he usually does, neatly, almost clinically, until it’s time to deal with it.
You lower the volume and wait for his match graphic to appear.
Seungkwan hears it in passing.
The announcement reaches him somewhere between stretching his quads and adjusting the sweat bands around his wrists, the staff member reading out the score as casually as if he were announcing the time. He nods once, not because he cares to acknowledge it, but because the information lands with the weight of something he can’t ignore even if he wants to.
“He won in straight games,” the staff adds, like the detail is a courtesy.
Baek doesn’t look up from the clipboard he’s been making notes on. “And that has nothing to do with your match,” he says, as though he’s swatting the thought away before it can settle.
Jeonghan, who is half-stretched across a foam roller near the benches, tilts his head toward them with a small, amused sigh. “For what it’s worth, he looked sharp,” he says, rolling onto his side to glance at Seungkwan. “But you always complain that he plays too aggressively anyway, so maybe that’s good for you.”
“I don’t complain,” Seungkwan mutters, rotating his ankle slowly, trying to ease the remaining heaviness in his left thigh. “I just… observe.”
Baek snorts softly. “You complain. Quietly.”
Jeonghan grins, pushing himself upright so he can grab a shuttle and toss it lazily from hand to hand. “Anyway, don’t think too hard about it. My match is after yours, so if you take too long, I’m blaming you for it.”
“You blame me for everything,” Seungkwan says, rolling out the stiffness in his calf again, hoping the movement will coax the tension into fading. It doesn’t, not completely. It sits there—nothing too alarming, but just a bit more weight than he wants in a semifinal.
“That’s because everything is always your fault,” Jeonghan shoots back lightly, before turning to Baek. “What time are they sending him out?”
“Ten minutes,” Baek says, finally glancing at the tournament official waiting near the door. “Which means you need to stop pretending you’re stretching and actually warm up.”
Jeonghan raises both hands in a half-surrender, half-mockery gesture. “I’ll start in a second. Watching him stress is entertainment.”
“I’m not stressed,” Seungkwan says, even though the tug in his left leg makes him shift slightly, his weight settling unevenly for a moment before he forces it back to neutral. Baek notices—it’s impossible for him not to—but he doesn’t say anything yet.
“Did you train too hard this morning?” Jeonghan asks, tossing the shuttle at his chest gently. “It’s written all over your face.”
“It’s fine,” Seungkwan replies, catching the shuttle and passing it back without looking at him.
Baek steps closer then, lowering his voice. “Don’t overthink. It’s not an injury. It’s fatigue. You know the difference better than anyone.”
“I do,” Seungkwan admits quietly, pulling his knee to his chest and holding it there long enough to breathe through the stretch. “Just… whatever, it’s alright.”
“That’s normal on day five,” Baek continues. “There’s no tournament where your legs feel perfect this late. You manage it and you play through it. Trust your timing.”
Jeonghan bumps his shoulder as he walks past. “Trust your timing,” he echoes in a teasing voice, “and then win quickly so I don’t get bumped into a late slot.”
Seungkwan huffs out a breath that isn’t quite a laugh, more an acknowledgement that the noise around him is helping distract him from the noise in his own head.
The official gestures to Baek. “Five minutes.”
Baek nods, turning back to him. “Phone away, shoes tied, mind quiet. You know the routine.”
He does. He always does.
But when he reaches into his bag to tuck his phone into the inner pocket, the screen lights up with the first thing he’d read in the morning, and the one he hadn’t planned to see again before the match.
tomorrow’s a new day after all
The words sit there without urgency, without anything that should rattle him, yet somehow they soften something deep inside him in a way that feels dangerously close to distraction. He stares for a moment longer than he should, thumb hovering near the edge of the screen, the quiet in the locker room suddenly louder than any noise the crowd could make.
Baek calls his name again, gentler this time.
He slips the phone away.
Jeonghan taps his shoulder with the flat face of his racket. “Let’s go, superstar.”
Seungkwan nods and exhales slowly, hikes the straps of his kit higher on his shoulder, and steps toward the tunnel entrance.
Minghao gets called first.
The cheer that rises is clear and energetic, but not wild—home crowd, familiar face, simple as that. It fades into a comfortable buzz by the time the staff gestures for Seungkwan to step forward.
“Boo Seungkwan, South Korea.”
There’s applause. Polite, warm enough, not overwhelming. He’s heard colder in European halls and louder at home; this sits somewhere in the middle.
Seungkwan steps out with a small, polite smile, lifting his hand in a quick wave that lasts barely a second before he drops it again and heads to his side of the court. The crowd noise settles into something steady and unintrusive by the time he reaches his chair. He unzips his kit bag, sets his water bottle in the space beside it, drapes his towel neatly over the backrest, and pulls out the racket he’d already chosen in the locker room. The routine settles him more than anything else.
Across the net, Minghao stands at his baseline already adjusting his stance. They exchange a short nod before beginning warm-up. The strokes are standard: a few high clears to loosen the shoulders, some straight drives to check timing, a couple of controlled net shots to feel the tape, one or two relaxed drops that don’t reveal anything. Seungkwan tests a deeper lunge on a lift and feels that faint tug in his thigh again—nothing sharp, just present enough to remind him to watch his recovery steps. Minghao gives nothing away, each contact clean and economical, the kind of technical clarity that makes him difficult to read early on.
Soon enough, the umpire raises a hand to end the warm-up. Both players move toward the net for the toss. The coin arcs up, lands cleanly, and the umpire turns the disc in his palm.
Minghao wins.
He chooses to serve without hesitation. It makes sense for a technical player who likes to dictate pace early.
Their handshake is quick and professional, neither warm nor cold, just the kind exchanged between competitors who know each other’s games more than they know each other. They split off to their baselines again, toweling off once before stepping into their respective service courts.
The arena falls quiet instinctively, a soft hush falling over the stands as the umpire readies the match.
“Love all.”
Seungkwan shifts his weight slightly, between his feet. Draws in a slow breath, lets it out in huff.
Minghao lowers his racket for a tight, precise low serve.
“Play.”
Minghao’s low serve skims just over the tape, tight and deliberate, forcing Seungkwan forward immediately. He gets under it cleanly enough, lifting high and deep to reset, but the shuttle comes back fast in the form of a flat drive that steals time from him, followed by a sudden drop that dies soft at the net. It’s not something that should concern him too much, but one rally in, and there’s already a sense that Minghao’s tempo sits slightly out of step with what Seungkwan has dealt with all week.
You lean forward on your couch without meaning to, fingers curling around the edge of your cushion
The next exchange stretches longer than an opening rally usually does. Clears drift deep on both ends, net shots traded cautiously, neither willing to overcommit too early. Then a diagonal lift drags Seungkwan into a corner he would rather not test yet. His calf tugs as he lunges, not sharply, not enough to break the shot, but enough to slow his recovery by a fraction. It’s small. Minghao sees it anyway. The shuttle comes back to the opposite corner, and the point slips before Seungkwan can fully reset.
The early points trade evenly after that. Seungkwan opts for a high serve when he gets the chance, sending the shuttle deep and buying himself a little more space, a little more breath. The rallies lengthen again, but this time he’s dictating some of them. A well-timed drop pulls Minghao forward. A crosscourt clear forces an awkward overhead. A push to the body earns a rushed return.
The scoreboard evens out, but it’s hard to miss where the effort lies. Minghao’s movements remain compact and economical, barely showing strain, while Seungkwan works harder to stay one step ahead, reading and adjusting but paying for every tight lunge with that same dull reminder in his calf.
Midway through the next rally, Minghao holds the shuttle just a beat longer at the net, the pause subtle enough to bait instinct. Seungkwan bites a half-step too early. The shuttle floats past his outstretched racket and lands cleanly on the line. He wipes his palm on his shorts once, breath steady, forcing the irritation down before it can take hold.
It’s still early. Still manageable.
What follows passes in a quiet, unforgiving stretch. Minghao finds a rhythm that presses Seungkwan backward, favouring late, deep corners that demand full extension before rising back into base. Each chase costs a little more than the last, and although they’re not enough to break him,they’re enough to tilt the game in increments that add up faster than he likes. By the time they reach the interval, the scoreboard reads 11–9.
Seungkwan sits with a towel over his face while Baek leans in close.
You watch in anticipation, hands clasped and hoping that whatever they’re talking about helps him out.
Seungkwan nods once on your screen and stands again when the umpire calls them back. The second half of the set moves quicker, points slipping away without offering him the space he needs to settle. Minghao stays unpredictable at the net, mixing short holds with tight pushes that force small, sharp corrections in footwork, the kind that never quite let rhythm form.
At 18-15, a net exchange ends with Minghao tumbling the shuttle so delicately over the tape that even lunging feels pointless. Seungkwan exhales through his nose, his jaw set. He isn’t out of this, not mentally, not tactically, but the set is slipping, point by point, through details that refuse to line up.
At nineteen, he forces a rally of his own. High clears, a deep lift, and a heavy smash down the line that pulls a gasp from the crowd. Minghao absorbs it, steady as ever, and answers with a tight spinning net shot that clips the tape on its way down.
At match point, the final rally stretches longer than it should. A diagonal chase, then another. Seungkwan’s calf tightens each time he tries to explode back into centre court. He reaches the last drop a split-second late and sends up a lift that hangs too long, too high. It’s predictable, and in hindsight, stupid. Minghao expects it and ends the game cleanly at the net.
21-17.
Seungkwan steps off the court with his shoulders still held high. From your couch, you exhale and sink back slightly, trying not to read too much into the way he’s been slower than usual. He’s come back from worse. He’ll manage it.
They don’t sit for long. The umpire signals the change of ends, and Seungkwan gathers his things with practiced ease before moving to the opposite side. By the time he sets his towel over the new chair, Baek is already there.
“Your length is fine,” Baek says quietly, eyes tracking the opposite baseline. “What’s hurting you is the first step. He’s pulling you forward too easily. Make him move first.”
Seungkwan nods once, rolling his ankle subtly to keep the calf loose.
“And his clears,” Baek continues. “They’re shorter today. Push him back. Take the early one. Don’t let him sit at the net.”
Another nod, slower this time, and more deliberate.
The umpire calls them back quickly. Minghao wipes his face and drifts toward the baseline with the same calm precision he’s played the entire first game with. Seungkwan stands a moment longer, rolling his shoulders back, adjusting his grip once before thwacking the side of his leg with the racket out of habit.
The second set begins on his terms. He steps in earlier, cuts off loose returns before they can settle, pushes Minghao back instead of letting himself be drawn forward. The rallies shorten, not because they’re rushed, but because space opens where it hadn’t before. A flat exchange ends sharply and wakes the hall. A deep serve forces a late return. Minghao still finds moments of brilliance, but they land inside rallies Seungkwan is already dictating.
You can see it even through the broadcast, the way the pace evens into something familiar, something controlled. This is the version of him you know best, measured and unyielding once he’s taken hold. At 15-11, he produces the point that finally shifts the atmosphere, a sudden burst of pace that ends with the shuttle slipping past Minghao’s reach. The reaction is louder this time. Even Baek’s posture relaxes by a fraction.
Seungkwan closes the set cleanly, without hesitation or much celebration.
21-18
The third set unfolds more cautiously than the second, as if both of them have agreed to slow the pace without saying so. Minghao keeps pressing and pulling Seungkwan across the court, and the rallies stretch until they settle into something almost methodical. Seungkwan adjusts where he can, stepping in early when the shuttle allows it, choosing placement over force, but the tightness in his calf makes itself known in small, persistent ways. It’s there when he pushes off, there when he recovers, a dull resistance that never sharpens but never fully recedes either.
As the game wears on, the effort shows more clearly. Between points, he shifts his weight carefully, rolls his ankle once, breath measured, expression unchanged. Minghao tests the same corners again and again, and Seungkwan answers almost intuitively, trusting habits built over years to carry him through what his body is quietly disputing.
The last stretch passes without much separation. A long rally tips in his favour, then another follows, and when the final point comes, it does so without flourish. Seungkwan steps forward for the handshake, his grip strong and face composed—although later, walking up to his coach, Seungkwan lets out the a long relieved sigh at making it to the finals—and only once he turns away does the weight of it settle fully into his leg, heavy and insistent, something he knows he’ll have to deal with later.
About two hours later, you notice that he still hasn’t texted you. Usually, there’s a message by now—be it a simple done, or a thumbs-up that indicates he’s through the hardest part of the day.
The dying sun’s light settles into the corners of your living room. You answer a few emails you’d meant to ignore, tidy without much intention, let music play low in the background. Ever so often, your attention drifts to your phone where it sits on the counter, face up, unmoving.
Physio crosses your mind at some point, and the thought sticks. It fits easily enough with what you saw on screen. It explains the silence too. Dinner comes and goes. You eat standing at the counter, scrolling idly through something you don’t remember later. Outside, the sky darkens in stages, the city lights flickering on one by one.
The call comes a little after ten.
You’re rinsing your glass at the sink when your phone lights up, his name filling the screen. You dry your hands quickly and answer before the sound can ring again.
“Hey,” you say.
“Hey,” he replies.
His voice carries the day with it, low and settled, tired. It slides into the space between you and stays there.
“Sorry it took me so long,” he says. “I got pulled into physio right after and then everything just… stacked up.”
“That makes sense,” you say, leaning back against the counter. “I figured you were tied up.”
There’s a small pause wherein you assume he’s shuffling through his suitcase for something.
“Yeah, I don’t know. My leg was acting up. Are you busy? I was going to text, but thought you wouldn’t see it or something…” Seungkwan trails off.
“Wouldn’t be doing things of much importance on a Friday night, would I?” You scoff, placing the glass back onto the drying rack before picking up your phone with damp hands and walking over to your room. “Good match though. Well done.”
“Thank you. Wasn’t a good one, though.” He mumbles.
You pause by the edge of your bed, phone tucked between your shoulder and ear as you unfold your duvet. “It was close,” you hum, because that’s the truth and because it’s the kind of thing he usually accepts. “Which I’m guessing made it entertaining for everyone who wasn’t emotionally invested.”
He lets out a quiet breath that might be a laugh. “Yeah. Probably.”
“For the record,” you add, settling onto the mattress, “it was anything but entertaining for me.”
That gets a real huff out of him this time. “Sorry.”
“You’re not,” you roll your eyes, even though he can’t see you. “You never are.”
He doesn’t argue. There’s a soft rustle on his end, like he’s shifting where he’s sitting. “It could’ve gone either way,” he says after a moment. “Margins were small.”
“Right…”
Another pause.
“So,” you say, quieter now, “are you feeling better?”
You hear him shift again, the soft sound of fabric brushing against the mattress.
“Yeah,” he says eventually. “I think so.”
Before you can reply, Seungkwan cuts in again. “Wait, there’s something I’ve been meaning to show you, actually. I just keep forgetting. Lemme switch to a video call.”
“What is it?” You ask, your interest piqued as you wait for the video call request.
“The view outside my window,” he laughs, “Oh, you’d love it.”
When you accept the request, you’re greeted with darkness for a moment before the screen fills up with a stretch of concrete wall, close enough that you can make out uneven paint and a single narrow window that definitely doesn’t belong to his room.
You squint. “Is that… a wall?”
“Yes,” he says, sounding faintly offended. “That is my view.”
You blink. Then blink again.
“You’re kidding,” you say.
“I am not,” Seungkwan replies, offended on principle. “This is it. This is what I’ve been waking up to.”
You snort. “You paid for… a brick.”
“Multiple bricks,” he corrects. “Very exclusive. Very industrial.”
He flips the camera back around, settling it so his face fills the frame again. The hotel room behind him is dim and washed in that generic yellow light they always have.
“So,” you say lightly, “how’s life in your concrete-view penthouse?”
He huffs. “I was genuinely considering asking for another room, but imagine if it got out. South Korean player Boo Seungkwan fails to suck it up and settle for a mediocre room. It would look so bad on our country. So I let it go. It’s just—what, two more days? I’ll be fine.”
“You’re very patriotic,” you sigh.
“I try,” he nods solemnly. “For the people.”
The conversation drifts after that, unmoored from anything important. He tells you about how the hotel kettle keeps switching itself off halfway through boiling and then asks about the cat. You complain about how your neighbour’s alarm went off around eight times this morning. It’s easy, the way it always is when you talk about nothing.
At some point, Seungkwan stops talking and just listens.
On his screen, you’re lying on your side now, head sunk into your pillow, the phone propped just close enough that your face fills most of the frame. The room around you has disappeared into shadow. It’s always like this when you call late. He knows that. He’s seen you this way enough times for it to feel familiar rather than new.
Still.
It would’ve been funny under different circumstances—the dramatic lighting. Maybe he would’ve even said you looked weird, under different circumstances.
Except he misses you. Misses the way you ramble, eyes trained on anything but him, the way you tuck your chin into your chest when you’re cold. Misses the soft pause you always leave at the end of a thought, like you’re waiting to see if he’ll interrupt. Misses the small sounds you make when you’re thinking. The way your mouth curves before you laugh, like you’re deciding whether it’s worth it.
You trail off eventually, noticing his silence. “What?”
“Nothing,” he says easily, too easily. He clears his throat, shifts his weight. “Sorry. I zoned out.”
You squint at him, unconvinced, then shrug. “Rude. Why? Are you nervous for tomorrow?”
He scoffs lightly. “Me? Never. I’m the epitome of calm.”
“Liar.”
He smiles at that, quick and easy. “Okay, maybe a little. It’s just one of those stretches where your body reminds you it exists. Very rude of it, honestly.”
You hum, waiting. He knows you are.
“It’s fine,” Seungkwan adds, still light. “I’ve played on worse days. I’ll wake up, stretch, complain, do what I always do.”
“And?”
“And…” He exhales, the humour thinning out. “Okay, fuck you. Today shook me a bit. I honestly can’t afford to play like this tomorrow, so this stupid calf of mine better work things out.”
You watch him for a moment, the way he keeps his tone light like that’ll keep the thought from settling too deeply. Then you speak.
“Hey,” you say, loudly enough that it pulls his attention back to you. “You don’t suddenly forget how to play overnight.”
He looks at you, expression unreadable for a second.
“I know.”
“I mean it,” you continue. “I’ve seen you play on days where everything felt wrong and you still figured it out. Today wasn’t perfect, but it wasn’t bad either. It just asked more of you.”
His shoulders ease by a fraction. “You trust me that much?” he asks, half-joking, half-serious.
“Always,” you reply without hesitation. “I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t.”
He sighs loudly. “Okay.”
“And,” you add, softer now, “you’re allowed to have an off day and still win the next one. Those things aren’t mutually exclusive.”
That earns a small smile. “You’re very convincing.”
“I know,” you say, almost flippantly. “I’ve had years of practice watching you do this to yourself. It’s a lifelong subscription you’ve got on your hands, at this point.”
He laughs under his breath. “Lifelong, huh?”
There’s something in the way he says it, light but not careless, like he’s turning the word over in his mouth to see how it feels there. You smile into your pillow, the sound of it barely there.
“Is that a threat?” you murmur.
“Just surprised,” he replies. “Didn’t realise I’d locked you into that kind of commitment.”
“You didn’t lock me into anything,” you shrug with one shoulder. “I’ve been opting in for years.”
He goes quiet at that, not because he doesn’t have something to say, but because he’s choosing how much of it to let through. On the screen, his mouth curves into something small and thoughtful.
“Voluntary suffering,” he points out lightly.
“You make it sound so noble.”
“I think I’m supposed to apologise,” Seungkwan sighs dramatically. “For the long-term side effects.”
You hum, letting the silence stretch just enough. “You haven’t scared me off yet.”
“Good,” he says, a little too quickly. Then, slower, like he’s realising he’s said it, “I’d hate to start now.”
You shift on your side, the pillow rustling softly. “Well then, I can’t be the reason you don’t get enough sleep, can I?”
“I won’t be getting much anyways.” Seungkwan grumbles, making you shake your head.
“Please get some sleep. Don’t think too much. You’re going to be fine tomorrow,” you say finally, pausing to yawn “I know it.”
He nods once. “Yeah.”
“And when you’re done,” you add, softer, “you can call me again.”
His smile lingers this time. “Deal.”
The living room is louder than it’s been in weeks. Shoes kicked off by the door, takeaway containers stacked precariously on the counter, drinks sweating rings into your coffee table. Jiwon’s phone keeps buzzing every ten minutes—texts from the asshole of a boyfriend you guys spent hours trying to convince her to break up with.
which she ignores with growing hostility as the match tightens. The TV volume is cranked just high enough that none of you miss the sound of the shuttle, but not enough to drown out the running commentary Chan insists on providing from the floor.
It’s just the three of you, but it feels like more. Too many limbs, too much noise, the air thick with that jittery, shared focus that only shows up when something really matters. World No. 1 versus World No. 2 is a final that—in any other sport—should’ve been fun, sharp, and something to admire. Instead, you’re sitting on the edge of the couch with a beer clenched in your hand, fully aware that you’re one bad rally away from crushing the can without meaning to. Every long exchange tightens something in your chest. Every pause between points stretches a second too long.
“Jesus,” Chan mutters as the rally resets. “This is insane.”
Vernon doesn’t answer. He’s leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on the screen like he’s afraid looking away will change the outcome. Jiwon swears a bit too loudly at Wen Junhui when he picks a point off Seungkwan and then apologizes softly to no one in particular.
On court, the second set is slipping from Seungkwan’s grasp in the form of Junhui’s aggressive style of playing.
He looks calm from a distance, almost mild, but every shot carries a bite. The smashes come fast and flat, placed with intent rather than show, and when a rally turns in his favour he lets out a sharp shout that cuts clean through the hall. It’s jarring every time, the sound too big for how still he looks right after, already resetting, already ready for the next point.
