Synopsis: You and Han were each other’s firsts—first love, first heartbreak, first forever. Even as life pulls you apart, the two of you keep finding your way back, caught between what was and what could be. (14,3k words)
Author's note: The final chapter is here and pls don't get upset at me. You asked for angst so I brought you exactly that 🫣🫶🏻
Han sits on the weathered picnic bench, shoulders hunched forward, phone in hand as his thumb scrolls endlessly down a checklist. A hundred little icons of bottles, blankets, creams, and things he can’t even begin to pronounce. His eyebrows knot together as he squints at one particular entry.
“What is BabyBjörn?” he asks out loud, clueless, his tone more baffled than curious.
Josh, seated beside him with his long legs stretched out and sunglasses on, doesn’t even pause before answering, “It’s a Swedish company that produces baby carriers and bouncers and all that bonding-comfort-parent-baby stuff.”
Han blinks at him, wide-eyed. “How the hell do you even know that?”
Josh just shrugs, taking a sip from his can of Coke. “Niamh. And also because we went to a lot of baby showers.”
Han nods like that makes sense, though he’s still looking at Josh like he’s some kind of encyclopedia, but then the word Swedish lingers in his head, tugging up a memory he hadn’t asked for. His lips twitch, an unexpected chuckle slipping out as he murmurs, “Fuck Sweden.”
Josh raises a brow, catching Han mutters something. “What?”
“Nothing,” Han shakes his head quickly, forcing the laugh down before anyone can ask further. He swipes at his phone again, like he can scroll his way out of the memory, but the ache it stirs in his chest lingers.
“How’s she doing?” he asks suddenly, eyes still glued to the screen, voice pitched too casual to be casual.
It’s Luke who answers, sprawled out on the grass with a joint pinched lazily between his fingers. He exhales a thin line of smoke before saying, “She’s alright.”
Han lets out a slow breath through his nose, relief pressing briefly against the tightness in his chest. But then Luke adds, almost smug, “We’ve been hanging out a lot actually. Talking. Smoking.”
That makes Han’s head snap up, brows furrowing. “She doesn’t even smoke.”
Luke shrugs, taking another drag, lips curling with the ghost of a grin. “Well, she is now.”
Han stares at him, unsettled. He doesn’t know what to do with that—should he be glad you’re finding ways to cope? Or should he be concerned that weed is your new crutch? His stomach twists, his thoughts chasing themselves in circles, spiraling toward places he doesn’t want to go.
So he forces himself back to his phone, eyes blurring over another list of “must-haves.” Diapers, strollers, swaddles. He exhales, shoulders sinking. And then, almost to himself, he mutters, “Man… I’m seriously having a baby.”
The words sound different when they leave his mouth. He’s said them before, joked about them, even celebrated them. But now, in this quiet moment with his friends and his screen glowing with responsibility, the reality sinks deep and heavy.
-
The car hums along the smooth pavement, sunlight spilling across the windshield as Han steers through the quiet streets of the new neighborhood. It’s one of those rare days where everything feels… light. Simple. Like maybe life isn’t such a storm anymore. He steals a glance at the rows of freshly painted houses, kids wobbling on bikes with training wheels, a couple walking a dog that looks too big for its leash. For a moment, it almost feels like he belongs here.
“You’re going to be a really good dad,” Isla says suddenly, her voice cutting through the silence.
Han blinks, his hands tightening a little on the wheel. The words throw him so off guard that he has to look away from the road for half a second, catching her profile lit by the soft afternoon light. “What made you say that?” he asks, his voice rougher than he meant.
Isla sheepishly smiles, folding her hands over the swell of her belly. “I don’t know. I just… knew it.”
Heat creeps up his neck. He looks back at the road quickly, but he can’t stop the small smile tugging at his lips. Compliments like that—they hit different.
Silence settles between them, but it’s the good kind, the kind that lets him breathe. He lets it linger before blurting, almost to himself, “I just learned you have a middle name.”
Isla tilts her head toward him, amused. “You make it sound like I’ve been hiding it.”
Han chuckles under his breath. “Well… what is it then?”
“Rylie,” she says softly, her smile lingering. “It means valiant. Or courageous.”
Han nods slowly, letting the word roll around in his head. Valiant. Yeah, that fits her. He glances her way just long enough to catch the curve of her smile. “That’s… such a beautiful name.”
Isla’s cheeks color as she dips her head, brushing her thumb absently over the curve of her stomach. “Thank you.”
Han pulls the car into the driveway, his mind still buzzing with Isla’s words—
You’re going to be a really good dad. It feels nice and comforting to hear but at the same time, he can’t ignore the weight of it presses against his chest like a stone he can’t quite shift.
He kills the engine, rubbing the heel of his palm over his tired eyes. When he glances up, his heart stutters as he sees you standing by the trash can. His trash can.
For a second, he thinks he’s imagining it—you, in broad daylight, looking like you’re about to… what, dig through his garbage? But no, the lid’s already lifted, your hand hovering there like a guilty kid caught red-handed. And then you turn, your face freezing as the car jerks to a stop in the middle of the driveway.
Han steps out slowly, trying not to let the confusion leak too much into his expression. But inside, he’s spiraling. What the hell is she doing here?
You plaster on a strained smile, walking toward him like nothing’s wrong. “Hey.”
He forces a faint smile back. His chest aches just seeing you this close again. “Hey. Uh… what are you doing here?”
Your answer comes quick, smooth—too smooth. “I just came to drop your things.”
Han nods, his eyes flicking toward the box by the door. That much checks out. But then his gaze shifts back to the trash can and lingers. He can’t help it. “And… what were you doing at the trash can?”
You hesitate, just enough to give you away. Then, almost too brightly, you say, “Oh—there was a raccoon tearing through your trash. I shooed it away.”
A raccoon. In the middle of the day. In this neighborhood? His mouth almost quirks into a smile, because it’s such an absurd lie, but instead he just watches you and quietly mutters under his breath. “Right. A raccoon.”
Before he can press further, the passenger door opens and Isla steps out, smoothing her hand over her bump as she greets you warmly. Han watches the way your eyes drop to her stomach—how you freeze, how the words tumble out of you before you can stop them: “Oh, you’re very pregnant.”
The air goes tight. He feels Isla’s gentle laugh at your awkward save—“Pregnancy looks good on you”—but Han can see how much it costs you to even say it.
You’re already pulling away, making excuses about leaving, when Han notices the sketchbook clutched to your chest. His sketchbook. His pulse spikes.
“Is that my… sketchbook?” he asks, and the way your eyes widen is answer enough. You hesitate, then thrust it toward him like it burns your hands.
And just like that—you’re gone. Jogging to your car, your bag bouncing against your side. Han stands there, sketchbook in hand, watching your taillights until they disappear down the street. He looks down at the familiar worn cover, thumb brushing the bent corner.
The sound of Isla’s shoes crunching against the gravel pulls him back. She’s waddling closer, one hand supporting her lower back, the other resting gently on her belly. She glances at the book he’s clutching and tilts her head. “What’s that?”
Han’s throat goes dry. He forces a casual shrug, tucking it slightly against his side as if it’s nothing. “Just… one of my old sketchbooks.” His voice comes out light, dismissive, like it means less than it does.
Isla hums, accepting his answer without pressing. She shifts her weight and Han immediately steps forward, sliding an arm around her to help her toward the door. He focuses on the task—steadying her, guiding her up the steps—but it’s impossible not to feel the echo of you still lingering in the air.
The way you looked at Isla’s stomach. The way your smile faltered when you tried to play polite. The sharpness in your eyes when you lied about the raccoon. And, worst of all, the way you had held his sketchbook tight to your chest like you were holding on to the memories it holds.
Han exhales through his nose, tightening his grip on Isla just enough to keep her steady as he pushes the front door open. He helps her inside, but his mind is far away, stuck on the driveway, stuck on the way you bolted like you couldn’t bear to stay another second.
By the time he shuts the door behind them, his smile is back in place for Isla’s sake. But his heart is still out there in the street, running after you.
-
Later that night, Han helps Isla settle on the couch, fussing with the throw pillows until she playfully swats at his hand. “You’re worse than my doctor,” she teases, her smile soft, her eyes tired.