Seungkwan absorbs it the way he always does, shoulders rolling loose, breath measured, but the set keeps tilting anyway. Junhui presses the pace whenever he can, refusing to give away a single point.
Back in your living room, the mood shifts with the scoreboard.
“Okay, I don’t like this,” Jiwon says, voice tight, fingers worrying at the hem of her sleeve. “One would think you’d get rid of Marín’s shouts but no, we’ve got our male equivalent here.”
Chan laughs in response, but there’s a nervous shake to his voice. “Yeah. Love the enthusiasm. Really adding years to my life.”
Junhui feeds off the momentum, the shouts coming sharper now, louder, like punctuation marks at the end of every point he wrestles away, and it starts to grate. Not in a way Seungkwan would ever show, not in anything as obvious as a look or a gesture, but rather in the tightening of his jaw, the fraction longer he takes to turn back to the baseline. The hall answers Junhui every time, home crowd surging with him, noise swelling when Seungkwan misses by inches, when a rally breaks the wrong way.
It’s exactly what Junhui wants.
Seungkwan knows that too. He breathes through it, lets his shoulders drop, forces his focus back to the shuttle in his hand instead of the sound behind him. He keeps his reactions small, contained, gives nothing away. Still, the irritation sits there, hot and insistent.
You tear your attention away from the screen in mild exasperation to clamp a hand down on Vernon’s knee before it can bounce its way through the coffee table. “If you shake the couch any harder,” you mutter, “I’ll genuinely smack you. Stop it.”
“Sorry,” he whines, not sounding sorry at all, knee resuming its movement the second you let go.
The rally ends badly. No one cheers in your living room. The commentators fill the space instead, voices brisk and neutral as they announce what all three of you already know. One set apiece.
“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” Chan groans, dragging his hands down his face. “A third set? I’m not built for this.”
You don’t say anything. The tightness in your chest hasn’t eased, and sitting still suddenly feels impossible. You push yourself to your feet under the pretense of grabbing water, pacing the length of the room once, twice, letting the buzz in your limbs burn off just enough to be bearable.
Behind you, the broadcast cuts to Seungkwan walking back to his chair.
On court, he doesn’t look rattled. If anything, he looks more contained than before, the frustration packed down tight beneath routine. Towel up. Water. A brief nod to Baek as instructions come in low and clipped. He listens, eyes down, jaw set, fingers worrying the grip of his racket like he’s memorising it again.
The noise rolls around him, the home crowd loud and pleased, Junhui already loose, already smiling, already bouncing on his toes like the set has tilted permanently in his favour.
Seungkwan blocks it out.
He counts his breaths and adjusts his stance. Feels the heat in his calf, the burn in his lungs, and the irritation still buzzing under his skin.
When he stands for the decider, something in him sharpens.
This is where the match strips itself bare. No momentum to borrow. No margin to hide in. Just choice after choice after choice.
He steps back onto the court, eyes lifting to meet Junhui’s across the net, and for the first time since the shouts started, Seungkwan lets the edge settle fully into place.
Fine.
If it has to come down to this, then it will.
The umpire calls them back to the line, voice cutting clean through the din, and the decider begins without ceremony.
The opening rallies are tight, cautious in a way that feels almost polite, both of them probing for space that isn’t there yet. Seungkwan keeps his shots clean and purposeful, refusing the temptation to rush, letting Junhui make the first reach instead. His calf tugs when he pushes off hard, but it holds. He files the sensation away and keeps going.
Junhui takes the first point.
Seungkwan plays patiently, lifts deep, then steps in early to cut off the return. When the shuttle drops on Junhui’s side, he exhales sharply and lets his fist close once at his side, a small, controlled pump that’s more release than celebration.
Points trade back and forth, the scoreboard refusing to lean too far either way.
At seven-all Seungkwan forces a mistake with a sudden change of pace, an aggressive shot he hadn’t tried before, and earns another point. This time the reaction is the slightest lift of his chin, a fist pressed briefly into his thigh before he turns away. The sound he makes is soft and restrained, but it’s there.
Chan’s on his feet now without realising it, palms pressed together like he’s praying. “That’s my guy! That’s him, come on!”
You don’t say anything. You’ve stopped trusting your voice. Your fingers are locked together so tightly your knuckles ache, eyes fixed on the screen like blinking might cost him something.
At fourteen-all, Seungkwan wins a rally that feels like a statement. It starts neutral enough—three clears, a drive, a soft block—but then he changes the angle mid-exchange, slicing a crosscourt drop that pulls Junhui forward and wide at the same time. Junhui scrambles, barely gets a racket on it, and Seungkwan is already moving, stepping in to finish the point with a flat push into the open space.
The next few points are scrappy. Junhui answers with pressure, rushing Seungkwan deep and then back in quick succession, testing that first step, that recovery. Seungkwan adjusts on the fly—shortens his lunges, takes the shuttle earlier when he can, lifts higher when he needs time. At fifteen–sixteen, the rally goes long enough that your chest tightens just watching it, both men trading defence and attack until Junhui finally overreaches and sends the shuttle wide by a hair.
Chan makes a strangled noise behind you. Jiwon’s hand flies to her mouth. You don’t move at all.
Seungkwan takes the shuttle, turns it once between his fingers, and serves.
Junhui returns it aggressively anyway, stepping in and forcing the rally fast, and for a stretch the court feels too small for both of them. The points slip by in quick succession—one rushed exchange where Seungkwan’s block sits up just enough to be punished, another where Junhui guesses right at the net and takes it early.
17-18. Then 17-19.
Your stomach drops. Someone swears—maybe Chan, maybe you, it’s hard to tell. Seungkwan walks back to the baseline without looking anywhere but the floor, shoulders rising and falling once as he breathes through it. He wipes his hand on his shorts, nods faintly, and serves again.
Junhui earns match point with a flat, relentless rally, dragging Seungkwan wide before finishing into the open court. The hall reacts immediately. On your couch, no one speaks at all.
17-20. Match point.
You hear Vernon breathe in deep next to you. It’s almost done, almost gone.
Seungkwan watches as Junhui asks for a change of the shuttle, and doesn’t bother buying time.
When the shuttle reaches his side of the court, he exhibits no patience, just pure pressure. He pushes Junhui back, then cuts forward without hesitation, closing the space before it can open against him. The point ends fast, the shuttle skidding off the floor near the sideline.
18-20.
Seungkwan doesn’t celebrate. He barely reacts at all, just turns back to the baseline and asks for the shuttle.
Seungkwan stays inside the court, feet light despite the pull in his calf, timing his steps so he never has to chase more than he can afford. He forces Junhui to lift, then takes the shuttle high and early, guiding it down with control rather than power.
Maybe it’s overconfidence that gets to his opponent, because the point slips from his grasp again.
“Nineteen-twenty.” The umpire's voice rings loud over the silenced court.
He serves without delay. The rally opens fast—Junhui trying to seize it back, Seungkwan refusing to give ground. Junhui tries to slow it, dragging it longer by trying to bait him into clears and wider shots, but Seungkwan capitalizes on his hesitance and claims the next point.
“Twenty all.”
Your living room erupts.
Chan shouts something incoherent, already pacing, hands over his head. Vernon lets out a sound that’s pure relief, sinking back for a second before leaning forward all over again. You’re on your feet without remembering standing, heart hammering so hard it feels like it’s echoing, and think to yourself that Seungkwan should probably pay you for the heart problems he’s going to cause when you’re older.
The next few shots are brutal. Short, sharp exchanges with no wasted movement. Seungkwan presses the pace, takes the shuttle early, forces Junhui wide, then slams the door closed before he can recover.
The shuttle moves too fast to track cleanly, only the rhythm of it registering—forward, back, then suddenly nowhere Junhui wants it to be. Seungkwan manages to keep his shots controlled until the court feels bigger than it should.
Somewhere in it, the point breaks his way.
“Twenty-one, match point. Twenty.”
“Come on, come on, come on,” you mumble into your fist.
Seungkwan hears the call distantly and doesn’t look at the scoreboard again. Instead, he focuses on the shuttle in his hand, rolls it once between his fingers, and feels the texture of the cork against his skin. His calf tugs at his resolve, but he’s so close now.
He serves.
Junhui comes in hard, exactly as expected, trying to take the initiative before it can slip away. The return is flat and fast. Seungkwan stays inside the court, feet light, keeps the shuttle low, and refuses to lift unless he has to. The rally builds closer to the net, as he expected.
Junhui presses forward, looking to finish it early, and Seungkwan lets him—keeps the replies short and neutral, just enough to invite another step closer. The shuttle stays low, skimming tape height, both of them hovering in that narrow strip of court where reactions and racket control matter more than brute force.
Junhui plays it tightly.
Seungkwan steps in and shapes his racket like he’s done a thousand times before, shoulder opening, wrist loose, everything about the motion suggesting a backhand lift or a safe push back to the same side. He sees Junhui commit in that instant—the weight shift, the first step forward, already anticipating where the shuttle should go.
And Seungkwan holds. Just a second longer than comfortable.
Then he lets the shuttle brush off the strings and slide across the tape instead, soft and cruel, tumbling diagonally into the empty space on the other side of the forecourt.
For a heartbeat, it feels like muscle memory more than choice. A shot he learned when he was young, something he practiced thousands of times before perfecting it.
Junhui lunges anyway, too late, arm stretching where there’s nothing left to reach. The shuttle hits the floor with a muted thwack!
Seungkwan’s breath leaves him in a sharp rush before he can stop it. The sound follows, raw and unfiltered, tearing out of his chest as his fist drives up instinctively, every held-back thing breaking loose at once.
Only then does the noise hit him—the hall erupting, the pain in his calf flaring now that it doesn’t matter, the reality of it settling in as he bows his head and exhales hard before turning towards the net.
For you, it lands all at once.
You don’t realise you’ve screamed until your throat burns, the sound escaping out of you before you can stop it. Chan is clapping too, mumbling something loud but unintelligibly, pacing the length of the living room like he needs somewhere to put the energy. Vernon laughs, stunned, hands on his head as if he can’t quite believe what he just watched. Jiwon sinks back onto the couch, both palms over her face, shaking her head like she needs a second to come back into her body.
“Thank fuck.” Someone huffs out incredulously.
Your heart is hammering so hard it’s almost painful. You press a hand to your chest, breath unevenly, and think—absently, irrationally—that this man is going to be the death of you one day.
Junhui is already there.
There’s no bitterness in him, no sharp edge left over from the point. Just fatigue and respect, written plainly across his face. He reaches out, and Seungkwan meets him halfway, grip firm, eyes steady.
“Well played,” Junhui says, sincere and unguarded.
Seungkwan nods once. “You too.”
They separate to go over to the umpires, the formalities already waiting to claim the moment. Seungkwan moves through it on autopilot, shaking the umpire’s hand with the same steady grip he’s used all match.
Somewhere between the handshake and the applause, the thought slips in, clear and simple.
At least when he calls you tonight, it’ll be like this.
Seungkwan lets the phone rest in his palm for a moment after the call ends, the screen already dark but the afterimage of it still lingering somewhere behind his eyes. The room feels quieter than it did a minute ago, like the noise drained out all at once instead of fading properly, and he exhales through his nose, a smile tugging at his mouth before he can stop it.
That hadn’t gone how he thought it would.
He’d meant to call you alone. Not because the others aren’t important—God knows they are—but because there are some things that only ever settle when it’s just you on the other end, when he doesn’t have to keep pace with anyone else’s energy or fill the space with something clever. He’d pictured it clearly enough: you somewhere comfortable, him sitting back against the pillows, the day finally loosening its grip as he talked through it with you in that easy, meandering way you always fall into together.
Instead, the moment the call connected, the room had filled with voices he hadn’t expected. Chan, loud and immediate, already halfway into congratulations. Vernon hovering somewhere in the background, smiling like he was happy just to be there. Jiwon chiming in between them, warm and earnest and so genuinely proud it made his chest ache a little.
And then there was you.
You hadn’t said much at first, not over the others anyway, but he’d noticed you immediately—your face softer than the rest of the frame, your smile quieter, the way your eyes stayed on him even when someone else was talking. Everyone was congratulating him, telling him he’d played well, that it was insane, that they were proud, and all of it landed exactly as it should have.
It had made him smile like an idiot.
He’d felt it happen, the corner of his mouth lifting before he could stop it, warmth spreading through his chest in a way that had nothing to do with winning. Chan had probably noticed. Chan notices everything. But Seungkwan hadn’t cared, because at that moment, it hadn’t felt like something to hide.
The call hadn’t been private, but it had still been grounding. The noise, the overlapping voices, the chaos of it all hadn’t pulled him away from you the way he’d half-feared. If anything, it had made it clearer how instinctively his attention always finds you anyway, even when there are easier distractions right in front of him.
He rolls onto his side now, tucking the phone beside him on the bed, eyes drifting toward the dim glow of the curtains. His body is tired in that deep, earned way, but his mind feels lighter than it has all day, like something essential has been put back where it belongs.
Maybe it’s better it happened the way it did. If the call had gone the way he’d imagined—just the two of you, quiet, no witnesses—he might have said something stupid. Or honest. Or both.
He closes his eyes, grin still faintly there, and lets the quiet settle back in.
He’ll see you tomorrow anyway.
The problem with living alone, you decide, is that every tiny sound makes you fear for your life.
You’re in bed, winding down for the night and mindlessly scrolling on your phone when you hear the front door click open.
Your heart kicks once, sharp enough to make you swallow, and you slide off the mattress in one slow, careful motion. Your socks nearly betray you on the wooden floor, but you steady yourself on the edge of your desk, scanning the room for something that could pass as a weapon. You grab the first object that makes any vague sense: a rolled-up umbrella leaning against your dresser. It’s not intimidating, but it feels better than nothing.
You move toward the door quietly, the umbrella held in front of you like you’re about to duel a ghost, and each step makes you more aware of how ridiculous this is — right until you turn the corner into the living room.
And there he is.
Seungkwan stands in the entryway, one sneaker halfway off, hoodie bunched at the elbows, hair sticking up in tired directions from what was clearly a very bad nap. He freezes when he sees you poised with your umbrella like a budget action hero.
You stop too, mid-stride, the tension draining so quickly you almost feel lightheaded.
He blinks once, very slowly. “…You’re going to hit me with that?”
You lower the umbrella without answering, exhaling all at once as the leftover adrenaline burns out of your system. At this point, annoyance is easier to manage than the aftershock of fear.
“You couldn’t have warned me?” you say, voice sharper than you intend. “Or texted. Or knocked. Literally anything.”
He doesn’t rise to it. He just finishes toeing his other sneaker off, pushing them neatly to the side with a tired nudge before stepping fully into the living room, dragging behind him his suitcase and the bag resting on it.
You’re mid-nag, ready to lay it onto him again, when Seungkwan lifts the smaller bag slightly, enough for whatever’s inside to shift with a dull clink. It’s not a grand gesture—just a tiny, tired tilt of his wrist—but it’s so unmistakably him, this silent little hey-your-boy-did-it-again look, that it knocks the annoyance right out of you.
He isn’t grinning or doing that smug bounce he does when he’s really riding a win because he’s too worn down for that. But there’s something shy and proud tucked into the corner of his mouth, just enough to make you go soft.
You roll your eyes, because it’s easier than letting your face soften all at once. “Alright, champion. Very subtle. But congratulations.”
That earns the faintest smile, quick and tired, and maybe that’s what pulls you in.
You step forward and wrap your arms around him—more comfort than greeting, more congratulations than anything else. But the second your arms go around him, his go around you too, and he holds on with more strength than you expect.
It makes you pause. Then you relax into it, hand sliding up his back almost without thinking.
“You could’ve told me you were coming home today,” you say into his shoulder, your voice quieter without meaning to. “I could’ve picked you up, or something.”
He doesn’t answer right away.
Instead, his hand resting against your back slips just slightly downward, his thumb brushing a slow line along your spine. It’s small, almost absent-minded, something he has never done in all the years you’ve known him. It’s gentle and warm and so instinctive that you’re not sure he even realises he’s doing it.
But you do.
You notice every second of it while trying very hard not to.
“I didn’t want to put you up to another task,” he says finally, his voice a low murmur near your ear. “You’ve been busy.”
“Still,” you whine, but it comes out softer than a complaint.
He gives a small laugh. His thumb traces another absent line against your back before he seems to realise it and slowly lets his hand settle again.
“I just wanted to get home as soon as possible,” he says. “That’s all.”
Home.
You wonder if he means the apartment or you.
You swallow around that and step back just enough to see his face, your hands still resting on his arms because you’re not ready to drop them, and he doesn’t seem in any rush either.
“Next time,” you say lightly, “you’re sending a text. Or I’m hitting you with the umbrella for real.”
“Okay, okay, alright.” He groans.
But he still hasn’t stepped back. He only shifts his weight slightly, your hands still resting on his arms, his still loosely around your waist. It’s not uncomfortable and that’s the problem. It feels too easy, too natural, the kind of closeness you fall into without thinking.
Eventually, he clears his throat and lets go first, slow enough that you feel the warmth of his palms trailing for a second longer than necessary. He bends to grab the trophy bag again, fingers brushing the handle like it’s more of an excuse than an action.
“I should… put this somewhere before I break it,” he says, lifting the bag a little.
He sets the bag on the shelf near the TV and unzips it just enough to slide the trophy out. It gleams under the warm living room light, catching the corner of your eye even though you try not to stare. He turns it over once in his hands, almost carelessly, then—without thinking too hard about it—places it on the empty space between your old photo frame and the plant you’ve been trying very hard not to kill.
You open your mouth to say something, maybe to remind him he still technically lives somewhere else, maybe to tell him not to unpack here like he’s moving in again, but the words don’t come out. He just steps back from the shelf and wipes his palm on his hoodie like the matter is already settled.
“Looks fine there, right?” he asks.
It looks like it belongs.
You’re not ready for the way your chest reacts to that—this stupid, hollow little tug you try to swallow down instantly. It’s ridiculous. It’s just a trophy. He’s left them in stranger places before. But this is different. This is in your living room, on your shelf, like his achievements are interwoven into your everyday life.
He’s not moving in. He’s not staying. You both agreed he’d go back to his own apartment once everything settled. This was temporary. Practical. Easy.
Except nothing feels easy right now. You can feel the edges of something warm and dangerous creeping up behind your ribs, something you’ve been trying to ignore for weeks, maybe months.
“Yeah,” you manage, voice steadier than you feel. “Fine.”
He glances at you, a little too perceptive for someone who’s been awake for way too many hours, and for a moment you think he’s going to ask what’s wrong. But then he just nods, like he trusts your answer without needing to dig deeper.
“It’ll only be there a few days anyway,” he says lightly, already turning toward his suitcase. “Didn’t feel like lugging it around. I’ll put it into the bigger box when I’ve bubble wrapped it.”
You nod again, but your stomach twists quietly. It shouldn’t make you stare at the trophy like it’s a piece of a future you have no right to imagine.
Instead of heading towards his room, Seungkwan slumps drops onto the couch with a soft, exhausted groan.
You hover for a second, unsure whether to sit or give him space, but he pats the cushion next to him without looking up.
You sit.
The couch dips slightly beneath his weight, and your knees almost touch. He leans back and closes his eyes for a moment, hand coming up to rub at his face. The hoodie pulls a little at the collar, exposing the faint line of his collarbone, and you force your gaze away before it can become a problem.
“It was hard,” he says quietly, still not looking at you. “This one. Harder than I thought.”
You shake your head with a small huff. “I can only imagine. Watching it stressed me out.”
Seungkwan lets out a tired chuckle but his thoughts drift somewhere else entirely.
He missed this. More than he should admit.
Hotels are loud, locker rooms are cold, and airplane seats are cramped. Next to him, you’re warm.
He’s missed your voice, despite calling you. He’s missed the sound of you moving around early in the morning, the sound of you humming to yourself while you hop around, rearranging the books in your shelves.
Mostly, he’s just missed you.
He wants to lean into you now, stupidly, like he used to when you were kids—head on your lap, blanket thrown over both of you, whining about homework or practice. The memory flashes through him too vividly, too easily. He nearly laughs at himself.
He’s twenty-seven. He can’t just fold into you like that anymore. It would be… weird. Too much and too telling.
But God, he wants to.
Seungkwan cracks an eye open and reaches for the easiest lifeline he has.
“Did I at least look cool?” he asks, voice dry, barely holding back a tired grin.
You snort. “You looked fine.”
“Fine?” he repeats, offended.
“Fine,” you confirm, folding your arms.
He shifts on the couch like he wants to straighten up but is too tired to commit to it. “I nearly died out there, you know.”
“You did not nearly die.”
“I did,” he insists weakly. “Emotionally.”
You give him a flat look. “I watched you. You were dramatic for like fifteen minutes and then you got it together.”
“That was the hardest fifteen minutes of my life.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Really? Harder than the week you tried intermittent fasting?”
He sighs, unimpressed. “Why would you bring that up?”
You laugh—a real, unguarded one—and it brings a smile onto his face too. He watches you for a second too long before looking away, pretending to adjust the sleeve of his hoodie.
You nudge his knee lightly with yours. “You looked cool. Happy now?”
He nudges back. “Very.”
“Are you awake?” Seungkwan demands from outside your room, not even checking before he stomps in.
You jolt upright with a startled inhale, hair a mess, heart racing, only to groan and collapse straight back under your covers.
“Nope,” you mumble into your pillow. “Try again later.”
The mattress dips as he sits at the edge of your bed, and a hand tugs insistently at your duvet.