He laughs under his breath, crouching to kiss her forehead. “I just don’t want you uncomfortable.”
“I’m fine,” she reassures him, resting both hands over her belly. “Really. Go do your thing—I’m just going to put my feet up.”
He hesitates, watching her adjust into the cushions, her face glowing in the warm light of the living room. Eventually, he nods and retreats down the hall to his small studio.
The sketchbook feels heavy in his hand. He tosses it on the desk, tries to busy himself with a few quick strokes of a new illustration, but the lines blur, meaningless. His gaze drifts back, again and again, to that familiar battered cover.
Finally, he gives in.
He flips it open and the first page hits him like a punch—two doodled characters you’d both created late one night, when things were young and stupid and full of possibility. He remembers how hard you’d laughed, sprawled across his lap with a pen in your hand, insisting this was your comic debut.
Page after page, the memories unfold. Your handwriting in the margins. Your dumb little captions. The mess of ink where you tried to make him look cooler than he was. He can almost hear your voice again, teasing, urging him to keep going, to dream bigger.
And then—there it is. The page where he drew the proposal. Your character staring down at a ring, his on one knee, cartoon hearts floating above. He remembers vividly how you’d looked up from that page to find him mirroring it, ring trembling in his hand, voice cracking as he asked you to marry him.
Han presses the heel of his palm against his eyes, shutting them tight. For a moment, he’s back there—before things fell apart, before Isla, before the papers and the fights. Just you and him, believing in forever.
He exhales shakily, fingers tracing the edges of the page. The ache in his chest spreads wide, hollowing him out.
God, he misses you.
He closes the sketchbook but doesn’t put it away. Instead, he keeps it close, resting his hand on top of it like it’s the only anchor left between then and now. In the silence of the night, with Isla asleep down the hall, Han finally lets himself whisper into the dark:
“I really miss you.”
-
Han tells himself—over and over again—that he has a good life.
A good new life with Isla, with her kind smile and her quiet strength. The baby on the way, a future he never thought he’d be brave enough to face. A neighborhood that smells like fresh paint and cut grass, neighbors who wave when he pulls into the driveway.
It’s good. It should be enough.
But at night, when the house goes quiet, the thoughts creep back in. What ifs. Could haves. The sound of your laugh, sharper than any memory should be. He finds himself restless, scrolling through his phone for no reason, sketching aimless lines that always, somehow, circle back to you.
He tries to push it away. He tells himself it’s unhealthy, that he needs to stop being stuck in the past. Isla deserves better than half of him lingering somewhere else.
Still… one afternoon, without really meaning to, his car ends up on a familiar street. He doesn’t even think until he’s already parked. His pulse thrums in his ears as he steps out, glances around—like he’s been caught doing something wrong. He knows it’s reckless. Stupid, even. But his feet move anyway, carrying him to the front steps of your house.
He sits. Hands pressed between his knees. Tells himself it’s just a few minutes. You’re probably still at work. He doesn’t even know what he’ll say if you come home, but he waits.
The late sun shifts across the pavement. Leaves skitter along the curb. His chest feels tight, like the anticipation itself is punishment. Then—there it is. The low purr of your car pulling into the driveway.
Han’s heart stumbles as he sees you behind the wheel, the moment your eyes flicker and land on him. The hesitation. The way your face shifts, just barely, as if you’re calculating whether to keep driving or park.
He forces himself to stand as you kill the engine, sling your bag over your shoulder, and step out. He arranges his mouth into something that resembles a smile, though it feels fragile.
You walk toward him, slowly and he swallows hard, pushing air into his lungs like he’s forgotten how. His voice comes out softer than he intended, like the words are scraped raw on their way out.
“I don’t know what the rules are,” he says, eyes locking with yours, “but I’m sure I’m breaking them.”
The silence stretches, the weight of it unbearable. His chest tightens until it feels like it might crack open. Then he exhales, a broken little laugh. “But I really—” He falters, shakes his head, drops his gaze to the ground before forcing it back up to yours.
“I really miss you.”
-
Why is he here?
You repeatedly ask yourself as you move slowly in the kitchen, fingers curling around the cool aluminum of two soda cans, heart thudding harder than it should. He’s here. In your living room. After everything. And you still don’t know why.