“Come on,” he complains. “I’m actually losing my mind.”
You tighten your hold on the duvet. “It’s eight in the morning, Seungkwan.”
“Exactly,” he snaps, though he sounds more tired than angry. “And Chan just texted me. He can’t make it for dinner anymore.”
You don’t move. “So?”
“So,” he repeats, tugging again, “he was the one who begged me to book that stupid place. Said he ‘needed a win’ this week. And now he has ‘other plans.’”
You sigh into your pillow. “Sorry for your loss.”
He exhales sharply, the way he does when he’s annoyed but trying not to make it a whole thing. “Then Jiwon cancelled. Something about her brother needing her to babysit. And Vernon says he ‘might have plans too’ but didn’t elaborate.”
You peel the blanket down just enough to glare at him with one eye. “Okay… and why am I awake for this?”
“Because,” he says, rubbing the bridge of his nose, “I fought for that reservation. I’m not wasting it. You’re still coming with me.”
You blink slowly. Your brain is barely functioning.
“What?” you say.
“You heard me,” he mutters. “I’m not eating a three-course dinner alone. You’re coming.”
You stare at him—sleepy, annoyed, confused—and he just looks back, resolute in the way only Seungkwan gets when he’s already decided the outcome.
“Let me wake up first,” you say finally. “Please.”
“Fine,” he says, standing. “But not too long. I need to complain more and I’d rather you be conscious for it.”
You groan into your pillow as he leaves, muttering to himself down the hallway.
The rest of the day passes in a strange mix of normal and not. Seungkwan wanders around the apartment like he’s half-resting, half-restless, occasionally stopping by your doorway to complain about something irrelevant before disappearing again; you try to work, try to focus, try not to think about dinner, but every time you hear him moving in the kitchen or humming distractedly while folding laundry that isn’t his, something in you trips a little.
It’s ordinary in the way living together has become ordinary, except there’s a quiet awareness sitting between you now, something neither of you acknowledges but both of you keep circling around. By the time evening rolls in, you’ve changed outfits twice, he’s asked you what time you should leave at least three times, and the apartment feels almost too small with how aware you are of each other’s presence.
You step out of your room while tightening the clasp on your earring, smoothing your hair down with your other hand as you walk toward the hallway. Adjusting your sleeves, you look up to catch Seungkwan looking at you.
He’s standing by the door with his jacket halfway on, keys in hand, expression open in that unguarded second before he realises he’s staring. It isn’t dramatic, not a frozen moment, just a soft flicker of something warm and immediate in his eyes before he schools it away. His mouth parts a little—like he’s about to say something, maybe a compliment, maybe a teasing comment, you can’t tell—but the phone in his pocket starts ringing.
He glances down at the caller ID, frowns lightly, and answers. “Hello?”
A pause. “Yeah, this is Boo Seungkwan.”
You grab your purse and slip your shoes on while he listens, nodding slowly, brows knitting. He moves to the door, pushing it open with his shoulder.
You step out with him, and he keeps the phone pressed to his ear.
“Oh, already? I thought it wouldn’t be until next week.”
“Right. Right, no, that’s good. It’s good.”
The hallway is quiet except for the low buzzing of the lights. You lock the apartment behind you while he listens.
“So everything’s fixed?” he asks as you both start walking toward the elevator. “The flooring too? And the AC?”
You press the elevator button, and he leans against the wall beside you, rubbing the back of his neck as the person on the other end keeps talking.
“Yeah, okay. Two days is fine,” he says, voice softer now. “I’ll drop by to sign whatever’s needed.”
You suddenly feel a little sick. Two days. Not weeks. Not an undefined amount of time.
The elevator doors slide open, and you step inside while he wraps up and follows you. “Yes, thank you, I appreciate it. I’ll come by. Yeah. Good night.”
He hangs up just as the doors close.
For a moment, neither of you says anything.
“That was my building manager,” he finally sighs, pushing his hair back. “My apartment’s ready. I can move back in two days.”
You nod once, trying to keep your face neutral, but you know the disappointment must show in the small ways you can’t control—your shoulders dropping just a fraction, your breath held too tightly before you let it out.
Seungkwan notices. Of course he does.
He opens his mouth like he might ask if you’re okay, but then he swallows the question, looking down at the floor instead.
The elevator dings.
He steps out first, then glances back, forcing a small smile.
“Come on,” he says, lifting his keys. “I’m driving. You’ll yell at the sat-nav five minutes in.”
You laugh quietly, enough for Seungkwan to relax. He slips an arm around your shoulders on the way to the elevator, not thinking, or pretending he’s not thinking about it. You let yourself lean into it for a heartbeat before pulling yourself back together.
“They’re seriously missing out,” he mutters as you walk. “Watch Jiwon complain later when she realises she could’ve had free dessert.”
You snort. “She absolutely will.”
He bumps your shoulder lightly, like he’s trying to bring things back to normal, like he can smooth out whatever shifted a few minutes ago. The elevator doors open, and he steps ahead to hold one side, nodding for you to leave first.
By the time you reach the car, the quiet between you has settled into something comfortable again, or at least something both of you are pretending is comfortable.
He hits the unlock button and the hazard lights blink once in the dim garage.
“Here,” he says, rounding the front and pulling open the passenger-side door for you. He doesn’t make a show of it and just waits, one hand braced lightly on the top of the door.
You slide into the seat, smoothing your outfit automatically before reaching for the seatbelt. Out of habit, you check your phone as you settle in, just to see the time, nothing more but when you’re about to slip it back into your purse the screen lights up.
It’s a chain of messages from Chan.
Chan
have fun tonight ;)
btw everyone bailed on purpose lol
You bristle.
You
why would you tell them anything…
Chan
didn’t have to dummy
everyone knows
You
one of these days someone is going to find you dead in a ditch
You glare at the phone like he can feel it from wherever he is. Before you can type another threat, the driver’s side door opens and closes with a soft thud. You lock your phone so quickly you almost drop it.
Seungkwan buckles himself in, glancing over at you with an easy smile, completely oblivious to the small crisis sitting in your notifications.
“You good?” he asks, adjusting the mirrors out of habit.
You nod. “Yep.”
He hums, not fully convinced but not pushing it, then pulls out of the parking spot. The overhead lights pass in intervals across the windshield, cutting the silence in soft slices.
But soon enough, Seungkwan connects his phone to the car, scrolls through a few playlists, and settles on one you both used to blast on late-night drives during college. The first song barely starts before he sings the opening line just a little too loudly on purpose, and you pretend to complain, swatting his arm lightly while he grins and exaggerates the next note. By the time the chorus hits, you’ve joined in despite yourself, missing half the lyrics and blaming him for throwing you off. It’s stupid and easy and warm.
The music fades as he pulls up to the valet drop-off, headlights sweeping across the curved driveway. A valet jogs forward, and Seungkwan hands over the keys with a polite nod before circling the hood to open your door. You slide out, smoothing your outfit automatically.
Inside, the restaurant lobby is softly lit, all warm wood and low conversation, and the waitress greets you with a welcoming smile that carries a subtle assumption you both pick up immediately.
“Good evening. Table for two?”
She leads you to a table near the window, the city lights falling in patches across the floor. Seungkwan pulls out your chair before sitting across from you.
Dinner begins without ceremony. You choose quickly, he orders for both of you without thinking twice, and the waiter walks off with the kind of polite smile that assumes you’ve been doing this for years. Seungkwan leans back in his chair, tapping the edge of his glass with a relaxed hand, and the conversation drifts effortlessly—highlights from his week, something odd that happened at your office, a shared complaint about the weather.
None of it is important, and maybe that’s why it feels heavier beneath the surface. Everything is so normal tonight that you can’t help noticing the details: the way he looks at you when you’re talking, how his expression eases into something softer when he’s listening, how natural it is for his knee to nudge yours under the table when he’s teasing you about your drink choice.
At some point the food arrives, and you settle into a comfortable silence as you eat. The lighting is warm, the restaurant hums quietly around you, and the two of you sit across from each other like you’ve done this a hundred times.
Which you suppose you have. When Seungkwan excuses himself to reply to an urgent text from his coach, you take the moment to rope yourself back into line and try to convince yourself that you’re being too dramatic.
In your head, tonight feels too gentle. Like the universe is coddling you before letting you fall—the way families dote on old dogs for days before they put them down—extra treats, soft voices, extra patience—a tenderness that comes from bracing for a change they aren’t ready to name.
None of this should feel like that. Seungkwan is just moving back, and will go back to being only fifteen minutes away from you, like he’s been for the last few years. You’ll still be the one he texts important things to first, and he’ll still be the one to pick you up when you can’t bear to stand up.
When he’s in the country, he’ll still come over when he forgets to shop for groceries, and you’ll still end up watching movies together on his couch when both of you swear you’re too tired to talk. He’ll still drop by your place with iced coffee when your deadlines are killing you, and you’ll still drag him through department stores when he needs a new jacket and refuses to pick one himself.
All of that stays and survives.
But even with all that, the night has a strange finality to it, a quiet sense of something closing, even though nothing is actually ending. You can feel the slip beneath your feet, the way your heart keeps trying to lean toward something you don’t know how to name out loud.
Because if nothing is changing outwardly, then the only thing shifting is inside you—and that realization feels too real and too impossible at the same time. You want him, want something more than the familiar closeness you've always shared. Best friends. But wanting it feels like crossing a line that’s been invisible and sacred since childhood. And the moment you imagine stepping over it, you can already feel how hard the fall could be.
So you sit across from him, listening to him ramble about something you mentioned earlier, nodding along, laughing in all the right places, and the whole time your mind is running two steps forward and one step back. He feels inches from you and miles at the same time, familiar in every way except the one you suddenly wish he’d be.
Later that night, it’s the dryness in your throat that wakes you up.
You sit up, blink at the dark, and feel around for your phone.
1:16 AM.
You pad out into the hall, rubbing your eyes, not expecting anything except maybe stubbing your toe on the corner of the cabinet you always forget is there.
But the lights over the kitchen island are on.
Seungkwan sits on one of the bar stools, slumped onto the quartz counter-top, hoodie sleeves shoved up his forearms.
He looks up when you step into the light
“Oh—” His voice sounds a bit groggy. “Did I wake you?”
You shake your head, rubbing your eyes again. “Just thirsty.”
You grab a glass from the cupboard above the sink and fill it, the sound of running water soft in the otherwise quiet room. When you turn back, he’s watching you.
You lean against the island across from him. “Why are you awake?”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
You take a small sip of water. “Well, you drank like three cups of coffee. What were you expecting?”
“No, it’s not that.” he mumbles sheepishly. “Just… couldn’t.”
“You want tea?”
He nods, almost gratefully.
You slip around the island to boil water. He stays on the stool, posture slack, hands resting loosely around each other on the stone surface.
You reach for the chamomile packets—the ones he always rolls his eyes at but drinks anyway—and tear one open. The kettle hums, low and steady, and as the steam begins to rise, your mind drifts in small, unhelpful circles.
You shouldn’t be thinking about anything except steeping time and whether this will calm him down enough to sleep, but your mind drifts anyway—to the trophy on your shelf, to the dinner that felt too much like a date, to the boy who’s taken up so much of your life since you were four.
Before you can stop yourself, the question slips out of you, quiet but too honest to take back.
“Do you really have to go?”
He hears it immediately.
His shoulders shift, and he turns on the stool—slowly, deliberately—rotating until he’s facing you fully.
“What?” he asks, not confused so much as careful.
You swallow, pretending to focus on the steam rising from the kettle, pretending you didn’t just peel back something neither of you has touched before.
“You know,” you say, trying to keep it light but failing a little, “back to your apartment. Back to… everything.”
Seungkwan studies you quietly, but focused enough for you to feel his gaze burn through you. It makes the room feel smaller, harder to breathe in.
Then he counters with a question of his own, with a tone that is neither teasing nor dismissive.
“Do you not want me to?”
You finally meet his eyes because avoiding them feels cowardly, and immediately regret it—not because he looks intense, but because he looks open. Tired, yes, but open in a way that reminds you of every version of him you’ve ever known: the boy who fell asleep on your couch after practice, the teenager who waited for you outside class, the adult who shows up at your door without warning just because he noticed you were having a bad week.
And now he’s sitting in your kitchen at one in the morning, asking you a question you don’t know how to answer without unraveling something neither of you has dared to touch.
You try for levity, even if it doesn’t quite land. “It’s just been… nice,” you say, the word feeling embarrassingly small for what you mean. “Having you here.”
“Nice,” he repeats, and the word sounds different in his mouth, like he’s turning it over, and checking it for hidden meanings. “Is that all?”
Your grip tightens around the handle of the mug, and you force yourself not to look away. It feels like the room has narrowed around the two of you, not claustrophobic, just close, as if the air has thickened with everything that’s gone unsaid these last few weeks.
“No,” you admit, quieter than you planned. “That's not all.”
Seungkwan doesn’t look away. If anything, he holds your gaze a little more firmly, like he’s trying to read the small shifts in your face, the things you’re not saying yet.
The silence stretches, not long or heavy, but expectant.
He clears his throat softly and leans forward. “Then what is it?” he asks, voice lowered, careful in a way that tells you he’s trying not to scare you off.
But you already feel the moment tipping too far, and your courage recedes. So you clear your throat and straighten, breaking eye contact as gently as you can.
“I’m—” You force a small laugh that sounds nothing like how you feel. “I’m just sleepy. Ignore me. I’m rambling.”
It’s a weak exit, but it’s the only one you can manage without your voice giving you away. You slide the mug across the island toward him, the warm ceramic brushing against his fingers.
“Here,” you say, stepping back. “Drink this and try sleeping again. I should… I should go too.”
You turn, desperate for the safety of darkness before you say something more that you can’t take back. But you’re no match for his reflexes.
Seungkwan’s hand wraps gently around your wrist before you even register it, slowly tugging you back. “Wait.”
His hand settles around your wrist like he’s giving you every chance to pull away, and somehow that makes you freeze more than if he’d grabbed you outright.
You look down at where his fingers circle your skin, warm and steady before turning just enough to meet his eyes.
He’s standing now, shoulders a little tense, hair mussed from running his hands through it, expression caught somewhere between worried and hopeful.
“I’m not trying to—” he starts, then stops, exhaling quietly. “Just… don’t go yet. I don’t want to go either.”
Your pulse kicks. “Seungkwan…”
The word lands in your chest like a soft blow. He doesn’t beg. He never needs to. But now he’s looking at you like he’s asking for something he isn’t sure he’ll get, and it makes something in you buckle.
“You’re tired,” you manage, trying to keep your voice steady. “You should sleep.”
“Yeah,” he says, barely more than a breath. “But it’s not going to happen if you walk away.”
The honesty in it pulls you a step closer before you realize you’ve moved.
“I don’t want this to get weird,” you whisper, though your body stays pressed in the space between him and the island.
“It won’t,” he says, and the certainty in his voice makes your stomach flip.
His thumb strokes once, tender in a way that feels far too intimate for a kitchen at one in the morning.
You swallow. “I’m not running.”
“Good.” His breath shivers on the last syllable, and he steps closer. “Then tell me why you don’t want me to go.”
You hesitate for half a second, just long enough to feel your heart push forward—reckless, aching, and tired of pretending.
“I like having you here,” you say quietly. “I like you.”
The second the words leave your mouth, his expression changes—not shocked, not overwhelmed, just… gentled. Like he’s been holding his breath for weeks and finally lets it go.
“Oh,” he exhales softly.
You huff out a nervous laugh, already mortified. “Don’t say it like that.”
“Like what?” His voice warms, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “Like I’m relieved?”
You blink. “Relieved?”
“Yeah.” He squeezes your hand once, not dramatically, just enough that you feel it all the way up your arm. “You’re not the only one who likes having the other person around.”
You groan quietly and hide your face in your free hand. “Can you not word it like we’re in middle school again?”
“We kind of are,” he says, amused. “You literally just confessed like someone who passed me a note under my desk.”
You try to pull your hand back, but he won’t let you—not tight, never tight, just firm enough to keep you from running away.
“Don’t tease,” you mutter.
“I’m not,” Seungkwan insists. “I just… I don’t want you to regret saying it. Or pretend you didn’t.”
You drop your hand from your face and meet his eyes again. He looks the way he always does when he’s telling you something important—steady, open, almost annoyingly sincere.
“I’m not taking it back,” you say. “I just didn’t expect to say it tonight.”
“Me neither,” he admits, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. “I thought I’d… I don’t know. Drop a hint. A sign. Ease into it.”
“That’s not easing into anything,” you say, nodding toward your still-joined hands.
He glances down at them, then shrugs. “Couldn’t help it.”
You laugh quietly, breathlessly.
He shifts a little closer, careful but certain. “So what now?” he asks, voice gentle. “Because whatever this is… I want it. But I want you to want it without freaking yourself out.”
Your voice comes out low. “I’m not freaking out.”
“Liar.”
You roll your eyes. “Fine. I’m freaking out a little.”
He smiles at that—your favorite kind, the soft one that starts in his eyes and settles somewhere warm in his chest.
“Me too,” he says. “But I still want this, you.”
You step closer again, closing the last bit of space between you. “Okay,” you whisper.
This time, he’s the one whose breath catches.
“Yeah?” he asks softly.
“Yeah.”
He watches your face like he’s trying to memorize something he’s only just been given permission to see. His free hand hesitates in the air for a second—giving you every chance to step back—but you don’t move.
And when his fingertips finally touch your cheek, it’s barely anything. Just a warm, careful brush, like he’s afraid to startle you or himself.
Your breath catches before you can stop it.
He notices. His thumb presses a little more firmly, tracing along the bone like he’s confirming you’re really standing here, saying the things he’s been thinking for weeks.
“Okay,” he says softly, almost to himself. “Okay.”
You lean into his hand before you can think better of it. A tiny motion, a betrayal, something your body chooses for you.
His smile widens almost helplessly.
Seungkwan doesn’t say anything right away. His thumb lingers at your cheek, then stills, like he’s realised how close this is getting before he’s decided what to do about it. His gaze flicks away for half a second, toward the darkened hallway, then back to you.
“There’s something I should probably say,” he mutters, not pulling away. “And I hate that I’m saying it now.”
You sigh, but there’s no real annoyance in it. “Seungkwan.”
“I know, I know,” he says quickly. “Terrible timing. Genuinely awful. I deserve to be judged for this.” He pauses, then adds, quieter, “I still have to go back, though.”
You nod, looking away in embarrassment. “I know. I was just being a bit… dramatic, I guess.”
“It’s alright,” Seungkwan reassures you, “I don’t think I would’ve handled it any better.”
“Honestly, I probably would’ve done worse,” he adds, shifting his weight a little but still not stepping away. “At least you said it out loud. I tend to just sit on things until they turn into insomnia.”
Letting go of you, he points at himself. “Exhibit A.”
You huff in amusement, waving him off, your hands quivering almost unnoticeably. But Seungkwan continues.
“I’ll still be around, and you can always come over. Yeah, I’ll be out of the country a lot, but that’s not changing, is it?”
Seungkwan says it gently, not like he’s trying to convince you of anything. “That part’s been true for years now,” he adds, shrugging a little. “Me leaving, me coming back, you pretending it doesn’t bother you, me knowing it does anyway.”
You sniffle softly. “Wow. Called out.”
“I’ve had a lot of practice,” he replies, deadpan. Then, softer, “What I mean is that this isn’t suddenly different just because we finally said something stupidly honest at one in the morning.”
Your shoulders loosen a fraction, tension easing out of them in a way you hadn’t realized you were holding onto.
“And,” he adds, almost as an afterthought, “you’re allowed to miss having me here without it meaning you’re asking for something unreasonable.”
You exhale slowly, nodding once.
There’s a brief pause in which Seungkwan waits for you to comfortably let your thoughts sink in. His, too.
“So,” he trails off, shifting back a little, giving you space without fully retreating.
“We should probably go to sleep.” You suggest.
He chuckles quietly, rubbing a hand over his face. “I don’t think that’s happening for me,” he admits, glancing toward the dark hallway. “At least not anytime soon.”
Sighing, you shake your head. “Shocking.”
“Truly,” he agrees. “But I’ll try. For our sake.”
He straightens a little, rolling his shoulders as if that might help, then pauses, like he’s remembered something important but harmless. “You, on the other hand, should actually go to sleep. You have work.”
You hesitate, then nod once, like you’re agreeing to something simple. “Okay. I’ll go.”
He lifts his mug, gesturing vaguely with it. “I’ll… finish this. Then I’ll go lie down and not sleep.”
“Sounds productive.”
“I’m a professional.”
You turn toward the hallway, but when you reach your door, you glance back without fully meaning to. He watches you with a faint, unguarded smile that feels new only because you’re finally allowing yourself to see it freely.
“Night,” you say.
“Night,” he replies.
And when you shut your door, it’s with the strange, buoyant sense that nothing dramatic has happened at all. Only that something has finally shifted into place.
You wake up to the sound of movement in the apartment, soft and familiar enough that it doesn’t startle you. A cupboard opening, the faint scrape of a chair against the floor, and Seungkwan’s voice mumbling to some song that’s been on repeat in his head.
It takes a few seconds for the memory of last night to settle back into place.
By the time you make it to the kitchen, Seungkwan is already there, hair sticking up in a way he hasn’t bothered to fix yet, hoodie abandoned with just his t-shirt from last night on. He’s standing by the counter, staring into the fridge like he’s hoping it might offer him something.
“Oh,” he says when he notices you, straightening a little. “Good morning.”
“Morning,” you echo, your voice still rough around the edges.
You hover for a second, unsure where to put yourself, then move past him to grab a glass of water. He shifts out of the way automatically, too quickly, and you both register it at the same time.
He clears his throat. “I was trying to decide if we have anything that counts as breakfast.”
“Ugh,” you groan. “Sorry, I was meant to go grocery-shopping yesterday afternoon. Forgot about it. I’m sure there’s something though.”
You lean in beside him, shoulder brushing his as you peer into the fridge together, the cool light washing over both of you. There’s a carton of eggs pushed to the back, a half-used bottle of milk, some wilting greens you’ve been meaning to do something with for days. Seungkwan hums thoughtfully, like he’s genuinely weighing options instead of stalling.
“Eggs are workable,” he says finally. “I’ve made worse breakfasts under more tragic circumstances.”
“Seungkwan, you could have the best ingredients and still make something only just consumable.” You sigh, shaking your head. “You’re going to have to eat omelettes with disgusting greens in them. No choices.”
“That’s alright,” he nods, ignoring the jab at his cooking skills. “I can make coffee instead. Now that, I can do better than you.”
You scoff, waving him off. “Go on.”
Seungkwan drags himself towards the espresso machine while you take the eggs and greens out. You reach back in on second thought to take out the orange juice as well, because you know he’ll think the coffee’s too heavy and want something more refreshing when he’s had less sleep. And that he’ll complain it’s too cold.
“Are you going to be packing up today?” You ask as you take out the cutting board to cut the greens into thin strips. “Need any help?”
“Not much,” he shakes his head, leaning against the counter. “It’s only clothes, and then just maybe double-checking some of the boxes.”
“Okay,” you say. “Still. If you want help.”
“Yeah,” he replies, then adds, almost reflexively, “I’ll tell you.”
The espresso machine whirs to life, low and steady, the sound settling into the room like background noise. You turn back to the cutting board. Seungkwan adjusts the cup under the spout, then nudges it again, like he’s not quite satisfied with where it’s sitting.
For a while, neither of you says anything.
It’s not uncomfortable exactly, just conspicuous. Like both of you are a little too aware of where the other is at all times You crack an egg into the bowl and a bit of the shell falls in. You sigh and fish it out with exaggerated patience.
“This is—” you start, then stop.
He glances over. “What?”
You huff out a laugh despite yourself. “This is a little weird.”
Seungkwan blinks, then breaks into a smile that looks equal parts relieved and sheepish. “Thank God you said it.” He scratches at the back of his neck, smile lingering but softer now. “I was starting to think it was just me.”
“It’s not,” you say quickly, then regret how fast it comes out. You turn back to the stove, busying yourself with the pan like it suddenly requires your full attention. “It’s just… different. This part.”
He hums, considering. You can feel his gaze on you without looking.
“Do we… need to talk about it?” he asks, tentative in a way you’ve almost never heard from him.
You pause, chopsticks hovering midair. “About what?”
When he doesn’t reply immediately, you turn slowly, heat rising up your neck. “Hold on. Are we not… I don’t know,” you mumble a bit shyly, “dating or something?”
Seungkwan’s jaw drops slightly, like he’s surprised you even said it. “I mean… what?”
“What?” You repeat, wishing you’d never said it at all.
“Shouldn’t I be taking you out before that?”
“You did,” you splutter out before breaking your gaze to flip the omelette. “Didn’t you? Yesterday was kind of a date, was it not?”
He opens his mouth, then closes it again, seeming to think for a moment. “I guess it was. But it wasn’t supposed to be one. We were supposed to go with the others.”
“So you’re not counting it as one?” You ask, and maybe it comes out a bit sharply because he scrambles to correct himself.
“No, I just— I should take you out on a date while calling it one, you know? Like, intentionally.”
You hum, “If you say so. I don’t mind.”
“Huh?”
“Seungkwan, don’t make me say it. Take the hint, please.”
“Listen, I genuinely don’t—”
“Just be my boyfriend already,” you say, then wince slightly. “Wow. That came out way more aggressive than I meant. We’ve just been wasting time.”
“Oh.” Seungkwan huffs out, surprised.
You nod once, eyes still on the pan, like if you look at him for too long you might lose your nerve. “Yeah. That. Officially. If you want.”
There’s silence for a few seconds—long enough for the eggs to start crisping up at the edges.
He lets out a soft laugh then, almost a little disbelievingly before pushing your mug a little closer to you.
“I do,” he says. Then, after a second, like he needs to say it again to make sure it sticks, “I really do.”
You glance over at him then, and he’s smiling in that way he does when he’s really happy and trying not to show it too much, eyes crinkling and body tense with held back excitement.
“I just didn’t want to rush you,” he adds. “Or mess it up by assuming.”
You nod, swallowing. “You’re allowed to assume a little.”
He smiles at that, small and fond. “Good to know.”
The quiet slips back in, but it’s different now. Thicker somehow. Charged, but not sharp. You slide the omelette onto a plate, set it aside, then reach for the pan again like you’ve forgotten what comes next.
Seungkwan watches you for a moment, clearly thinking. You can see it in the way his brows knit together, the way he rocks slightly on his heels.
“So,” he says eventually, tentatively again. “I have a suggestion.”
You glance at him, raising an eyebrow.
He exhales, then laughs at himself, rubbing the back of his neck.
“I think we’re both being weird because we don’t know how to act,” he says. “Which is… fair. But also kind of unbearable.”
“That’s one way to put it.”
“So,” he continues, pushing through, “maybe we just… don’t overthink it? Like. Exposure therapy.”
You blink. “You’re applying sports psychology to this?”
“It works like magic,” he argues. “Anyway. I was thinking—”
He reaches out, stops himself halfway, then commits, gently taking your hand.
Your breath catches.
“—we just do this,” he finishes, quieter. “For a bit. While we’re doing normal things. So it stops feeling like a big deal.”
You stare at your joined hands, his warm and steady around yours, thumb resting where it fits too easily.
“…You’re holding my hand while I’m about to cook?” you ask.
He nods, very serious. “Yes.”
“This feels counterproductive. How am I supposed to hold the pan, the chopsticks, and your hand?”
His eyebrows furrow, the corners of his mouth slipping down a bit, and you instantly regret trying to be logical.
“Okay,” you nod solemnly. “Done.”
“Great!” Seungkwan says, clearly pleased.
You let him be for a few seconds before setting the chopsticks down, looking at the pan, your hands and then him. “Seungkwan, this is not very convenient.”
“Fine,” he sighs after a moment, letting you go with visible reluctance. “Do your thing.”
His hands immediately go into the pockets of his sweatpants like he doesn’t know what to do with them now. You finish plating the eggs, movements slower than usual, hyperaware of him hovering just behind you.
The second you set the pan aside, he reaches back out. No hesitation this time.
“There,” he says, pleased, lacing your fingers properly now. “See? Much better.”
Seungkwan shows up a few nights later with takeaway and no plan beyond staying a while. He shrugs his jacket off like it’s muscle memory and toes his shoes off into the corner they’re always in. You make space on the table, pass him a fork before settling back into the couch, pressed close enough to feel goosebumps from the breeze outside on his skin.
The evening unfolds without any particular direction. He’s come directly after training and almost inhales his food before you even choose a show to play—which, to be fair, you do take a while to decide.
“You always do this,” he complains, leaning back against the armrest, watching you scroll. “You ask for opinions and then ignore them.”
“Because your opinions are terrible,” you point out, not looking up.
“They’re not!” Seunkwan retorts.
“Seungkwan, you just put stuff on and zone out. You don’t really watch.”
He huffs in frustration before crossing his arms. “Fine, whatever. Choose something though.”
You laugh and lightly nudge his knee with yours. He nudges you back, just as casually.
You scoff, shifting away an inch, not enough to leave, just enough to test him, and he lets you go without comment. The distance doesn’t last. A moment later you drift back on your own.
He doesn’t make a thing of it. Just drops his arm around you loosely, his hand resting at your side as if to say stay without asking. You do.
The show starts playing to no one in particular. He finishes eating and sets the carton aside, wiping his hands on a napkin before leaning back, attention splitting between the screen and you, his thumb idly tracing the seam of your sleeve. You shift again, angling toward him this time, your knees brushing his thigh.
“Long day?” you ask.
“Kinda,” he hums. “I might actually pass out here.”
“Not much that’s new then,” you giggle, tipping your head back to look at him.
He’s already looking down at you, expression relaxed, mouth curved faintly like he’s amused but not trying to be. When your eyes meet, he doesn’t look away. You stay like that for a few seconds, neither of you talking, the sound from the TV filling the space while he watches you like he’s deciding whether to say something.
You shift again, not away this time, easing in until your shoulder rests against his chest, your face tipped up toward his. He adjusts almost immediately, a small turn of his head that brings you into his space without rushing it, his breathing evening out as he settles.
“Hey,” he says quietly, almost reflexively.
“Yeah?” you reply, just as soft.
He doesn’t answer and just dips his head, close enough now that your noses nearly brush, close enough that you’re aware of it in a very simple way—that if either of you moved even a little, that would be it— when the doorbell rings.
You pull back with a short breath through your nose. “Of course.”
He leans back into the couch, blinking once. “Timing’s unreal.”
The second ring comes almost immediately, sharper too, and you’re already standing before either of you says anything else.
“I’ll get it,” you say, stumbling off the couch to reach the door before whoever’s behind it rings again.
When you open it, it takes you a second to register Jiwon properly. Her hair’s half pulled back, her eyes red from what looks like tears, and she’s gripping her phone like it’s the only solid thing she has. She looks at you, mouth opening like she means to say something, and nothing comes out.
“Hey,” you say immediately, the word coming softer than you intend. “What’s wrong?”
She shakes her head, a quick, helpless movement. “Can I— can I come in?”
“Yeah,” you say, stepping back without thinking. “Of course.”
She crosses the threshold and you shut the door behind her, the apartment suddenly becoming too quiet, and only then does she let out a sob that sounds like it’s been stuck in her chest for miles. You reach for her instinctively, a hand at her arm.
“What happened?” you ask again, slower this time.
“I just—” she starts, then stops, pressing her lips together like she’s trying to hold herself in place.
Seungkwan’s already up, concern written plainly across his face as he takes her in. “Jiwon?”
She swipes at her cheek, laughs once under her breath without humour. “I ended it. And then everything kind of… fell apart.”
“Oh,” you say quietly, guiding her toward the couch. “Okay. Sit. Just sit.”
Seungkwan hovers for a second, then moves toward the kitchen, coming back with water and setting it down within reach before lowering himself onto the floor instead of taking the space beside her. He doesn’t rush her.
The rest of the night settles into something slower. Jiwon talks in pieces, stopping when it gets too close, starting again when the silence presses. You stay close, knees angled toward her, fingers resting lightly at her wrist whenever her voice shakes. Seungkwan listens, occasionally cutting in when she spirals too far, but mostly he lets her talk herself tired instead of talked-through. At some point she stops mid-sentence, frowns like she’s lost the thread, then shakes her head.
“Sorry,” she says. “I feel like I’m just saying the same thing over and over.”
“It’s fine,” you tell her, adjusting the throw blanket around her shoulders. “That’s kind of how it goes.”
She huffs a quiet laugh at that, scrubbing her face again. “I’m exhausting.”
“You’re allowed to be,” Seungkwan says easily, reaching for the empty glass and standing. “Do you want tea or do you want to just… sleep?”
She considers it for a second, then sighs. “Sleep.”
“Alright,” you nod, already getting up. “You can sleep in my room if you want.”
She nods, already pushing herself up from the couch. “Yeah. Thanks.”
You walk her down the hall, pause while she rummages through your dresser for a spare toothbrush, and watch her disappear into the bathroom with a quiet, “I’ll be quick,” before the door clicks shut behind her. The sound of the tap turning on is soft but unmistakable, a marker more than a distraction, and when you head back toward the living room the apartment feels different again, the intensity of earlier fully spent.
Seungkwan is standing near the kitchen counter, jacket folded over one arm, keys and his phone int he other. He looks up when you come back with a small smile.
“She’ll be okay?” he asks. “Do you need anything?”
“No,” you sigh. “She just needs sleep.”
He nods, once. “Okay.”
For a moment neither of you moves. The dim lamp light spills around the room along with the muted sounds of Jiwon rinsing her mouth and shifting around in the bathroom.
“I should probably head out,” he says eventually, throwing one last look in her direction.
You frown slightly before nodding. Yes, he should. He could stay, but it seems best to go today.
When you walk Seungkwan to the door, he takes his time slipping his shoes back on, glancing once toward the hallway and then back at you. You linger close by before moving past him to open the door.
He straightens, hesitates, then stops just short of the threshold, like there’s something he means to say and hasn’t quite found yet.
You don’t give him the chance.
You step in and kiss him, brief and light, more impulsively than anything, your mouth barely there before you pull back again.
For a second he just looks at you in surprise.
Then he leans back in, slower this time, returning it with a little more certainty, like he’s making sure, like he doesn’t want to rush it but doesn’t want to leave it at that either. It lasts only a moment longer, enough to feel real before he draws away.
He exhales, quiet, almost a laugh, and steps back toward the hall with obvious reluctance.
“Good night.”
You nod, smiling softly. “Text me when you reach!”
“I will,” he promises, already halfway down the hall before he turns back once more to wave goodbye.
The elevator doors slide shut behind you with a soft thud, ending the last notes of the song from Seungkwan’s playlist playing in your mind.
You’re both quiet for a moment, catching your breath.
Seungkwan leans back against the wall, suit jacket folded over his arm, tie abandoned halfway through the night and stuffed somewhere in your clutch. His hair’s still neatly styled, but he looks barely minutes away from messing it all up. You smooth a hand down the skirt of your dress out of habit, palms still warm from his touch.
“Well,” he says finally, glancing at the floor number as it crawls upward, “I think that officially counts as us attending a wedding together.”
You hum. “We’ve done that before.”
“Not like that,” he says, mouth curving. “That was… very obvious.”
You glance at him with a grin. “You’re the one who dragged me out for the slow songs.”
“Let a man live, will you?” He grins back, reaching out for you again. “Admit it, that’s the most fun you’ve ever had at a wedding.”
You snort softly. “It was fun,” you admit, letting yourself be pulled in the last inch, your shoulder fitting easily against his chest. “Right up until I got kidnapped by the aunties.”
He groans, already resigned. “No way. Where was I?”
You shrug. “You were getting water. Or pretending to, maybe.”
“I would never abandon you,” he defends himself. “What did they ask you?”
You huff a quiet laugh. “If we were actually dating,” you say. “If this was a thing. And whether that’s why we looked so… settled.”
He makes a sound somewhere between disbelief and amusement. “That’s bold.”
“No, literally!” You agree, eyes widening. “It was almost like they just needed confirmation, they weren’t even asking, lowkey.”
Seungkwan huffs. “And?”
“And I said nothing useful,” you reply. “Just that we came together and had a good time. I don’t think either of us would like the earful we’d have gotten if our mothers found out through others.”
Seungkwan nods slowly, like he’s picturing it. “Yeah, that would’ve been… bad.”
The elevator gives a small chime as it reaches his floor. The doors slide open, and he moves first, grasping your hand and gently dragging you out behind him, your fingers warm and slightly sweaty in his, the motion casual, like he’s done it a hundred times before.
The hallway is quiet, lights dimmed low, and you keep talking as you follow him, the words tumbling out on leftover adrenaline.
“Also,” you add, because apparently you’re not done, “I forgot how dramatic our year was. Half those people haven’t changed at all. Did you see Minji’s face when the bouquet got tossed? You’d think she was practically waiting for someone to propose to her with the way she ran forward, but I found out later that she isn’t even dating.”
Seungkwan snorts, still tugging you along. “She’s been auditioning for that moment since we were seventeen.”
“I know,” you say. “And the way she kept looking around afterward like she’d done something embarrassing but couldn’t quite undo it. I almost felt bad.”
“Almost,” he echoes.
You pass two closed doors, your voices dropping naturally even though there’s no one else around. The sound of your steps softens.
“The speeches were cute though,” you continue. “I should’ve counted the number of times someone said ‘we’ve all been waiting for this day’.”
“I feel like—” Seungkwan mumbles, making you look up at him. It hits you—unhelpfully—how good he looks like this, collar open, tie gone, the night still clinging to him. It makes you feel a little unsteady, a little keyed up in a way that has nothing to do with the wedding. “—that’s something we’ll be hearing a lot too, when we tell people.”
You let out a quiet exhale. “God. Please no.”
He glances at you before punching in the passcode to his apartment. “I’m serious,” he says. “Everyone’s going to act like it’s been obvious forever.”
“That’s because it probably has,” you reply, nudging his arm lightly with your shoulder.
Seungkwan hums in agreement as the door unlocks with a soft beep before he pushes it open and steps inside first. You follow behind, being greeted by the smell of fresh paint that still hasn’t subdued.
He drops his car keys into the shallow dish by the door with a satisfying clink, then shrugs out of his jacket and leaves it draped over the chair before turning around to face you.
You slip your shoes off and line them up out of habit, smoothing your dress as you straighten. Lingering by the door for a moment longer, you finally walk up to him, to which he greets you with opened arms. He watches you the whole way, expression easy and fond, like this part of the night has been quietly waiting its turn.
Before you can say anything, he leans in and presses a quick peck to your lips.
“Hungry?” he asks.
You laugh softly, the sound catching as he kisses you again, just as light. “No.”
“Sure?” Another peck, this one catching the corner of your mouth. “You barely ate.”
“I’m sure,” you say, still smiling, hands settling at his sides. “I’m good.”
Seungkwan hums, unconvinced. “Okay. I probably still have some of your clothes in my wardrobe if you want to change.”
You raise an eyebrow, glancing past him toward the hallway. “Have they been washed recently?”
He laughs softly, but before he can answer properly, his hand slips to your waist and pulls you in, the question dissolving between you. His mouth meets yours again, slower this time, less playful, like he’s already lost interest in finishing the conversation.
“Mhm,” he mumbles against your lips, distracted. “Yeah.”
You smile into the kiss, hands sliding up to rest around his neck, elbows fitting easily there like they belong. He tightens his hold at your waist, thumbs pressing in just enough to draw you closer.
His mouth is warm and deliberate as if he’s testing what you’ll give him and taking care not to rush past it. You tilt into him without thinking, breath stuttering when he shifts closer, when the line of his body settles flush against yours.
“Wait—” you murmur, not pulling away, just needing a second, your forehead brushing his.
He stills immediately. “Yeah?”
You shake your head, a quiet laugh slipping out of you, breath uneven. “No, I just—” You trail off, fingers tightening slightly at the back of his neck. “I need a second.”
He smiles softly at that, something tender flickering across his face, and presses a gentler kiss to the corner of your mouth, like he’s easing back in rather than stepping away. “Okay.”
The pause barely lasts, just enough for you to breathe him in, before his lips drift again—this time along the edge of your mouth, slow and unhurried, tracing the corner of your jaw. It sends a shiver through you, your grip tightening as he follows the line carefully, like he’s mapping it.
He murmurs your name near your ear, low and warm, breath ghosting over your skin, and it makes you tilt your head without realizing you’re doing it, offering him the space. He takes it gently, lips brushing your jaw again, then lower, never rushing, like he’s paying attention to every reaction you give him.
“Still okay?” he asks quietly, right there.
“Shit, um, yeah,” you breathe out, immediate and sure.
He lets out something like a laugh against your skin, relief threaded through it, and keeps one hand firm at your waist as you take a step back together, uncoordinated enough that you bump lightly into the edge of the couch.
“Sorry,” you mumble.
“Don’t be,” he replies just as quietly, forehead brushing yours. “You’re… really cute like this.”
You huff, embarrassed and pleased all at once and respond without thinking, arms locking more securely around his neck, bringing him closer because distance suddenly feels intolerable.
“God,” you murmur against his mouth, half a laugh, half something else.
He smiles into the next kiss, breath warm and uneven. “I know.”
It’s dizzying—the way he keeps kissing you like he’s trying to stay inside the moment, the way you keep leaning into it like stopping would be a mistake. His mouth drifts again, slower but more intentional than ever, catching at the corner of your lips, your jaw, lingering just long enough to make you feel it everywhere.
You stumble back another step and he goes with you immediately, the hallway blurring at the edges, your thoughts following suit, everything narrowing down to heat and closeness and the way he keeps touching you like he can’t quite help it.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes dark and a little wrecked, thumb brushing your side like he needs to reassure himself you’re still there. “You’re driving me a little insane,” he says quietly, almost amused by it.
You laugh, breathless. “You started it.”
“Yeah,” he agrees, lips already on yours again. “Worth it.”
description: a part of the 17 Seconds 2 Score collab!
When a burst pipe leaves national athlete Boo Seungkwan temporarily homeless, the universe decides to have a laugh and send him to the one person he’s been too busy to see—his best friend. What should’ve been an easy, familiar arrangement turns strangely complicated; between his chaotic training schedule and the small ways you keep circling each other, nothing feels as simple as it used to. Living together blurs lines you’ve never questioned before. There's a net neither of you have crossed, but maybe it's time to break the match point.
warnings: strong language, alcohol, physical exhaustion, they're truly idiots, pls do let me know if i missed something
w/c: 17k Part 2
a/n: eeek its here!! it's been a long time coming, so first and foremost i would like to thank jay ( @ppyopulii ) and hershey ( @junplusone ) you two are my cohosts but also my best friends on here, and doing this with you has been the best part of everything!!! i love you both so much.
and to all the amazing writers in the collab, thank you for joining us <3 it's been so fun seeing you guys come up with your ideas and work through them and i am so excited to read each and every one of your fics.
unbeta-d we ball ✌️
Seungkwan shows up at your door with a duffle bag on one shoulder, his badminton kit on the other, and the unmistakable air of someone who hasn’t slept in three days.