When you step out, you find him leaning back on the couch like he belongs there, like no time has passed. His eyes lift, a half-smile tugging at his mouth.
“Soda?” he teases, a little too lightly. “Don’t you have anything harder than that?”
You hesitate, then wordlessly turn back. The clink of glass, the slow pour of whiskey, the way your hand shakes just slightly as you set two glasses down on the coffee table. You take the far end of the sofa, purposely leaving space between you, because you know what happens when he’s too close.
“How have you been?” you ask, voice quieter than you intend.
He shrugs, takes a sip before telling you everything that’s been happening in his life. “Isla’s… she’s friends with someone at MESA. That’s how my stuff ended up there.”
You blink, surprised, but manage a small smile as you genuinely tell him, “That’s amazing, Han. I’m happy for you.”
He looks at you for a beat too long, like he doesn’t quite believe it, then glances away.
The conversation drifts—small pieces of his life, fragments of yours—until the light outside bleeds into darkness and the whiskey in his glass is more water than fire. He sighs, setting it down with a quiet clink.
“I should probably get home.”
You hug your arms around yourself to keep them from reaching out to him. “Yeah.”
Silence stretches, heavy, until the words slip out of you, bare and honest: “It’s really nice to see you.”
That smile—the same one that once lit up every corner of your world—finds his face. It warms you despite everything and then he leans in. Before you can stop him, his arms wrap around you, and you melt into it because it’s him, it’s always been him. His chest solid against yours, his warmth seeping into your bones. For a moment, it feels like nothing ever broke.
You manage to pull away first but not enough to put a gap between your bodies as he keeps his hand on the back of your neck. His breath fans your cheek, his head tilting—too close, too dangerous and then he kisses you.
It’s long and lingering, heavy with everything neither of you has been brave enough to say. You let it happen, because it feels too right to fight, until you finally break the kiss, though his forehead stays pressed to yours. You breathe him in, shaken.
“You should go,” you whisper, though it doesn’t sound convincing.
He’s quiet for a beat. Then, soft, like he’s asking for something forbidden: “Can we just… lie down for a little bit?”
You should say no. You should tell him to leave. But your body betrays you, nodding before your brain catches up.
The next thing you know, you’re lowering yourself onto the sofa, lying on your side, the couch dipping under his weight, his chest pressed to your back. His arm wraps around you, warm and solid, his head tucked into the crook of your neck. It’s quiet except for the rhythm of your shared breaths, almost like old times. Almost.
And then, with his eyes closed, his voice slips out, raw and cracked in the dark. “I can’t believe I’m having a baby and it’s not with you.”
The words slice through you like glass. You squeeze your eyes shut, but the hot sting of tears escapes anyway. You thought you were the only one drowning in what you lost, the only one haunted by the forever you both failed to make real.
But no—he feels it too and that, somehow, hurts even worse.
-
The first thing you notice when you wake up is the silence.
The second is the cold. You turn, reaching instinctively for warmth that isn’t there, only to find the other side of the couch empty. No indentation, no blanket out of place—like he was never there at all.
Han must have slipped out early, before the sun came up. And yet, his presence lingers, stubborn, etched into your skin where his arm held you close, into your lips where his kiss still burns.
You push yourself upright, press the heels of your palms against your eyes, and try to steady yourself. But even as you shower, dress, and force yourself into the office, it stays with you. The knot in your chest won’t loosen.
By the time you’re staring at your laptop, the blinking cursor taunting you from a half-finished paragraph, your thoughts are so tangled you can barely string words together. You rub at your temples, trying to summon focus, but every line you type feels off, forced, shallow.
The knock at your door barely registers before Chris steps inside. He’s holding a stack of papers, brow furrowed.
“Hey, I read your draft,” he says carefully. “And… there are a lot of mistakes.”
You slump in your chair, letting out a groan that borders on a whine. “Of course there are.”
Chris sets the papers down, then studies you with a tilt of his head. “Are you okay?”
You stare at the mess on your screen, words blurring until you can’t tell what’s real. Finally, you mutter, “I don’t know.”
There’s no judgment in his expression, just quiet concern. “You know what? Just take the rest of the day oof. Go home. Rest. Whatever’s going on… you don’t have to fight through it today.”
You sigh, long and weary, before nodding. Maybe he’s right.
By the time you gather your things and step outside, the day is bright and sharp, but you feel dimmed, heavy. Han may have left, but what happened between you clings to you like a shadow, following you even as you leave the office behind.
-
Home should feel like safety. Instead, the silence feels suffocating.
You sit on the edge of your bed, laptop abandoned on the desk, your phone heavy in your hand. There’s nothing to distract you, no noise to drown out the thoughts clawing at the inside of your skull. And before you can stop yourself, your thumb is already moving, muscle memory guiding you to Instagram.
Han’s profile loads instantly, his name and familiar face glowing back at you. He mostly uses his social media to showcase his artworks but the latest post is right there at the top, is a series of pictures of Han and Isla doing a gender reveal.
You swipe through slowly, each frame hitting like a punch. Them laughing as they slice into the cake together. The messy blue filling revealed. Isla smearing cream onto Han’s nose as he scrunches up in mock annoyance. Han smiling at her like she’s the only thing in the room.
And the last one—
The one that breaks you—
Their kiss, soft and full of love, with Isla’s baby bump pressed between them.
The phone slips from your fingers to the bed, and you bury your face in your hands. The sob that rips out of you is raw, unsteady, like it’s been waiting for this moment to spill over. Tears blur everything, hot and relentless, because staring at those pictures makes it impossible to deny the truth.
This could have been you. This should have been you. But you fumbled it. You lost it. And now, someone else gets to live the life you once promised each other. You curl forward, pressing your palms harder against your face as if you could block it all out, but the ache only grows, gnawing at your chest, pulling you under until all that’s left is the sound of your own quiet, broken crying in an empty room.
You glance at your phone where it lies facedown on the bed, as though it burned you when you dropped it. For a long moment, you just stare at it. You shouldn’t. You know you shouldn’t, but your fingers move anyway.
You pick it up, swipe the screen, and his post glares back at you like a cruel reminder. You don’t let yourself look too long this time. You tap his name instead, the little green circle showing he’s active. Your pulse spikes so hard it feels like it’s rattling in your throat.
For a moment, you hesitate. You draft a message and delete it. Start another and erase that too. It feels like you’re holding a lit match too close to gasoline, and yet—
Your thumbs finally type the words before you can stop them: “Can we meet?”
You stare at it, your thumb hovering over send. Your heart is begging you not to, your head screaming about the danger, the mistake. But the ache in your chest—the longing that never left—pushes harder.
You hit send and the message shoots off. No taking it back.
You lock the phone and toss it beside you on the bed, burying your face in your pillow, praying and dreading all at once that he’ll answer.
-
The walk to the bar feels heavier than your body can carry. Every step weighs you down, but still you force yourself forward, heart pounding like it knows this might be the last chance. By the time you reach the door, your palms are clammy, your throat dry.
Inside, the place is nearly deserted—the smell of fresh wood polish and faint beer lingering in the air. It’s barely opened for the day, the lights still too bright, too sterile for what you’re here to do.
Han is already there, hunched slightly at the bar, one hand wrapped around a half-empty bottle of beer. He looks up when you walk in, and his face softens with recognition.
“Hey,” he greets, voice low, tired but warm in its own way.
“Hey,” you echo, sliding onto the stool beside him. You tuck your hands in your lap, trying not to fidget. “Thanks for meeting me here.”
Han glances at you, and something flickers in his eyes—something you can’t name. He smiles faintly, though, cluelessly, at the state of you. It makes you aware of your appearance. You glance down at yourself: the mismatched sweater and shirt, your hair in a messy knot.
“I don’t know what I’m wearing,” you jokingly mutter. “I couldn’t find something nice so I thought, why not just ruin it.”
He lets out a soft chuckle, shaking his head. “You look like a crazy cat lady.”
A breathless laugh escapes you, but it dies quickly, leaving silence in its wake.
The quiet stretches until both of you blurt something out at the same time, words colliding and dissolving. You wave him off, swallowing hard. “Let me just say something, okay?”
Han’s lips press into a line, but he nods. “Okay.”