There’s a line of grip tape hanging out from one of the compartments he’s hastily zipped up, and his hair looks more damaged than the last time you saw him. His bloodshot eyes look at you sheepishly just as the movers walk, arms busy with huge boxes, into the corridor behind him.
“Before you say anything,” Seungkwan starts, shifting the duffle higher on his shoulder, “I bring gifts.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Is it a medal?”
“Swiss chocolates.” He offers, “And a medal, of course. But you’re not getting that.”
Opening the door wider to let him and the movers in, you scoff. “Wow. The generosity.”
He walks past with a muttered thanks, brushing against you close enough to smell the pain-relief spray on him, overpowering the clean scent of aftershave. Behind him, the movers trudge in, hauling boxes that look far too heavy for the kind of temporary stay this was supposed to be.
You glance at the labels scrawled across them in black marker: “training gear,” “kitchen (emergency ramen) + clothes,” “misc,” and—because of course he would—“sentimental stuff, don’t touch.”
“How long did your landlord say this repair would take again?” you ask, watching the boxes stack higher and higher.
“Two weeks. Maybe three.” He drops the bags by your couch and exhales like he’s deflating. “Burst pipe in the ceiling while I was gone. The whole apartment flooded. Walls, floor, everything. They’re tearing it all out and redoing the wiring too. I brought what I could salvage.”
“That sounds awful,” you say, though the sympathy in your voice is half-swallowed by amusement.
“It is awful,” he insists, collapsing onto your couch without asking. “You have no idea what kind of hell I’ve been through this week.”
You lean against the arm of the couch. “I’m guessing you’ll tell me anyway.”
He sighs dramatically, one arm draped over his forehead like a tragic hero. “You ever land after a fourteen-hour flight thinking you’ll finally get a real shower and actual sleep?”
“Can’t say I’ve had that privilege.”
“Picture this: you land in Seoul, still riding that post-win high, right? You’re thinking you’ll get home, toss your medal on the counter, think you’ll take a nap. And then you open the door to an indoor pond.”
“An indoor pond,” you repeat, fighting the smile that’s already threatening your face. While he grumbles, you push off the couch and head towards the door, bidding the movers goodbye as they leave.
“I wish I was exaggerating,” Seungkwan complains once you return, letting his hand fall from his forehead. His eyes are closed. “The building management said I could either stay and risk electrocution or move out while they fix it.” He gestures loosely to his boxes. “Guess which one I chose.”
You hum, pretending to think. “You, voluntarily making a responsible decision? That’s new.”
“Hey.” He points an offended finger at you, though there’s no real energy behind it. “Desperation makes a man reasonable. I called my mom the second I got outside. She said I should come home to Jeju for a few weeks while they fix everything.”
“That would’ve been nice. You haven’t been home in a while, no?”
“Nice,” he echoes, “but also completely impractical. I’ve got another training block starting the day after, then the Asia Championship in China in three weeks. Flights back and forth would eat up the whole break. So I told her no. And then, because she’s her, she said she’d ‘find me somewhere.’”
“You could’ve called me first,” you roll your eyes, sauntering into the kitchen. “I told you my roommate moved out a few months ago.”
Seungkwan snorts, opening his eyes and sitting up to face you. “Bold of you to assume you’re always on my mind.”
“I could kick you out right now,” you warn, waving the fork in your hand at him before you stuff a piece of cantaloupe into your mouth.
“You wouldn’t. Not after all I’ve suffered.”
“I would,” you hum.
“Unbelievable,” he mutters, and then—because sometimes he’s always been a bit of an airhead—he stumbles to his feet and slides his way toward you, socks slipping against the polished floor. “Wait, wait, don’t kick me out yet,” he pleads, arms already opening like that’s going to save him.
“Seungkwan—”
But he’s faster, wrapping himself around you before you can step away. You let out an undignified sound somewhere between a laugh and a sigh as he squeezes you tight, his voice muffled against your shoulder.
“Thank you for saving a homeless national athlete,” Seungkwan mumbles solemnly.
“You’re not homeless,” you grumble, trying to pry him off. “You’re just highly inconvenienced.”
“Whatever,” he mumbles, finally pulling back with a grin that’s too pleased. “Anyway, chocolates. Front pocket of the duffel. Treat yourself before I eat them all.”
You shake your head, but the corner of your mouth lifts anyway. “You can unpack later. The guest room’s ready with fresh sheets. I even vacuumed, and the shower’s free if you want to wash off all that tragic energy.”
He presses a hand to his chest. “You cleaned for me? Wow. You really do love me.”
You aim the fork at him again. “Don’t make me reconsider.”
He laughs, softer this time, the kind of laugh that makes the room feel suddenly smaller. “Fine, fine. I’ll shower, then nap. Can you wake me up for lunch?”
“Yeah,” you say, already turning back to the counter. “Go before you fall asleep standing there.”
Seungkwan grins, slow and lazily, the exhaustion catching up to him again. “You’re the best,” he says simply, leaning down to press a quick, grateful kiss to your cheek before heading toward the hallway.
You stay where you are, fork halfway to your mouth, and try to forget the reason you haven’t seen your “best friend” in over two months.
It’s not the first time he’s shown up like this. Not exactly. It just used to look a little different.
You must’ve been ten, maybe eleven, when Seungkwan first started ringing your doorbell like it owed him money. The summer heat had been unbearable, the kind that made you drink and eat your weight’s worth in lemonade and ice cream, the kind that left the asphalt steaming on the roads.
You’d been half-asleep on the couch when your mother called out that Seungkwan’s here again, and before you could even groan, he was already at your door.
He had two rackets that day and a grin too wide for the weather.
“Come play with me,” he’d said, like it wasn’t burning outside.
“No,” you’d answered immediately.
“Come on, just one match.”
“You’ll win anyway.”
“I’ll go easy.” He grovelled.
You’d stared at him for a long second, debating, but then he’d held up the bribe—his wallet, or whatever pouch kids had those days. “I’ll buy you those orange popsicles.”
You’d narrowed your eyes. “Two.”
“Deal.”
The indoor court was only a few blocks away, tucked behind a convenience store and a stationery shop, a place that always smelled faintly of plastic shuttlecocks and strongly of sweat. It wasn’t glamorous—the lights flickered every now and then, and the floor had skid marks on the varnish from a dozen kids before you—but to him, it might as well have been the national arena.
Seungkwan played like a professional then too. You, on the other hand, held the racket like a broom.
“Ready?” he’d asked, tossing the shuttle high.
“No,” you said, but he served anyway.
He won the first point, then the second, then every point after that, all while offering very helpful commentary. “Good try!” when you missed by a mile. “You almost had it!” when the shuttle didn’t even reach the net. “Okay, maybe this one’s my bad,” when he accidentally sent it straight into your face.
It was out of character, for the Seungkwan you knew would have rather rubbed salt in your wounds for fun, but you supposed he was doing it so that you would still play with him.
By the time you gave up, sitting down on the edge of the court and declaring your early retirement, he was grinning from ear to ear, sweat darkening his shirt. “That was fun,” he’d said, like you hadn’t just been humiliated for twenty minutes straight.
“Don’t call me again,” you’d muttered, unwrapping the orange popsicle he’d bought you from the vending machine.
He’d just laughed, picking up another shuttle and turning toward the wall, hitting it again and again while you sat there with your popsicle, watching. You’d rolled your eyes then, but secretly, you’d thought it was kind of impressive how he never stopped.
When he finally joined you by the court, he’d flopped down dramatically, face still red from the heat. “Next time,” he said, “you’re going to beat me.”
You’d snorted. “Sure.”
“It’s boring here,” Seungkwan complained. “I can’t even practice in the summers because all the people that do go for summer camp are beginners.”
“As if I’m not.” You pointed out.
He only shrugged, tossing the shuttle up and catching it again. “That’s fine. I won’t bother you once the normal classes start again. It’s better than playing with kids.”
Scoffing, you tried to throw the wooden stick at him. “Look at you, acting all high and mighty. Someone needs to pull you down to earth.”
“It’s not my fault I’m too good for most of the people that go here.” Seungkwan frowned, spinning the racket between his palms like he was already bored again.
“Yeah, yeah, future Olympian, whatever,” you muttered. “Maybe work on your humility next.”
He gave you a look, then grinned. “You sound jealous.”
“Of what?”
“My talent.”
You’d laughed, sharp and unconvinced, but he’d only smirked wider—like he knew something you didn’t.
You blink out of the memory, half-disoriented, as if you’ve just surfaced from a place too far away. It takes a second to remember where you are—the kitchen counter, the afternoon light hitting the tiles, the open window carrying in the faint buzz of the neighborhood.
You reach for your water bottle and take a slow sip, hoping the coolness will steady you. It doesn’t. You can still see him as he was back then. Sunburnt, stubborn, with that same spark in his eyes that never really went away.
The sound of the showerhead stopping makes you look up. A minute later, he steps out, hair dripping, towel slung around his shoulders, the neck of his shirt damp with water droplets.
You sniff the air twice before narrowing your eyes at him, hands on your hips. “Did you use my shampoo?”
“And your conditioner!” He shoots a salute at you as he turns to walk to the guest bedroom. “It smells great by the way.”
You scoff before pushing off the counter. “Unbelievable,” you mutter, but you’re already reaching for the pan.
There’s no point pretending you haven’t done this before. You know how he gets after long tournaments—too tired to cook, too stubborn to order anything remotely nutritious, and too proud to admit that he just wants something warm and familiar. So you start pulling out the things he’ll eat without complaint: eggs, rice, sesame oil, the tub of kimchi that you’d bought on instinct last week and hadn’t even opened yet.
Fully expecting him to knock out in his room, you get started with lunch, the kitchen filling with the soft crack of eggshells and the sizzle of oil. But soon enough, he walks out, hair still damp and sticking to his forehead, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion.
You glance over your shoulder. “I thought you were going to sleep.”
“I feel bad,” Seungkwan sighs, trudging over to you. “Do you need any help?”
You scoff lightly without turning around. “You can barely keep your eyes open. The last thing I need is you setting my kitchen on fire.”
He whines behind you. “I’m not that bad.”
“You aren’t terrible,” you offer, “but that’s when you’re well rested and feeling good. Other days, not so much. Just sit down.”
He hovers near you instead, jutting his chin over your shoulder to peek at the stove. You flinch, which makes him stare at you incredulously before he turns back to the pan. “That smells good.”
You shrug, swallowing hard. “It’s just fried rice.”
“It’s your fried rice,” he corrects, tone teasing but soft. “There’s a difference.”
You roll your eyes, focusing on the pan. “Flattery won’t get you extra.”
“I wasn’t trying to—” he starts, but stops when you glance at him. His smile falters for a beat, eyes flicking away. “Okay, maybe I was.”
You bite back a laugh, shaking your head as you stir the rice, though your pulse is doing something ridiculous. He opens a drawer, pulls out a pair of chopsticks, and plucks out a bit of kimchi from the tub.
“This is new?” he asks, chewing.
“Yeah, haven’t even tried it yet.”
“Mm. You should.”
Before you can reach for your own chopsticks, he’s already holding out a piece for you. “Here,” he says simply, not even looking at you, his eyes honing in on the ingredients list on the back of the tub.
You hesitate, but he looks so unbothered that you can’t even come up with an excuse. You lean in, and he hums happily before putting the chopsticks down.
“It’s good, right?” he asks, oblivious or pretending to be.
You clear your throat. “Yeah. Pretty good.” You turn off the stove too quickly, grab for plates to cover it up. “So, um, how was the Swiss Open?”
He looks at you like you’ve just insulted him. “Wait. Did you not watch me?”
Your lips twitch. “Sorry, some of us have jobs.”
Seungkwan’s face falls, barely, but enough. “You’re lying, right? You always watch the finals.”
You glance up at him then, and the way he tries to mask his hurt expression makes your stomach twist. You let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “I’m joking, relax. I watched. Even the semis.”
His mouth softens into a grin almost immediately. “You did?”
“Of course I did.” You slide the bowl towards him, pretending not to notice the way his expression brightens like that matters more than it should. “Not going to lie though, the way you lost that first set, I almost thought you’d get out in the semis.”
Seungkwan scoffs, “You don’t understand. Sometimes I need to keep the spectators in mind and make the game more interesting as well. Keep them on the edge of their seats, y’know…” he trails off into a mumble, shoving a spoonful of rice into his mouth.
You throw an exasperated glance at him, making him chew sheepishly.
“Okay, it was a hard match.” He admits, rolling his eyes at you. “He caught me off guard.”
“That’s what you said last time too.” You can’t help smiling as you sit across from him, setting your own bowl down. “And the time before that. What’s next—‘he used black magic’?”
He narrows his eyes at you but the corner of his mouth is already twitching. “You’re awfully bold for someone who’s never played at that level.”
“Please,” you say, scoffing. “You act like I haven’t seen you play since we were kids. I could tell exactly when you started panicking.”
“I did not panic,” he insists, pointing his spoon at you.
You lift your brows, unbothered. “Sure. You just... dramatically misjudged every drop shot in the first half of the second set.”
Seungkwan groans, dropping the spoon into his bowl. “You know, you’re supposed to say nice things. Supportive things. Not tear me apart over lunch.”
“Hey,” you retort, “I’m feeding you. That’s support.”
He leans back in his chair, grinning now. “You really did watch,”
You don’t answer right away. You just busy yourself with another bite, eyes fixed on the food because looking at him feels dangerous. “Yeah,” you say finally, voice lighter than you mean it to be. “Would’ve been weird not to.”
He hums, a small, satisfied sound, and reaches over with his spoon, stealing a larger chunk of scrambled egg from your plate. You make a sound of protest, swatting at his hand, but he’s already laughing, full and unguarded.
Glaring at him, you grumble under your breath before going back to your bowl. You wouldn’t let anyone else touch your food, yet somehow, he’s always been the exception. He’s just being himself, you tell yourself. Friendly. Familiar. Nothing new. But the problem is, you aren’t the same anymore.
Because suddenly, two or three weeks feels like an awfully long time to have him here. To hear his voice around your house, to find his towel on your chair, to smell your shampoo on his hair.
You stab at your rice, pretending you aren’t already thinking about how impossible it’s going to be living with your oldest friend. Especially when you’re pretty sure you’re in love with him.
You shuffle out of your room still half-asleep, blinking at the faint sound of audio commentary playing through the TV. Your first thought is that you left the TV on last night, but then you catch sight of Seungkwan sitting cross-legged on the floor, back against your sofa, hair sticking up every which way, eyes glued to slow-motion footage of a rally. His laptop’s open beside him, notebook scattered with messy scribbles and timestamps.
It takes you a second to process that he’s up. Not just up but also alert, and apparently functional.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” you mumble, voice still rough. “What time is it?”
He glances up at you in surprise, eyes crinkling. “Morning. It’s like… seven?” he says, stretching his neck. “There’s coffee in the fridge, by the way. The way you like it. I didn’t want to wake you.”
You pause in the hallway, brain still buffering. “Wait… you made coffee?”
“Yeah,” he says, already turning back to the screen. “With milk, less sugar, and extra froth. It’s chilling now.”
You blink a few times, trying to catch up. “You’ve been up since when?”
He shrugs, pen tapping against his knee. “Four? I crashed hard yesterday, so I just woke up early. Figured I might as well get some work done.”
You rub your face with both hands, still not fully believing what you’re seeing. “And unpack, apparently.”
He glances toward the corner where a few open boxes sit stacked neatly, everything inside folded and arranged like he’s been here a week instead of a night. “Just the stuff I actually need. The rest can stay like that until I move back.”
Right. You nod, although he can’t see you, and pad into the kitchen. You open the fridge, and there it is: a tall glass of coffee sitting right in the front, froth still holding its shape on top.
Making a mental note to drink it before you leave for work, you close the fridge door and slink back into the living room, slumping onto the couch behind Seungkwan.
“What are you even doing?”
“Watching clips from my last two matches,” he says, jotting something down in his notebook. “And some of the guys I might face next month.”
Your eyes skim the screen. The footage is paused mid-rally, his opponent—a Danish rookie that’s been making the headlines recently—lunging forward, racket barely angled under the shuttle. “You do this for fun or for torture?”
He laughs under his breath. “It’s not that bad. Helps me figure out what I did right, what I didn’t. You’d be surprised how much you miss when you’re actually playing.”
You hum, still half-asleep, watching as he rewinds and plays the same sequence again.
“Do you ever get tired of it?” you ask softly.
“Of what?”
“Seeing yourself play. Thinking about the same match over and over.”
He pauses, the faintest smile tugging at his mouth. “I get tired of losing. That’s about it.”
“That was so corny, it definitely woke me up.” You gag before lying down with a groan. “I’m so sleepy.”
Seungkwan laughs, the sound bright and cheerful. “Then go back to sleep,” he says, throwing his head back and nudging your knees. “I’ll keep the volume low.”
“No.” You mumble into a cushion. “I have to go to work.”
He hums, and you both fall into a comfortable silence. He jots down notes and goes over clips multiple times, while you watch the screen distractedly, giving you way too much time to think about things you don’t need to think about. Like how strangely domestic it is, that image of him padding around your kitchen while you were asleep, frothing milk like he lives here. Which, technically, he does for now.
You groan again just to cover the thought.
“Get up,” Seungkwan drawls, “you’ll be late.”
“You know, if you think about it, you’re kinda insane,” you mumble. “Normal people don’t wake up and watch themselves lose at dawn.”
“I didn’t lose this one,” he protests, twisting around to lightly smack you in the arm. “I haven’t lost a match in a while, you know?”
When you nod, clearly only to pacify him, Seungkwan grumbles under his breath. “You wouldn’t understand. You’re not built for greatness.”
You stifle a yawn. “I’m built for eight hours of sleep.”
“Couldn’t be me.”
“Clearly,” you murmur, reaching for the cushion he’s leaning on and tugging it out from behind his back. “Go touch some grass, Seungkwan.”
He laughs, swatting at your leg. “Later. I’ll go outside when you leave.”
You grunt, sitting up with visible effort, hair sticking to your cheek. “Speaking of which, I should probably start getting ready.”
He nods and waves you off absently.
When you come out again about an hour later, he’s moved to the kitchen. The TV’s off now, replaced by the quiet sound of toast popping up and plates clinking.
You stumble towards him, trying to pull your socks on before you give up and sit down on one of the chairs at the kitchen island. He smacks his lips in disappointment before humming the tune of a song to himself.
“There’s been a cat coming by lately,” you start, rubbing your eyes. “She usually sits on the porch around noon. Give her some milk if she asks for it. Don’t leave the dishes in the sink, and if you use the oven, please—”
He groans. “You’re giving me a lecture before I’ve even had breakfast?”
“—please don’t burn my kitchen down,” you finish, ignoring him. “And if you’re doing laundry, there’s detergent in the cabinet above the machine. Don’t mix colors and whites. And—”
“Wow,” he cuts in, smothering butter and jam over a slice of toast. “You’ve really thought this through. You know that I live alone right?”
“I’m trying to make sure I don’t come home to chaos,” you say, reaching for your bag on the counter. “Oh, and—”
He slides the plate aside, grabs the toast, and walks around the counter toward you. “Let me guess. Feed myself. Be responsible. Don’t die.”
“Exactly.”
Before you can keep going, he shoves the slice toward your mouth. “Here,” he says, unbothered. “Breakfast. Goodbye.”
You swat his hand away, mouth full of slightly burnt toast, and try to mumble around it.
“What? What are you saying? What would you do without me…?” He leans in, pretending to listen. “Go to work starving, yeah.”
You glare at him, pointing accusingly before you pull the toast away, taking a moment to chew before you continue. “I mean it, Seungkwan. Don’t leave the stove on. Or the tap.”
You’re halfway through slipping your shoes on now, muttering as you go. “If you go out, lock the door. Don’t forget your keys. They’re in the bowl on the shoe cupboard. And—”
“Text you when I leave the house?” he guesses, trailing after you to the doorway, his plate in hand.
You snort. “No, when you come back. I don’t need a play-by-play.”
“Got it,” he says, nodding solemnly like he’s taking notes. “So, text you when I leave, when I come back, when I feed the cat, when I eat breakfast…”
“Seungkwan.”
He shrugs, smirking a little as he grabs another slice of toast. “You’re so worried about me, it’s cute. Alright, alright. I’ll be good. Promise.”
You shoot him a look that only makes him grin wider. “I’m worried about my house, not you.”
“Sure,” he says lightly, taking a bite. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
You groan again, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “I’m leaving.”
He nods toward the door. “Text me when you get there.”
You huff loudly, shoving your middle finger up over your shoulder.
“Have a good day!” he calls out, still cheerful, waving his toast like a flag.
You don’t look back when you leave, but Seungkwan stays where he is for a while, watching the door, and still smiling a little to himself. Then he shakes his head, muttering under his breath as he sets the plate in the sink.
The air inside the institute smells like new polish and sweat.
Seungkwan’s only been gone for a week or two, but coming back always feels like home— the same echoing thwack of shuttlecocks in the courts, the same squeak of non-marking soles pivoting on the wood, the same half-shouted instructions from the younger coaches that still don’t quite carry over the sound of it all. Somewhere behind him, a metal water bottle clatters to the floor. He doesn’t flinch. It’s easy to fall back into rhythm here.
He passes a row of stacked chairs, the plastic kind used for casual meetings or idle waiting, and walks past the U-19 training courts to Court 7. Coach Baek is already there, leaning against the net post, clipboard tucked under his arm, the faintest smile appearing when he sees him.