You take a deep breath, steadying the quake in your chest. Then you look at him—really look at him—and the words tumble out, raw and jagged. “I don’t know what’s going on in your… other situation,” you start, your voice shaking, “but for the record, I fucked up.”
The confession stings like acid on your tongue. “I was cavalier with you, and I took us for granted. And I know it sounds crazy but—” Your throat closes, breath uneven. “I think I’d regret it for life if I don’t say this.”
You blink fast, fighting the burn in your eyes. Han watches you, unreadable, his fingers tapping lightly against the glass.
“If you were open to it… I feel like I could do better. With you. With us.” Your voice breaks, but you push through it. “If there’s still a chance, I’d love to know.”
The words hang in the air, trembling like they might collapse under their own weight. You grip the edge of your stool, waiting, praying for anything.
A moment passes in silence.
“Han?” you say softly, brokenly, when he doesn’t answer.
He turns his head toward you, and for a split second you think—hope—he might lean in, might say something that could undo the ache clawing at your chest. But instead, his expression crumples. He looks like he wants to say a hundred things, but all he does is shake his head slowly.
“I can’t,” he mutters, voice rough.
Before you can react, Han pushes back from the bar, the legs of his stool scraping loudly against the floor. He stands, drops a few bills on the counter, and without another look at you, he walks out—his back retreating through the door, leaving you stranded in the silence, shattered and small.
You push out of the bar after him, the air outside cool but not enough to soothe the fire ripping through you. He’s almost at his car already, moving fast like he can outrun this whole thing, outrun you.
“Hey! Han!” you call, your voice breaking, but he doesn’t stop until your fingers clutch the sleeve of his shirt.
He turns, startled, his eyes flashing with something raw before dimming back down.
“Why did you come over last night?” you demand, the question spilling out of you before you can think.
He blinks, exhales hard. “I don’t know.”
The answer slices through you, shallow and careless. You shake your head. “But you do know.”
Han’s chest rises as he drags in a breath, jaw tight. “It was a mistake. I shouldn’t have come.”
A sharp, bitter laugh escapes you, cannot believe that he chose to not admitting it. “You’re a fucking coward.”
His mouth presses into a thin line, but then he throws his own truth at you. “I’m having a baby. I need to figure out a way to make it work with Isla. I’m trying to change.”
Your teeth clench because now you think of the one question that you’ve been dying to ask him. “Why didn’t you change for me?”
Han lowers his voice, steady but soft, almost resigned. “I don’t think you really wanted me to.”
It’s unbearable—the way he twists it like that—and rage crackles through you. “All I did was wait for you to grow up. I rooted for you. I fucking paid for everything. I did everything for you.”
His eyes narrow, and he slides through your words like he’s been waiting to say this. “And I was never your equal. And I think you preferred it that way.”
Your vision stings, tears pricking no matter how much you try to blink them back. “I know my success was never okay with you.”
Han looks away then, his silence betraying him. When his gaze comes back to you, it’s sharp, cutting. “What do you want?”
Your throat feels like it’s closing, your voice breaking and hoarse. “I just want you to admit that you’re wrong.”
“Wrong about what?” Han shoots back, bewildered and heated. “What did you expect me to do? Sit around and wait for you to meet someone first? Is that how you saw it happening?”
The air between you crackles with the tension, so thick you can barely breathe. And then Han steadies himself, his tone cooling in a way that burns worse than shouting.
“I didn’t expect to meet someone so fast. But I did. And I have a real chance of being happy. I don’t want to blow that.”
Something ugly twists in you, and before you can stop yourself, the venom spills out. “Well, you know what, Han? You will definitely blow it.”
The words land like knives, and you see it in the way his body goes still. He stares at you, disbelieving, like you’ve crossed a line too sharp to uncross. “Wow,” he mutters, shaking his head.
When his eyes meet yours again, they’re merciless. “You know, I feel sorry for you. You might actually be alone for your whole life.”
The sentence cleaves you open. His voice. His words. They echo inside you, cruel and unshakable.
Your lips tremble, but you manage to spit out, “Don’t ever call me.”
Han barely hesitates. His tone is final, flat. “Yeah. Don’t worry about it.”