“Morning,” the coach says. “Recovered?”
“As much as I’ll ever be,” Seungkwan answers, setting his bag down.
“That’s good enough.” Baek glances at his watch. “Light session today. Just movement and control.”
It always starts the same way—warm-up jogs, sidesteps, lunges. He rolls his shoulders, wrists, and ankles. Feels the stiffness start to melt off his joints. The hall hums around him; juniors laughing in one corner, a smash drill echoing from another. He pushes his bangs back and adjusts the headband he’s started wearing. By the time he moves into shadow footwork, the rest of the world has thinned into a blur.
Split step, push, recover. Split, lunge, twist. He doesn’t have to think. His body remembers.
Sweat starts to pool along his hairline, trickling down his neck and ears. Seungkwan’s lungs protest sooner than he expects, a reminder that travel, interviews, and one day of sleep isn’t the same as rest.
“Don’t rush the cross-step,” Baek calls out, voice cutting through the air like a string pulled tight. “Stay low.”
He adjusts, shifting his weight before starting again. His shoes squeak loudly against the floor and his quads burn. There’s something oddly comforting about the ache, something familiar in how it never really changes.
When he finishes the sequence, coach hands him his racket. “Racket work.”
He takes it automatically, fingers wrapping around the worn-out grip. It’s different with a racket in hand. His movements tighten. Every step, every flick of his wrist starts to fall back into sync.
They begin with multishuttle drives, fast and repetitive with no pause to think. Coach Baek feeds clean and steady shots across the net, forcing him to move early, to reach, to reset. His body protests, but it’s a quiet kind of pain, the kind that means things are working again.
“Keep your base,” Coach says evenly. “You’re leaning forward.”
“I’ve got it,” Seungkwan mutters, more to himself than anyone else.
He adjusts, stance widening just slightly to center his weight. The next feed comes quicker, almost punishingly so, but the rhythm clicks in by now. One drive, two, three—his arm remembers the snap, the lift, the drop. He starts hearing only the sound of impact: the crisp twang! that fills the hall.
The burn in his lungs comes next when Coach’s shots start varying in their distance. It’s a deep, clawing kind that starts at the ribs and spreads until breathing feels like it takes too much energy. It’s the kind of ache he used to hate, but now it’s just part of the process—proof that he’s still chasing something.
Baek feeds wider this time, making him stretch into the forehand corner. He reaches, pivots, drives back, and the return skims clean over the tape.
“Good,” Baek says, a rare note of approval in his voice.
Seungkwan exhales slowly, dragging the back of his palm across his forehead before silently falling into position at the centre of the court.
By the time Coach Baek finally lets him go, Seungkwan’s shirt is soaked through with sweat, body warm and buzzing despite the exhaustion settling in. He drops to the ground, letting his racket fall beside him before trudging up again towards one of the windows. The breeze outside is cool, and the sky is beginning to darken slowly.
Baek walks past, jotting something onto a clipboard. “Oh, by the way, tomorrow you’ll be training with Kim Jungwoo.”
Seungkwan drops to his knees to tie his shoelaces. “Jungwoo?”
Baek nods, still scribbling. “He’s been back since last week, but the injury’s taken a bit out of him. He needs someone to drive him back into form, and you’re at your best right now.”
There’s a faint hum of acknowledgement from Seungkwan, but he doesn’t say more. The hall has gone quiet except for the dull thud of Baek’s shoes and the faint rattle of shuttles being collected at the far end.
He stands after a moment, stretching until his shoulders pull and his spine cracks faintly. His bag feels heavier than it should when he slings it over his shoulder. The fluorescent lights overhead flicker once, dimming the court in a way that makes the silence feel heavier.
He doesn’t bother with the locker room shower and just changes into a clean shirt, towel draped around his neck, before heading out into the evening air. The moment he steps outside, the city noise replaces the echo of shuttle impacts—cars, footsteps, distant chatter. It’s grounding in a strange way.
He raises a hand to flag down a taxi, slipping into the back seat when one pulls over. The driver asks for his destination, and Seungkwan answers automatically, voice quieter than usual.
The ride is quiet, just the sound of the tires over asphalt and the faint hum of the radio tuned low. Seungkwan leans his head against the glass, eyes half-lidded, watching streetlights bend and blur past. By the time the driver turns into your apartment’s street, he feels slightly more spent, like his energy has been wrung out and left to dry somewhere between the courts and the cab.
The apartment lights are low when he unlocks the door. He toes off his shoes quietly, half expecting the place to be empty, but the sound of typing pulls his attention toward the living room.
You’re on the couch, curled up with your laptop, a half-empty mug sitting on the table beside you. You look up when the door clicks shut.
“Hey,” you say softly, as if matching the quiet of the hour. “How was training?”
He nods once in greeting, waving his arm as if to say, the same as always, and drops his kit near the entryway before sinking into the far end of the couch. The cushions dip under his weight, and for a moment, he just sits there, elbows on his knees, eyes tracing the muted glow of the lamp beside you.
He’s too tired to speak, too wired to sleep. The court still feels like it’s beneath his feet—footwork drills repeating somewhere in the back of his mind. But this, the low hum of your keyboard clacking, the sound of your breathing is the kind of stillness he can settle into. Seungkwan distantly thinks that it’s nice to come home to someone, rather than the cold, perfect emptiness of his apartment.
You glance at him after a few minutes, fingers pausing over the keyboard. He hasn’t moved, except to lean back and let his head rest against the couch cushion. His hair’s still damp with sweat, his shirt clinging in places where it hasn’t dried, but his expression is calmer now.
“Don’t fall asleep there,” you say lightly, stretching your leg out to nudge him. “You stink.”
That gets a faint huff out of him. “Wow. You stink, you mean woman.”
“You’re the one who smells like a locker room,” you shoot back, wrinkling your nose.
He turns his head toward you, eyes barely open. “You’ve known me for how long now? Shouldn’t you be immune to it?”
You snort. “I’m not, and I don’t plan on building immunity either.”
He groans, tipping forward and pushing himself up with obvious reluctance. “You’re cruel.”
“Go shower before I call your mum and tell her you’re living like a teenage boy again.”
He nods like he’ll go, but doesn’t. The lamplights soften everything in the room into golden warmth—even the edges of his exhaustion—and you don’t have it in your heart to push him again, so you let him be.
“The cat came around, by the way.” He informs you after a few seconds, sighing slowly. “I fed her.”
You huff out a small laugh. “Great.”
“Mm. Also did your laundry.”
That makes you blink. “What?”
He gestures lazily toward the hallway. “The machine was free. I was home anyway. Figured you wouldn’t get to it till the weekend.”
You stare at him for a second, caught somewhere between guilt and gratitude. “You didn’t have to—”
He shrugs, eyes still closed. “I know.”
You glance at him again—hair still damp, lashes dark against his cheek, exhaustion written into every slow breath. You don’t say thank you because it feels a bit unnecessary between you two. But you do reach for the remote, lowering the brightness of the lamp until the room dips into a gentler kind of light.
Seungkwan breathes in deeply, shutting his eyes tighter and the living room disappears.
He’s fifteen again, sitting on the floor of his unlit childhood bedroom, his ankle wrapped and throbbing under a pack of melting ice. The air is heavy with that sharp, chemical smell of ointment and sweat, the windows fogged from the late summer rain outside. His racket lies somewhere near the door—he’d thrown it when he came in, not hard enough to break, but careless enough to scratch the painting on its frame.
The match had gone wrong somewhere halfway through. The sharp twist, the sound, the rush of pain he’d tried to pretend wasn’t real. By the time he’d realized he couldn’t keep playing, it was already too late. But worse than the pain was the humiliation: the way he’d tried to keep going until his coach had to call him off the court, the way the crowd had clapped politely as he limped off.
He’d yelled when he got home. Not at anyone in particular, just at the walls, the air, himself. About how stupid it was, how unfair, how he’d worked too hard for it to end like this. His voice had gone raw before he ran out of words, before the only thing left was the sound of his heavy breathing and the faint drip of water from the ice pack.
People had come in and out of the room. His mom with painkillers, his coach with a quiet “rest up,” someone from the team who didn’t really know what to say. But eventually, they’d all left, murmuring things like get some sleep or you’ll bounce back.
Except you.
You’d hovered by the doorway for a while, holding the racket he’d thrown earlier, unsure if he even wanted you there. He’d barked something at you then—something bitter and sharp that he didn’t really mean—but you didn’t move. You just walked in, placed the racket neatly into his bag, threw away the used towels and sweat bands into the laundry basket, and sat down on the floor beside him.
He didn’t talk after that. Didn’t look at you either. Just sat there, jaw tight, shoulders shaking slightly every time he shifted and pain flared up his leg. You didn’t tell him to shower, though he knew he smelled like sweat and failure, and you didn’t tell him it would be fine, even though that’s what everyone else had said. You just stayed, knees drawn up, quiet in the dark.
At some point, the rain got heavier, and the room filled with the sound of it against the roof. He remembers that clearly—the way it drowned out everything else. He’d kept the ice pressed to his ankle until it stopped being cold, until his anger had nothing left to burn through, until his body gave up before his thoughts did.
When he’d finally slumped sideways, head brushing against your shoulder, you hadn’t pushed him away. You’d only shifted slightly to make room, pulling your jacket from your lap and draping it over his chest. He’d fallen asleep like that, the ache in his leg fading into the steady rhythm of rain and the warmth of you sitting next to him.
It hadn’t fixed anything, not the loss or the pain or the fear that maybe he’d never be good enough, but you’d made it bearable.
When Seungkwan mentioned asking the group chat if they wanted to meet up for dinner, you’d fully expected most of them to decline, citing busy work schedules or just being lazy (read: Lee Chan) But somehow, miraculously, everyone agreed. Which is how you find yourself now at a crowded barbecue place, the table already covered in side dishes and empty bottles, Jiwon halfway through a story no one remembers the beginning of.
Across from you, Seungkwan’s grinning like he hasn’t had a proper social interaction in months. Which, to be fair, might actually be true—between his matches, training, travel, and whatever this temporary living arrangement with you counts as, it’s the first time he’s been still long enough for people to notice he’s back.
You poke at the last few pieces of pork belly, deciding they’re cooked enough to eat.
“I’m just saying,” she insists, “if they’re going to call it a recreational office trip, they should at least let people relax. Not make us do, like, trust falls and a scavenger hunt in the rain.”
Vernon looks up. “Scavenger hunt?”
“Yeah. With teams. Mine was stuck with the intern who thinks he’s a motivational speaker.”
Chan snorts. “That’s brutal.”
“Oh, it gets worse. The prize was a box of protein bars. And they made us share it with the other team because of ‘team spirit.’”
Seungkwan winces. “I’d rather quit.”
“Same,” you say, reaching for your drink. “Rain, interns, and protein bars. That’s basically hell.”
Jiwon points her chopsticks at you like she’s awarding points. “Exactly. You get it. Meanwhile, my boss was like, ‘Didn’t this help you bond with your coworkers?’ No, ma’am. It helped me hate them more efficiently.”
That gets a round of laughter, loud enough that the table next to yours turns to look.
“Anyway,” Jiwon says, pointing her chopsticks vaguely at the group, “if we ever do a trip like that, I’m in charge of the itinerary.”
“That’s the fastest way to make sure no one shows up,” Vernon mutters.
“I’d go,” Seungkwan offers with a flourish of his arms, making her clasp her palms in gratitude.
You raise an eyebrow. “You’d go? You don’t even leave your apartment unless it’s for training or food.”
“That’s slander,” he says, gesturing with his glass. “Sometimes I go to physio.”
“Speaking of,” Chan perks up, leaning forward as he pokes at the grill, “what’s up with your apartment? The pipe thing get fixed yet?”
You sigh internally. You already know what’s coming.
Seungkwan sets his chopsticks down with the weight of a man wronged. “No, and I’m starting to think the building manager just blocked my number.”
“The ceiling looks like it’s been through war. I told the landlord to fix it on Monday, and he said—get this—‘we’ll send someone tomorrow.’ It’s Friday, Chan. Friday.” He continues.
Jiwon winces. “That’s rough.”
“Oh, it gets better. The plumber showed up once, poked at the wall like he was checking if it was alive, and then said he needed to ‘source parts.’ I literally haven’t seen him since.”
You’re already fighting a smile. “He’s been like this all week,” you tell the table. “Every day, new rant. Same story.”
“It’s justified ranting,” Seungkwan argues, turning his whole body towards you. “You’re living in a nice, perfectly fine apartment. You’ll understand only when your space goes through what mine has.”
“Hey, be careful what you wish for.” You frown, narrowing your eyes at him. “You’re living there…”
“Oh yeah!” Vernon exclaims, “how is that situation going?”
You glance at Seungkwan at the same time he glances at you. There’s a pause—half a second of quiet where everyone’s watching—then you both shrug, perfectly in sync.
You shake your head, pouring yourself another drink. “Nope. He’s surprisingly alright.”
“That’s glowing praise,” Jiwon points out.
“I’ll take it,” Seungkwan says, reaching for the bottle in your hand. “Coming from her, that’s basically a love letter.”
You scoff, flustered. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
“See?” He turns to the others, grinning. “She says stuff like that, but yesterday she was the one that threw a blanket on me when I fell asleep on the couch.”
“That’s called being polite,” you argue, but your voice gets lost under the hooting. You huff and amount it to them already being tipsy.
“Sure,” Vernon drawls. “Polite. That’s what they’re calling domestic these days.”
“Alright,” Chan says, holding up his glass like a referee, “enough. New rule: no couple talk unless you’re actually dating.”
“We’re not—” you start, but Seungkwan cuts in at the same time with a playful, “Cheers to that.”
Your glare only makes him grin wider.
And somehow the conversation drifts on from there. Someone brings up bad movies, someone else insists on ordering another round, and soon the air feels thick with smoke and laughter. The food’s almost gone, the drinks aren’t, and Seungkwan’s shoulders are shaking with laughter at something Vernon said that wasn’t even funny.
It’s easy, too easy. The kind of night where everything’s loud enough that you forget why you were tired in the first place.
By the time the bill comes around, the table’s a graveyard of soju bottles. Someone’s started playing music off their phone, Vernon’s drumming along with his chopsticks, and Jiwon’s leaning her head on Chan’s shoulder, mumbling something about “one more round.”
You’ve both long passed the point of pacing yourselves. Seungkwan’s cheeks are pink, his grin permanent, and you’re pretty sure the world’s been gently tilting for the last fifteen minutes.
“Alright, that’s it,” Chan announces, standing up and nearly tripping over the bench. “You two are done.”
“What do you mean done?” you protest, pointing an unsteady finger at him. “We’re thriving.”
“You’re slurring,” Vernon says helpfully, though he’s swaying a little too. “C’mon, let’s get you home before Seungkwan decides to start karaoke.”
“I am karaoke,” Seungkwan says solemnly, gripping your shoulder for balance.
And that’s how the four of you end up outside the restaurant, the air colder than you remember, your hair smelling faintly of smoke and grilled meat. Vernon’s waving down a cab while Chan tries, and fails to get Seungkwan to stand up straight.
But Seungkwan has other plans.
He’s got an arm thrown over your shoulders, leaning on you like you’re the last stable thing on Earth. “Did you know,” he starts, voice way too loud for midnight, “that I’ve known her since we were four?”
Jiwon groans. “Oh, no. Not this again.”
“I’m telling the story!” he insists, wobbling slightly as he points at the others like he’s on stage. “Our moms introduced us on a beach in Jeju. The sun was shining, the ocean was—what’s the word—glittering, and she…” He pauses dramatically, looking at you with way too much affection for someone holding and pulling you down for balance. “She dumped an entire bucket of sand on my head.”
Chan starts giggling immediately, also half gone. “You what?”
“She made me cry,” Seungkwan continues proudly, as if it’s a badge of honor. “Snot, tears, the whole deal. And now look at us.” He gestures vaguely at the two of you, almost toppling over in the process. “Full circle! Sand to roommate. Destiny, man.”
Vernon finally gets the cab door open, shaking his head. “You’re so dramatic.”
“I’m grateful,” Seungkwan corrects him, clinging tighter to you as you both stumble toward the car. “If she hadn’t done that, I wouldn’t have learned resilience. Character development.”
“Yeah, yeah,” you mutter, trying not to trip on the curb. “You’re welcome for your emotional growth.”
He gasps, clutching his chest. “See? She cares.”
“Into the car,” Vernon orders, shoving the both of you in before Seungkwan can wax poetic again.
The door shuts behind you, the cab pulling away as Jiwon and Chan’s laughter fades into the distance. You slump against the window, the city lights streaking by in blurs of yellow, and Seungkwan’s head drops onto your shoulder with a soft thunk.
He exhales, content. “You know,” he mumbles, eyes half-closed, “you still kinda have sand energy.”
You squint at him. “What does that even mean?”
“Messy,” he says sleepily. “Everywhere. But I like it.”
You stare at him, gaping before he knocks out on your shoulder.
By the time you reach the apartment, your head’s spinning just enough that unlocking the door feels like defusing a bomb. The hallway light spills in weakly when you finally manage to open the lock, the faint hum of the refrigerator greeting you like an old friend.
The two of you half-stumble, half-laugh your way inside, shoes still on. You bend to tug at the strap of your heels, nearly losing balance as the world tilts.
“Whoa, whoa,” Seungkwan mumbles, steadying you by the elbow. “We made it home, don’t die now.”
“I’m fine,” you say, though your tone suggests otherwise. “Just need to—ugh—get these off.”
He squints at your shoes like they’ve personally offended him. “Why do you wear these? These are instruments of suffering.”
“They look nice,” you protest weakly, slumping against the wall near the shoe bench by the entryway. The small step there suddenly feels like a mountain.
“Yeah, for like five minutes,” he mutters, already crouching down. “Sit.”
“What?”
“Sit down,” he repeats, voice firm in that tipsy, half-scolding way he gets when he’s convinced he’s saving your life. “You’re gonna fall and crack your skull, and then I’ll have to tell your mom I let you die because you wanted to look cute for dinner.”
You scoff, but obey, sinking onto the low seat by the door. The overhead light reflects off his hair as he kneels, muttering something about ‘unreasonable fashion choices’ while trying to undo the buckle.
The motion is clumsy, his fingers fumbling a little, but he’s always gentle. He finally gets the strap loose, easing the heel off your foot.
“See? Freedom,” he says, tossing it lightly aside before going for the other one. “You should give up on these. Go barefoot forever.”
“Idiot.” You push his shoulder making him scowl at you.
He wobbles a little when he straightens, mumbling under his breath, “Ungrateful. I’m literally saving your feet.”
You bite back a laugh, pushing yourself up from the bench. “You’re drunk,” you tell him, voice softer than you mean for it to be.
“So are you,” he says, pointing at you accusingly, except his hand misses and lands somewhere near your chin. “But you’re welcome.”
You roll your eyes and move past him toward the living room, but he lingers by the doorway, rubbing his neck and glancing back at the pair of heels now neatly lined up beside the cabinet. “They do look pretty though,” he mutters, almost to himself.
Seungkwan is four when he meets you for the first time. So naturally, he doesn’t remember much about that summer—just the feeling of the glaring sunlight bouncing off his skin, his hands sticky from the traffic light-coloured popsicles, and the smell of seaweed drying in the air. But he remembers you.
His mom had dragged him to the beach for a “playdate” with some family friends she hadn’t seen in years. He’d been promised ice cream, which was the only reason he’d agreed. You’d been introduced about five minutes in—someone’s daughter, in a sunhat too big for your head, holding a plastic shovel like you meant business.
“Say hello,” his mom had urged.
“Hello,” he’d echoed dutifully.
You’d looked up at him, blinked once, and then, instead of saying hello back, you squatted down beside your sand bucket and said, “Don’t come over here. I’m making soup.”
That threw him off. “Soup?”
“Yeah.” You jabbed your shovel into the sand like you were stirring something. “For the mermaids.”
He frowned. “Mermaids don’t eat soup.”
“They do if I say so.”
It was said with such confidence that he couldn’t even argue, so he just stood there for a second, watching you mix sand, seawater, and what looked like crushed seashells with a seriousness that could rival his mother’s when he broke her favourite bowl last week.
He decided you were weird. Not in the fun way, either—the kind of weird that adults thought was “creative” but kids knew just meant trouble.
So, he did what any sensible four-year-old would do: ignored you and went back to his side of the beach. His mom had packed him a bright blue bucket and a matching shovel, and he was going to build the biggest sandcastle in Jeju.
For a while, it was peaceful. He had his moat, his towers, his little seashells lined up like soldiers. The sun was warm on his back, and his mom kept calling, “Good job, Kwan-ah!” from her mat. Life was fine.
Until he heard you humming.
He glanced up just in time to see you crawling closer, dragging your bucket behind you like a pet. You stopped right in front of his castle and peered down at it with the authority of someone twice your size.
“What is this?” you asked.
“A castle,” he said proudly.
“It’s ugly,” you said immediately.
His mouth fell open. “It’s not!”
“Is too.”
He puffed out his cheeks. “You don’t even know castles!”
“I know mermaids,” you shot back. “They said it’s ugly.”
“They did not!”
“Uh-huh,” you said, scooping up a handful of wet sand. “They said, ‘eww, it’s not shiny.’”
He scrambled to protect the tallest tower, throwing his arms around it. “Don’t touch it!”
You tilted your head. “It needs soup.”
“No!”
“Yes.”
And before he could move, you dumped the handful right over his head.
For a second, there was silence. Just the sound of the waves dragging over sand and the faint caw of a gull somewhere overhead. Then Seungkwan froze, feeling the cold weight of wet sand sliding down the back of his neck, sticking to his hair and collar.
He didn’t move. Not yet. He just blinked up at you, dazed, his lower lip already trembling. A single grain of sand fell from his eyelashes, and he looked like he might cry—but mostly, he just looked betrayed.
You, on the other hand, looked very proud of yourself. Your plastic shovel was still raised like a weapon, your cheeks puffed from the effort, and there was a defiant glint in your eyes that said you knew exactly what you’d done.
When he finally sputtered back to life, it wasn’t words that came out first but instead a squeal, high-pitched and indignant, somewhere between horror and outrage. He swiped at his hair with both hands, flinging more sand everywhere, which only made it worse.
“Mom!” he wailed finally, voice cracking under the weight of sheer injustice. “She—she threw sand at me!”
That was all it took. Two heads immediately turned from their picnic mats. His mom dropped the tangerine she’d been peeling, yours shaded her eyes from the sun, and within seconds, they were both making their way across the sand like seasoned referees to a fight they’d already expected to break out.
By the time they got there, Seungkwan was still mid-crisis—sitting in a small crater of wet sand, tears threatening but not quite falling, and hair clumped. You stood beside him, shovel in hand, expression caught somewhere between guilt and stubborn pride.
“Sweetheart,” your mom sighed, crouching down beside you. “What happened here?”
“She was being mean!” Seungkwan cut in before you could answer, pointing at you like a witness on the stand. “And she said my castle was ugly, and then she threw sand on my head!”
“He started it!” you snapped, the words tumbling out so fast your hat nearly slipped off. “He said they don’t eat soup!”
The moms exchanged an amused, yet exasperated look before his crouched down to wipe his face with the corner of a towel.
“Seungkwan-ah, you’re fine. It’s just a little sand,” she said, brushing at his hair.
“But it’s in my ears!” he cried, scrunching his shoulders up to his cheeks like that might help shake it out. “And it’s cold!”
His mom sighed, the way only mothers could, lifting his chin to inspect him for any actual injury. “You’ll survive. You’re tougher than this, aren’t you?”
He didn’t answer, just sniffled pitifully while keeping one wary eye on you, like you might launch another sand attack any second.
Meanwhile, your mom had gently tugged you closer by the wrist. “We don’t throw things at people, sweetheart,” she said softly, though you could tell she was trying not to laugh. “Say sorry.”
You frowned down at the sand, digging the toe of your sandal into it. “But he said mermaids don’t eat soup.”
“That’s not a reason to dump sand on someone’s head.”
“Yes, it is,” you mumbled under your breath, earning a gentle look.
After a few long seconds of silence, you sighed dramatically, then muttered, “Sorry.”
It came out so small and insincere that Seungkwan nearly missed it, but his mom elbowed him lightly. “And what do we say?”
He sniffled again, his voice thick. “It’s okay.”
It wasn’t, not really, but saying so felt like winning somehow.
Both moms stood, satisfied enough to leave you to your own devices again. For a long moment, neither of you moved. You stood there, shovel clutched at your side, and he sat in the sand like a small, soggy statue.
Then, quietly, you crouched beside him again. “You can have the mermaid soup if you want,” you offered, nudging your bucket toward him.
He peered into it—muddy water, shells, bits of seaweed—and made a face. “That’s gross.”
“Fine,” you huffed, reaching for your shovel. “I was gonna let you have some, but whatever.”
He hesitated, then mumbled, “You can help with my castle.”
You looked up. “Even though it’s ugly?”
His lips wobbled. “Only a little.”
Seungkwan wakes up from his nap, twenty-three years later, with the sight of your blotchy cheeks behind his eyelids and the sound of your vacuuming in his ears.
He blinks against the light seeping through the curtains, the room coming back into focus in slow, blurry pieces—the couch he’s half-slumped on, the throw blanket tangled around his legs, and the low hum of the vacuum trailing from the next room. For a moment, he’s too dazed to move. His neck aches faintly from sleeping funny, his mouth feels dry, and there’s a ghost of a dream still clinging to him—sand in his hair, salty tears on his lips, and the sound of someone laughing.
When he turns his head, he sees you.
You’re barefoot, hair tied up in that messy way that means you’ve been cleaning for a while, sleeves rolled to your elbows. The vacuum cord snakes around the coffee table as you push it back and forth across the rug, pausing occasionally to pick up a stray sock or empty glass from the floor. It’s an ordinary sight, painfully so, but it takes him off guard in a way he doesn’t expect.
You’re not that kid on the beach anymore, small and defiant, clutching a plastic shovel like it was a sword. And he’s not the boy crying over sand in his hair. Somewhere between all the years that followed—between scraped knees, assignments, shuttlecocks and the long silences that came with growing up—you both turned into this.
He isn’t sure when it happened. When the air between you stopped feeling like a habit and started feeling like gravity.
You tug the vacuum cord toward the corner, humming under your breath to whatever song’s leaking from your headphones. The hem of your shirt rides up just slightly as you reach for something on the floor, and his chest pulls tight with a feeling that’s as unfamiliar as it is inevitable.
It’s ridiculous, he thinks. He’s known you his whole life. He’s seen you in every kind of light—sunburnt on summer courts, furious under rain, quiet in the back seat on drives home after losses. He’s heard you laugh until you couldn’t breathe and cry over things you swore you’d forgotten the next day. You’ve seen him at his worst, raw and unfiltered, and at his best, when everything seemed to work out just the way he planned. You’ve been there through it all. And yet here he is—watching you clean a living room you technically share—and it’s the most devastating thing he’s ever seen.
Maybe it’s because he can see traces of who you used to be in every small thing you do. The same concentration, the same impatience, the same quiet stubbornness in the curve of your mouth. Only now, it comes with a kind of ease you never had before. You’ve grown into yourself, and he’s sitting here, realizing he doesn’t quite know how to look at you without remembering every version that came before.
The vacuum clicks off, breaking the silence. You look up and notice him watching.
“Oh, you’re up,” you say, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. Your voice is a little too casual, like you don’t want him to know he’s been staring. “You hungry or something?”
He shakes his head, still slow from sleep. “No. Just… watching.”
You blink. “Creepy.”
He huffs out a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Didn’t mean it like that.”
“Then what did you mean?”
He opens his mouth, but the words get stuck somewhere on the way out. Instead, he just shrugs, helpless. “You’re really serious about cleaning.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Someone has to be.”
He smiles faintly and starts to sit up straighter, the remnants of sleep falling off him. “What time is it?”
“Almost five-thirty.”
“Shit.” He runs a hand through his hair, realizing how much he’s overslept. “Coach texted. There’s a Yonex thing tonight.”
“Yonex thing?”
“Yeah, some sponsor event. Dinner-slash-press thing for the new racket line.” He grimaces. “I have to go, apparently. Show face, answer questions, smile for the cameras. It’s all really thrilling stuff.”
You bite back a smile. “Sounds glamorous.”
“Oh yeah. My dream night.” He pushes himself off the couch with a groan and looks down at his clothes—creased t-shirt, joggers, the picture of unpreparedness. “I don’t even know what to wear.”
“I should probably wear something decent. I just… don’t know what fits the ‘professional athlete but approachable brand representative’ vibe.”
You snort. “That’s oddly specific.”
“I’ve been to too many of these things.” He gestures vaguely toward the hallway. “I packed options, but they all look too… formal? Or not enough? I don’t know. I hate this stuff.”
You roll your eyes and get up, brushing off your hands. “Alright, come on then.”
“What?”
“You clearly need adult supervision.” You motion for him to follow. “Let’s make sure you don’t show up looking like you wandered in from the gym.”
He groans but follows you down the hall anyway, dragging his feet like a sulky teenager.
“Hey! Dressing up is fun,” you grumble, pushing his door open. “Come on. Let’s see what we’re working with.”
He crouches by his half-open suitcase, rummaging through it like he’s defusing a bomb. “Okay, option one—this white button-up. Classic, boring, and it doesn’t offend anyone.”
“Safe,” you agree, taking it from him. “Boring’s fine if you accessorize. Got a blazer?”
He fishes one out from the bottom of the suitcase, wrinkled beyond saving.
You hold it up, unimpressed. “This looks like it’s been to war.”
“I folded it!” he protests.
“You crumpled it.” You toss it on the bed. “Next.”
He exhales loudly but obeys, pulling out a navy polo. “This one’s supposed to be Yonex's official merch. They said it was ‘refined leisurewear.’”
You stare at it. “That’s just a shirt with a logo.”
He grins. “So, no?”
“Not unless you’re planning to hand out flyers,” you deadpan. “Try the white shirt first.”
He shrugs and changes without hesitation, turning his back to you as he pulls off his T-shirt. It shouldn’t faze you—he’s done this in locker rooms, hotel rooms, random hallways before—but here, in your guest room, it feels different. You glance away, pretending to check the sleeves of another shirt, but your pulse betrays you.
When he turns back, tucking the hem in loosely, he looks... infuriatingly good. The collar’s a little rumpled, sleeves rolled just once, veins standing out faintly under his wrist. He looks a little silly from the waist down, still in his joggers. But it’s manageable.
You cross your arms, trying for neutral. “Not bad.”
“Just not bad?” he says, mock-offended.
“It’s giving ‘wedding guest who didn’t RSVP,’” you counter.
He laughs, running a hand through his hair. “Fine, next.”
The next one is pale blue. Then grey. Then some horrifying patterned thing that you veto so fast he doesn’t even bother arguing. Each time, he looks good—too good—and it’s starting to feel like a personal attack.
You’re trying to stay practical, telling him what looks too formal, too casual, too “retired man at a golf club.” But somewhere between shirt three and four, you realize your throat’s gone dry.
“You’re quiet,” he says, catching your expression in the mirror.
“Just thinking.”
“About what?”
“How much better you’d look if you learned how to iron.”
He grins, but you can tell he’s preening a little under your attention. He changes again, shirt half-undone, sleeves dragging as he pulls the next one on. You’re helping without thinking now, straightening his collar, brushing a wrinkle from his shoulder, fixing a button he missed. It’s all innocent, except it doesn’t feel that way anymore.
“Okay,” you say, a little too quickly, stepping back. “Try the black one.”
He pauses mid-motion. “The black one?”
You nod, reaching for it yourself. “Yeah. It's dinner, right? That’ll look best under low light.”
He takes it, and when he slips it on, you forget how to breathe for half a second. It fits perfectly. Smooth, sharp, dark against his skin in a way that makes your stomach twist. He buttons it up slowly, and with each button, the room gets smaller.
He looks up at you, unsure. “Too much?”
You swallow.
“No,” you say after a beat. “That’s… that’s good.”
“Good?” he repeats, teasing now. “That’s it?”
You blink, realizing how long you’ve been staring. “You look fine, Seungkwan.”
“Fine,” he echoes, incredulous. “I look fine?”
You drag a hand down your face. “You look—” The words slip out before you can stop them. “You look really good, okay? Now stop fishing for compliments.”
Seungkwan freezes, a slow smile creeping up like he’s hearing something he’s not supposed to. “Really good, huh?”
“Don’t push it.”
“I’m not! I’m just confirming,” he says, grin widening. “For my confidence.”
You roll your eyes so hard it hurts, turning toward the door. “Shut up, idiot.”
By the time he comes out of the shower, you’ve already laid out the steamed shirt on his bed. He’s rubbing a towel through his hair, phone tucked between his shoulder and ear, muttering something that sounds halfway between polite and panicked.
“Yeah, I’ll be there by seven,” he says, pacing, dripping water on the floor. “No, I didn’t forget—yes, I’ll wear something presentable. I have clothes, hyung, relax.”
You glance up just as he ends the call and drops the phone onto the bed with a sigh. He reaches for your wrist, tugging you gently off the bed. “Out, before I scar you for life.”
“Please,” you say, laughing, but you let him herd you toward the door anyway. “You’re going to be late, by the way.”
He grumbles to himself, already shutting the door.
You’re halfway down the hall when you stop. It’s not a conscious decision, but you just remember, all at once, that there’s no way he owns a hair dryer. And his hair was dripping wet. He won’t be able to dry it before he leaves.
You sigh, doubling back to your room. A minute later, you’re knocking on his door again, dryer in hand.
“What now?” he calls out, muffled.
“You don’t have one of these, do you?”
There’s a pause before the lock clicks open. “...A what?”
You roll your eyes and push the door open. He’s standing by the mirror when you walk in, shirt tucked and buttoned up, but his sleeves are still unfurled. His hair’s a damp mess, dark strands dripping down the side of his face, collar clinging slightly to his neck. He looks up at you like you’ve just caught him mid-crime.
“You’re unbelievable,” you mutter, shutting the door behind you. “You were really about to go out like that?”
Seungkwan blinks, glancing down at himself. “What, like this?”
“Yes, like that.” You hold up the dryer. “Your hair’s soaked. You’ll look like you showered in the parking lot.”
“I’ll towel it off more,” he says, reaching for the towel on the bed, but you’ve already crossed the room, plugging in the dryer near the dresser.
“Move,” you say, nudging him back a step. “I’ll do it.”
He looks mildly startled. “You don’t have to.”
“Seungkwan.” You flick the switch on, the warm hum filling the room before he can finish. “Put your cufflinks on.”
He hesitates, but only for a second. Then, with a quiet sigh, he slips his watch onto his wrist, eyes flicking between your reflection and his in the mirror.
Seungkwan is taller than you expect up close. You have to tilt your chin slightly to reach, his breath brushing the top of your forehead whenever he exhales.
He stands obediently at first, eyes fixed on his reflection in the mirror. But the longer it goes on, the quieter it gets. You can smell the faint trace of his shampoo under the heat, clean and soft, and the cologne he’d probably dabbed on without thinking.
You try to focus on the motion—part his hair, dry but not long enough to burn him—but it’s getting harder by the second. Your fingers graze the back of his neck as you guide the dryer, and his shoulders shift almost imperceptibly under your touch. The sound hums between you like static.
You shouldn’t notice this much—how warm his skin feels, how the chain at his collarbone catches the light when he moves, how the space feels smaller than it should. You shouldn’t, but you do.
You angle the dryer away, pretending to check the mirror. “You shouldn’t gel your hair. It looks better this way,” you mumble, mostly to fill the silence.
He hums, low and distracted, eyes flicking toward you in the glass. You don’t realize you’ve stopped moving until his voice breaks through, soft and quiet:
“You’re good at this.”
You blink, startled. “What?”
He turns his head slightly, a small smile tugging at his lips. “You do this for everyone?”
Your hand stills, fingers tangled in his hair. The question lands heavier than it should.
You scoff, trying to recover. “Yeah, my endless line of pro-athlete roommates.”
He laughs under his breath, the sound low enough that you feel it more than hear it.
When you step back, turning the dryer off, you notice the uneven folding of his collar and straighten it instinctively, fingers brushing the side of his neck. His pulse jumps under your fingertips, and yours matches it instantly.
For a split second, neither of you move. The only sound is the faint whir winding down from the dryer, the soft drag of his breath, the scent of his cologne caught in the air between you.
Then, like something snaps, you both pull away.
“Right,” you say too quickly, setting the dryer down on the dresser like it burned you. “That’s done.”
“Yeah,” he echoes, voice rougher than before. “Thanks.”
He reaches for the nearest thing within arm’s reach—his watch, maybe, or the cufflinks—and busies himself with it, fumbling slightly before pretending he meant to do that. You take the cue, retreating toward the doorway under the pretense of giving him space, even though your heart’s still beating unevenly.
“I’ll just… uh, get out of your way,” you mumble, backing up.
“Yeah, sure,” he says, not looking up. “Almost done anyway.”
You nod, but neither of you moves for another beat. Finally, you turn first, crossing the hall and collapsing onto the couch, half-expecting the room to steady once you’re away from him. It doesn’t.
From down the hall, you hear drawers opening, the quiet shuffle of clothes, the soft thud of something falling and him muttering under his breath. Normal sounds. Familiar ones. It shouldn’t feel like your pulse is trying to escape your skin.
When he reappears, he’s fully put together: shirt tucked, hair dry, sleeves rolled just enough to look effortless. He’s fiddling with his socks like they’re the only thing in the world requiring his full attention.
Seungkwan slips his shoes on and grabs his keys.
You watch him from the couch, trying to look casual, one leg bent under you. He lingers by the doorway longer than necessary, checking his phone, then the mirror, then his phone again.
When he finally looks your way, you tilt your head. “What?”
He hesitates, thumb still brushing against his phone screen. You’re sitting there in the low light of the living room, still barefoot from earlier, hair loose, a faint crease on your cheek from where you’d rested your hand.
For a moment, he wants to say it. That you’ve grown. That you’re beautiful. That sometimes, when he looks at you like this, he doesn’t know what to do with himself or where to put his hands.
But he swallows it down and slips into something easier instead. “Don’t wait up. I have a chauffeur.”
You smile faintly, tucking your legs under his blanket that he’s left on the couch. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
He gives a small nod, opens the door, and then he’s gone.
You scramble up from your seat and run into your room, hoping that the scent of him won’t follow you in there too.
The elevator takes forever. Seungkwan catches his reflection in the metal doors—hair slightly uneven where you’d missed a strand, collar straight where you fixed it.
For a stupid second, he thinks about turning back. Just to say thank you, or something equally useless. But then the doors open, and he steps in, shaking his head. What?
It’s strange how quickly the apartment stops feeling like both of you are living there.
It isn’t empty, not exactly. Seungkwan’s things are still everywhere. Shoes he forgets to line up properly or put into the cupboard, the towels he forgets to put in the dryer, used mugs that he’ll bring to the kitchen only a day after. Tiny notes that he leaves, about missing groceries, or the electricity bill. There’s proof of him in every corner, but it’s like living in an echo now.
You don’t realize how much he filled the space until he stops being around to fill it.
It happens gradually.
The first few days, you barely notice—he’s out early, back late, muttering something about conditioning blocks and trial matches when you ask how training’s going. You joke about how you’ll start charging rent by the hour he’s home, and he laughs, tired but fond, promising to make it up to you with takeout. But then takeout turns into a rain check, rain checks turn into “don’t wait up,” and suddenly it’s been four days since you’ve even had a meal together.
Seungkwan is usually gone before you’re up, with an apologetic :,) scribbled onto the notepad on your fridge, and is almost always home by the time you’re winding down for bed. You still see him, technically. You catch glimpses—his bed hair when he opens your door by a crack at dawn before leaving. Sometimes, when you wake up in the middle of the night, you’ll hear the quiet shuffle of him moving through the kitchen, his voice low on the phone, maybe to his coach, maybe to no one. But by the time you blink yourself awake, he’s gone again.
You try not to mind.
He’s working. He’s chasing something he’s built his whole life around. You’ve always known what that means. Sacrifice, focus, long stretches of silence that aren’t about you but still find a way to hurt anyway.
You tell yourself this is just how it’s supposed to be. Besides, it’s not like he hasn’t been texting you, or trying to keep up with your life in his breaks.
The messages come at odd hours, timestamps scattered between practice blocks and recovery sessions:
—Eat something real today. —Coach added another round, kill me. —The cat came by. Missed you. It’s enough to keep you tethered. Just barely.
You fall into your own rhythm too. You go to work, you run errands, you come home to the same quiet apartment that still smells faintly like him—pain-relief spray and laundry detergent. Sometimes you’ll find his socks drying over the back of a chair, or his charger plugged into the outlet by your nightstand. You think about moving them, but you don’t.
Sometimes, you think it’s worse now than before he moved in. When you used to go weeks without seeing him, you didn’t have to miss the small things. But now, he’s close enough to touch, and still always just out of reach.
You catch yourself listening for him even when you know he isn’t there. The soft thud of the door, the drop of his bag by the couch, the sound of him humming out of habit. But the apartment stays still. You scroll through your phone, half-expecting another message, half-hoping he’ll walk through the door instead.
Nothing.
So when your phone finally buzzes, you almost drop it.
Boo
You home?
You
Yeah why?
Boo
Can you do me a favour pleaseee 😭🙏
You
depends… what is it
Boo
I left a folder on the table this morning. Need it at the centre
Baek’s going to kill me pls it’s for registrations
Youwhen do you need it
Boo
now-ish? pls 🥺
Usually, you’d groan, stare at your phone for another five minutes, and weigh the pros and cons of moving from the couch. But tonight, you don’t even think twice.
Your fingers are already typing back before your brain can catch up.
You
fine. you owe me.
Boo
i always do 😇
You roll your eyes, but the corners of your mouth pull up anyway. You toss your blanket aside and stand, trying to tell yourself that this isn’t a big deal, that it’s just a folder, just a favor, just Seungkwan.
Except you can already feel that faint, embarrassing flutter in your chest as you slip on your jacket.
The apartment feels even quieter once you’re moving through it. His door’s half-open, like it always is, and sure enough, the folder’s sitting right on the table, a bright blue rectangle against the mess of notes and spare grip tape. You grab it, your thumb brushing over the neat black label that reads Asia Championships–Entry Docs.
When you reach, the training center is quieter than you expected. Most of the younger players have already gone home, leaving behind only a few courts still lit and echoing with the sharp rhythm of rackets and shoes on wood. The fluorescent lights hum faintly overhead, bright against the evening that’s settled outside.
You spot Seungkwan almost immediately. He’s in the middle of an intense rally, shirt clinging to his back, movements precise and practiced. His coach stands near the net with a basket of shuttles, calling out corrections every few seconds. It’s a clean, relentless rhythm, one that leaves no room to breathe.
You wait by the entrance until Coach Baek notices you. He smiles, waving and walking over when he does. “Ah, you came. I was wondering if he’d remembered to text you.”
You hold up the folder. “He did. Sounded like a crisis.”
Baek shakes his head, half amused, half resigned. “He’s been in a state all day. You’re doing both of us a favor.”
That makes you laugh softly. “No worries.”
He chuckles, already turning back to the court. “You can leave it there, and stay to watch if you want.”
“I’ll wait,” you say. “I can drive him back.”
Baek nods, approving. “Good idea. He’s useless when he’s tired.”
When Seungkwan finally catches sight of you, he misses his next shot completely. The shuttle bounces off the floor, and his partner groans. Baek sighs. “Focus, Kwan-ah!”
Seungkwan mumbles something under his breath and jogs toward you. His face is flushed, hair damp, breath coming quick.
“You came all the way here?” he asks, still catching his breath. “Could’ve sent it by delivery or something. Sorry.”
“It’s alright,” you shrug, looking away. “I came home a little early and had nothing to do anyway.”
He wipes his forehead with the back of his wrist, still a little breathless, racket dangling loosely from one hand. “You could’ve at least let me know. I would’ve met you outside.”
You shake your head, smiling faintly. “I didn’t want to interrupt.”
He laughs quietly. “You already did.”
“Coach didn’t seem too mad about it,” you say, nodding toward Baek, who’s pretending not to eavesdrop as he talks to another player.
“Only because you brought what I forgot,” Seungkwan mutters, flipping the racket in his grip. “If you hadn’t, he’d have me running laps until sunrise.”
You throw a worried glance at him, but he only shakes his head, lips stretching into a small smile. “I’ll be done, maybe in half an hour. You’ll wait?”
You nod before you even think about it. “Yeah, of course.”
The answer comes too easily, too fast, and you try to play it off by glancing toward the court. “I can just sit here. Watch for a bit.”
Something in his expression softens, the exhaustion easing just slightly from his shoulders. “Alright,” he says quietly, and the word lands with more warmth than you expect. “I’ll be quick.”
You hum in acknowledgment, but he’s still looking at you, a faint crease between his brows like he wants to say something else. Then Baek calls his name, sharp and clipped, and the moment passes.
“Guess that’s my cue.” He grins at you, small but real, and jogs back to the court, turning once at the net to send you a quick half-wave before he resets into position.
You can’t help the smile that slips out, shaking your head as you sink onto one of the benches along the wall. The hum of the fluorescent lights fills the space, and you cross your arms, settling in to watch.
He’s already back in rhythm by the time you focus again. Every movement of his body is precise, each swing clean and deliberate. The coaches feed him shuttles at a brutal pace, barely giving him room to breathe, and yet he doesn’t break focus. You find yourself leaning forward unconsciously, eyes following the motion of his feet, the shift of his weight, the easy control of it all.
He’s always been like this—sharp edges, quiet intensity, that impossible drive to do better, even when there’s nothing left to prove. You remember the little boy on the court behind the stationery shop, promising you he’d be the best someday. You’d rolled your eyes then. Now, you’re watching him live it.
Half an hour stretches longer than you expect. You can feel the heat of the court even from where you’re sitting, can see the way his breath starts to hitch between shots, the sheen of sweat glinting at the edge of his jaw. When Baek finally signals the end of the drill, Seungkwan stays in place for a few seconds, shoulders rising and falling, hands braced on his knees.
He turns his head slightly, scanning the hall until his eyes find you. The tired grin that pulls at his mouth is instant, boyish, and warm enough that something in your chest gives way.
You lift a hand in a lazy little wave. “You done?” you call out.
“Yeah,” he says, still catching his breath. “Didn’t think you’d actually wait.”
“I said I would.”
He walks over slowly, dragging his towel across the back of his neck, the faintest flush still on his face. “Yeah, but I figured you’d get bored and leave.”
You roll your eyes, picking up your phone and shoving it into your pocket. “You underestimate my patience. I’ll wait in the car.”
By the time he slides into the passenger seat, he’s showered and changed, hair still damp and curling slightly at the ends. The faint smell of his soap lingers, clean, sharp,and a little citrusy. He exhales as he buckles in, the sound soft, tired, but strangely content.
You pull out of the parking lot, the low hum of the car filling the silence between you. For a while, it’s quiet—just the occasional turn signal and the faint buzz of traffic outside. Then, halfway through the next block, he shifts in his seat and says, “I’m skipping the Sudirman Cup.”
You glance at him, surprised. “Really? Why?”
He runs a thumb along the edge of his seatbelt, thinking. “Baek thinks it’s too close after the Asian Championships. He wants me to rest. I’d be going straight from Seoul to China and back again. He said I’d burn out before mid-season.”
“That sounds reasonable,” you say, keeping your eyes on the road. “You’ve been going nonstop since All England.”
He hums, quiet agreement. “Yeah, I guess.” Then, after a pause: “So I’ll be here a bit longer than I thought.”
You try to play it cool, but your heart gives itself away first—a small, sharp jolt that makes your throat go dry. “Oh?”
“Yeah,” he says, turning to look at you like he’s trying to read your face. “I checked with the apartment manager too. The renovation’s still not done. Apparently the plumbing’s delayed again. So I won’t be able to move back before I leave for the Championships.”
You nod slowly, fingers tightening around the steering wheel. “That’s… unfortunate.”
He snorts softly. “You sound really heartbroken for me.”
“Don’t start.”
Seungkwan laughs, easy and bright. The sound fills the car in a way that makes your chest feel a little too tight.
Then, softer: “I’ll move out once I’m back, though. After the Asian Championships. Should be done by then.”
You hum, pretending to focus on a red light. “Right. Makes sense.”
He nods, like he’s saying it to himself as much as to you. “Yeah. Back to my place, back to normal.”
Back to normal.
“That soon, huh?” you manage after a second.
He looks at you, smile fading just slightly. “You sound disappointed.”
You huff out a laugh. “You wish.”
He grins, but it’s lopsided and a little too soft, a little too sincere. “Maybe I do.”
You blink, thrown off enough to miss the green light for a second. “What?”
“Nothing,” he says quickly, turning to face the window, voice dipping. “Just saying, you’ll miss having someone around to nag, that’s all.”
You scoff. “Please. I’ll finally have peace.”
“Peace is boring,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. Then, like he can’t help it: “You’d miss me after a day.”
You turn to look at him then to see that he’s half-smiling, still watching the streetlights pass by through the glass, but his knee is bouncing, thumb fidgeting against the hem of his sleeve. He says it like it’s a joke, but the words sit somewhere heavier.
You swallow. “Confident, aren’t you?”
Seungkwan clears his throat awkwardly, before turning to you again. “Hey, can we grab dinner outside?”
You blink, caught off guard. “Now?”
He nods, shifting in his seat like he’s trying to make it sound casual. “Yeah. I haven’t had anything that didn’t come out of a Tupperware in a week.”
You raise an eyebrow. “What about your nutrition plan?”
He waves a hand dismissively, lips twitching. “Baek doesn’t need to know.”
You laugh under your breath. “You’re terrible.”
“Hungry,” he corrects, glancing at you again, grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “And kind of craving something that isn’t chicken breast and steamed broccoli.”
“You could just say you want company.”
He hums, pretending to consider it. “Maybe I do.”
You tap your fingers against the steering wheel. “Fine. But if your coach finds out you broke your meal plan, I’m not covering for you.”
Seungkwan’s grin spreads, triumphant and boyish. “Deal.”
He relaxes into the seat again, turning his head to look out the window, but you catch the faintest curve of a smile that doesn’t fade for the rest of the drive.
And you tell yourself you agreed because it’s just dinner. Nothing else. But when he glances at you again, with his eyes softer than you expected, you start to think you’re both lying a little.
You find a convenience store that’s still open, and park the car close by. The sign hums faintly in the quiet, half of the letters flickering like they’re tired too. You both step out, stretching a little, the night air soft against your skin.
Inside, it’s the usual mix of fluorescent brightness and low, tinny music. You make a beeline for the noodle aisle while Seungkwan trails behind, hands in his pockets, gaze flicking between you and the shelves like he’s not sure what he’s supposed to be looking at.
He hasn’t been this close to you in days. Not really. You’ve been passing each other like clock hands—just missing, always moving. Now, you’re crouched down on the floor comparing prices, lips pursed in concentration, and it hits him how stupidly familiar it feels. How good it feels.
He tilts his head. “You’re really analyzing cup noodles right now?”
“Don’t mock my process,” you say, still scanning the shelf. “You always say I pick the best ones.”
He hums, leaning against the opposite shelf. “That’s true. You do.”
You glance up. “You’re agreeing with me too easily.”
“I’m pacing myself. Saving energy for a real argument later.”
You roll your eyes, toss a pair of ramen cups into the basket, and brush past him to grab drinks. He should step aside, but he doesn’t. Not right away, at least. The corner of your sleeve catches his for a second. It’s barely a touch, accidental, but it leaves a warmth that spreads slowly and stubbornly under his skin.
By the time you reach the counter, Seungkwan’s smiling to himself. He can’t remember when it started feeling like this—like every small thing you do has its own gravity. Like even the silence between you hums with the feelings he’s trying too hard to not name.
You pay, exchange a few words with the cashier, and then the two of you are outside again, walking toward the steps by the river. The city hums quietly around you in the form of distant traffic, laughter, the occasional bark of a dog. You sit first, balancing the ramen between you, steam rising into the cool air.
He sits closer than he needs to. You don’t say anything about it.
The conversation drifts from there, easy and looping. You tell him about your week, your building’s broken elevator, how your coworker mistook chili paste for jam. He listens, mostly, but you don’t notice how quiet he’s gotten.
Because he’s realizing it all at once, with terrifying clarity.
That he’s missed you every day this week, even when you were home.
That your voice makes the world sound a little less heavy.
That he wants you, in the quiet, unexplainable, irreversible way that people want something they know they shouldn’t.
He doesn’t even notice when his ramen goes cold. You’re still talking, your hands moving animatedly, the wind tugging at your sleeve, and he’s sitting there like someone who’s just been hit and is pretending not to bleed.
“Hey,” you say suddenly, leaning closer to peer into his bowl. “You’re not eating.”
He blinks, jerking back to reality. “What?”
“You haven’t even touched it.”
“Oh.” He looks down, then up at you again, half-laughing. “Guess I got distracted.”
You grin, bumping your knee lightly against his. “Airhead. Aren’t you hungry?”
He wants to answer, but the truth gets caught somewhere in his chest. He’s starving, just not for food. It’s almost pathetic, how easily you pull him back in. Every time he thinks he’s found the right distance, you do something small—laugh, reach over, smile like that—and the space between you folds in on itself.
It’s not new. It’s never been new.
He’s liked you before—more times than he can count, each one sneaking up on him like it was the first.
The earliest he can remember is when he was thirteen. You’d been sitting on the bleachers by the school court, swinging your legs, eating an ice pop that kept dripping down your fingers. He’d been waiting for his turn to play, pretending not to stare. You’d looked over at him suddenly, offered him a bite, and laughed when he flinched because it was too cold. That was the first time he’d felt it—the ridiculous flutter in his chest.
The second time, he’d been seventeen, right before he left Jeju for training in Seoul. You’d shown up at the airport in your uniform, holding a paper bag of tangerines, saying, “For vitamin C. Don’t catch a cold.” He’d promised he’d come back soon, and you’d said, “You better.” You'd waved, smiling until he couldn't see you anymore and during takeoff he’d pressed his forehead to the window, pretending he wasn’t already missing you.
The third time, you were both twenty-one, at some end-of-term party on a beach back home. The others were setting off sparklers, but you’d wandered off with him toward the water, shoes dangling from one hand. He’d said something stupid, you’d splashed him, and he’d chased you until you both ended up breathless and soaked, laughing into the wind. The night smelled like salt and smoke from the barbeque and something he couldn’t name. He hadn’t kissed you. He’d wanted to.
He looks at you now, the glow from the streetlamps catching on your hair, your face soft with amusement, and he thinks: this is how it starts again. The quiet tug he can’t fight. The steady thrum in his ribs whenever you’re near.
Seungkwan thinks that he’s kept you at arm’s length for so long his whole body aches from it. That he’s tried to reason it away, to say it’s friendship, history, comfort. But it’s none of those things anymore. It’s you. It’s always been you.
He thinks that maybe he’s doomed to love every version of you, a bit too early, or a bit too late, no matter how much he tries not to. There’s never a right time for him.
You nudge him now, expression worried. “Hey, seriously. What’s up? What are you even thinking of?”
Seungkwan shakes his head, pushing away the thoughts. He stares at you, and decides that he has to let you know at some point, anyway.
“I need to leave a bit early, by the way.” He mumbles, glancing away and towards the water. “Media obligations. My flight is in three days.”
And with the way your face falls, you’re glad he’s not looking.
Seungkwan packs in the same distracted way that he always does— half folding, half pacing, and glancing at his checklist every few minutes.
“You’ve been saying you’d pack for days,” you say from where you’re sitting on his bed, chin propped on your knee. “And yet here we are. The night before.”
He hums, rolling another shirt into a neat cylinder. “Some of us thrive under pressure.”
“You? You panic under pressure.”
“Lies.”
He’s grinning, but you can tell he’s wound up. He always gets like this before leaving—restless, on edge, one foot already halfway out the door. When you were kids, it was about field trips; he’d check his backpack ten times before bed, wake up at dawn, still convinced he’d forgotten something. That hasn’t changed much.
You get up, wandering over to his suitcase to mess with one of the neatly rolled shirts. “You’re gonna wear the same thing every day anyway.”
He scoffs. “I can’t repeat outfits when there are cameras.”
“Oh, right. The curse of being famous.”
He flicks a sock at you. “Shut up.”
You laugh before slumping back onto his bed, watching him in the mirror. “You’ll be fine. You always are.”
He exhales, a little too sharp. “Yeah. I just hate this part.”
“The leaving?”
He shrugs, eyes on his hands. “Feels like I forget how to exist anywhere else, every time I start to feel settled.”
You don’t really know what to say to that. So you just throw a stray sock on his bed at him, one that he’s forgotten to put in.
He catches it midair, barely, and tosses it back at you with a huff of laughter. “Very supportive.”
“I’m helping you not forget things,” you say, holding up your hands in mock innocence.
“By weaponizing my laundry.”
He shakes his head but the smile lingers, just enough to ease that small crease between his brows. He goes back to folding while you lie on your side, the sheets cool beneath your cheek.
“Are you going to sleep at all tonight?” You ask after a while, a yawn slipping past your lips as he zips and unzips compartments just to make sure he didn’t miss anything.
“Probably not,” he admits, closing the suitcase halfway. “I feel like I just had three cups of coffee and I swear I haven’t touched caffeine in the last few days.”
“Classic you.”
“Classic me,” he echoes, voice drifting.
He starts checking his toiletries bag next, muttering things under his breath—razor, shaving cream, that one mint toothpaste he uses that almost burns your tongue.
“You nervous?” you ask quietly, words tumbling into each other in your sleepy state.
He pauses, looking up through the mirror. “A little. Baek says I shouldn’t be, but it’s the Championships, you know?”
You hum. “Yeah… But you’re ready.”
He smiles at that. “You think so?”
“I know so.”
Something flickers in his eyes, soft and almost fond enough to hurt.
You let your head fall onto his pillow, swearing that you won’t fall asleep and that you’ll just rest your eyes and stay up with him until he’s done packing. Seungkwan moves across the room, tucking his passport into the front pocket of his bag and arranging a few things on his dresser like he’s delaying the inevitable.
Seungkwan slips out quietly, his phone screen glowingly dimly in his hand, the checklist he’s edited and re-edited all week open on it.
In the corner of the living room, his kit bag leans against the wall, already half-zipped. He crouches down and goes through it again, more out of habit than necessity. Three newly strung rackets, grip tapes still in their plastic, spare overgrips, scissors, towels, electrolytes, resistance bands, an extra pair of socks. Everything’s there, but he still checks.
He flips through the edge of his notebook, glances at the small foam roller poking out of the side compartment, and opens one last zipper, his lucky Yonex wristband folded neatly beside a stack of match shirts. He exhales, counting the shirts one more time, even though he already knows there are five.
It’s not about forgetting things. Not really. It’s about control, about the ritual of it. Packing means he’s almost gone, and maybe if he does it slow enough, he can make the hours stretch a little longer.
When he finally straightens, rolling his shoulders, the digital checklist blinks with a satisfying row of green ticks. He taps the screen off and pockets the phone, glancing toward the door again.
When he walks into his room again, he stops short.
You’ve already fallen asleep.
You’re half-curled, blanket caught under your legs, one hand tucked under your cheek, your hair a little messy from where you’d turned on the pillow. The soft hum of the air conditioner fills the room, blending with the sound of your even breathing.
Seungkwan leans against the doorframe for a second, his eyes softening at the sight. You must’ve been trying to stay up. He can tell that you didn’t even move the pillow he gave you earlier, and your phone’s still beside your hand, screen dimmed.
For a moment, he just watches. The crease between your brows, the slow rise and fall of your shoulders. He remembers nights like this from when you were younger—when you’d both fall asleep after playdates, study sessions or long days at the court or university, heads bumping, your notebooks scattered on the floor. But now, the sight hits him differently.
He sighs quietly, moving closer, the floor creaking under his feet ands bends down, fingers catching the edge of the blanket, before gently pulls it up over your shoulders. It takes some maneuvering—the sheets tangle, the corner catches under your knee—but he manages, careful not to wake you.
Seungkwan hesitates before lying down. He could go to the couch, or the floor, but the thought of leaving the room feels strangely unbearable tonight. So he slides under the blanket, slow and deliberate, keeping to the far edge, his back turned toward you.
He faces the wall, staring at the faint shadows the streetlight casts through the curtains. It’s been years since you were just kids who could fall asleep shoulder to shoulder without a second thought. Now, every inch of distance feels intentional.
He keeps still, hands tucked under his chin. The air smells faintly like your lotion. He shuts his eyes, tells himself to sleep, to not think about the way the mattress dips where your body lies, or the steady rhythm of your breathing just behind him.
It feels wrong, somehow, to want this so badly when he knows it’s not innocent anymore. Wrong to be lying here while his heart’s already given itself away. He shifts slightly, just enough to put an inch more space between you, but it doesn’t help. The air still feels electric.
He exhales, low and careful. Don’t make it weird, he tells himself. Don’t ruin it.
Eventually, sleep wins out.
Sometime in the night, you stir.
Seungkwan lies on his side, facing the wall, blanket pulled up to his shoulders. His breathing is slow, steady, the kind of rhythm that means he’s completely asleep. You watch the rise and fall of his back, the faint movement of his hair against the pillow. He’s close enough that you can see the soft curve of his neck, the line of his jaw half-hidden by shadow.
You tell yourself to go back to sleep. To stay where you are. But the space between you feels unbearable—like something’s missing, like something’s always missing.
You swallow hard, your hand hesitating in the middle of the blanket. It’s stupid, you know. It’s late, and he’s leaving in the morning, and you’ll see him again soon. Two weeks isn’t long. But the thought doesn’t make it hurt less. It only makes it sharper, like you’ve been holding something fragile in your hands and pretending it’s fine not to have it anymore.
You shift closer, slow enough that the mattress barely moves. Your fingers brush his arm, then still. He doesn’t stir.
It shouldn’t feel like this. It should be easy, like it used to be when you were kids and shared a blanket at sleepovers without thinking twice. But you’re not kids anymore. You know that. You know exactly what you’re doing when you inch forward again, until your forehead is resting lightly between his shoulder blades, until your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt.
You swear you’ll get up in a minute. Just one minute.
You just need to hold him for a little while to feel the weight of him, the quiet proof that he’s real and here, before the world pulls him away again.
So you stay like that. Breathing in his warmth and letting the ache settle somewhere behind your ribs.
At some point, Seungkwan must have turned in his sleep, because when morning comes, you’re in his arms.
He doesn’t remember when it happened. Maybe it was instinct, or maybe it was something he’s been holding back for too long. Now, with soft light filtering through the curtains and your head tucked beneath his chin, he can’t bring himself to move.
You’re still asleep, face pressed lightly against his chest, breathing slow and even. The blanket has slipped a little, but you look warm. Peaceful and tired in a way that makes something twist quietly inside him.
He should get up. The clock on his phone says it’s barely past six, and there’s still a list of things to do—shower, check his bags again, meet the car waiting downstairs. He knows he should move.
But he doesn’t. Not yet.
For a few minutes, Seungkwan lets himself stay there and pretend this is what mornings could be like. The warmth of you beside him could be enough to make everything else fade. He traces the line of your shoulder with his eyes, memorizing the way the light hits your hair. He lets himself want this, even if only for a moment.
Then he forces himself to let go.
You don’t stir when he finally slips out of bed. Not when he moves around the room, gathering his things and zipping his suitcase closed. Not when he pauses by the door and looks back at you one last time.
You’ve been tired lately. You deserve the rest.
A selfish part of him still wants to wake you up—to see your face, to hear you mumble something half-asleep, to have you walk him to the door like you always do. But he doesn’t. Instead, he steps closer, crouches slightly, and presses a soft kiss to your forehead.
It’s familiar. Something he’s done before, something he can tell himself is normal.
If it lingers a little too long, if his hand almost reaches for yours before he stops himself, no one has to know.
Seungkwan tells himself it’s fine. That this is what friends do. That he hasn’t been playing house for the past three weeks, pretending this isn’t the closest he’s ever been to admitting he’d rather die than be just your friend.
Then he exhales, straightens up, and leaves before he can change his mind.