And then he turns, leaving you there with nothing but the echo of his footsteps fading into the night and the venom of his words clawing at your insides. You wrap your arms around yourself, every step back toward your house heavy, as if you’re dragging the weight of a life you’ll never get back.
-
You might actually be alone for your whole life.
They loop in your head, over and over, like a cruel refrain you can’t turn off. Every step you take back to your house feels heavier than the last, your chest tight, your throat sore, like something inside you is breaking and spilling all at once.
When you finally shut the door behind you, the silence hits hard. It’s too quiet, too empty, and suddenly you’re gasping for air like the walls are pressing in on you.
You stumble into the kitchen, your hands gripping the edge of the counter until your knuckles ache. You try to steady your breathing, try to stop the tears from coming, but they rise anyway—hot, relentless.
You slam your palm down against the countertop, once, twice, like you can beat the ache out of yourself. But it doesn’t help. Nothing helps. Because beneath all of the anger, beneath the disbelief, there’s the unbearable truth you can’t outrun: you still love him.
You hate him for the things he said. You hate him for how easily he cut you down. But the worst part? You hate yourself more—for still aching for someone who chose to build a future with someone else.
Your phone buzzes on the table, lighting up the screen, but you don’t even look. Whoever it is, it’s not him. Not anymore.
So you curl into yourself, sitting on the kitchen floor, letting the tears fall until your face feels raw and your body aches with exhaustion. And through the blur of it all, his voice plays in your head again, cruel and final.
You might actually be alone for your whole life.
You press your hands over your ears, desperate to drown him out, but no matter what you do, you can’t stop hearing it.
-
It’s Niamh’s bridal shower. It’s buzzing with laughter, light chatters, and the kind of effortless joy that comes from being surrounded by people who belong. You don’t feel like you belong. You never do at these things.
So you keep filling your flute, glass after glass, champagne sliding down like water, burning only slightly at the back of your throat. Each swallow blurs the edges of your thoughts, softens the knot twisting in your stomach. You tell yourself you’re just trying to take the edge off, but the edge never goes away—it just sharpens differently.
By the time you’re weaving through clusters of women in pastel dresses, your legs feel loose, unsteady. You stumble toward Niamh, who’s radiant, glowing in a way that makes your chest ache, standing beside her mother.
“Ohhh, Mrs. O’Sullivan!” you slur, grinning too wide as you reach out to touch Niamh’s mother’s arm. “You must be sooo happy—Niamh is getting married, isn’t that the sweetest thing? The sweetest.”
Niamh stiffens, her polite smile turning tight at the corners.
“And I know all about marriage!” you continue, ignoring the look on her face. “I was married once, too. It was—” you hiccup, then laugh at yourself, “—it was something, yeah. Except my husband’s, um—” you lower your voice, leaning in though you’re still loud enough for half the room to hear, “—he’s having a baby with another girl now.”
There’s a beat of silence, just long enough for the words to settle heavy and wrong. Niamh’s mother’s eyes flick to her daughter, discomfort plain on her face.
“Okay,” Niamh cuts in, stepping forward quickly, her hand curling firmly around your elbow. “That’s enough champagne for you.”
You giggle like she’s scolding you for staying up past your bedtime, but you let her tug you toward the staircase at the same time the front door opens and Han walks in, Isla’s hand in his. They’re smiling, glowing, the perfect picture of what you once thought would be yours. His eyes catch yours just as your stomach flips violently, and before you can look away, you’re gagging. Your hand flies to your mouth, panic surging.
He sees you. Of course he does. And you want to die right there on the spot. But Niamh’s quicker, steering you up the stairs with sharp determination, whispering urgent, “Come on, come on, don’t you dare do this here—”
She gets you into a bathroom just in time, her hand holding your hair back while you empty yourself into the toilet. It’s humiliating, awful, but she doesn’t let go, doesn’t look away.
When it’s over, she guides you to the edge of the bed in one of the guest rooms, pressing a cold bottle of water into your hand. You mumble an apology, cheeks burning with shame.
“I’m so embarrassing,” you croak. “I ruined your bridal shower.”
Niamh kneels in front of you, tucking stray strands of hair behind your ears with surprising gentleness. “You didn’t ruin anything. Just… stay here, okay? Until you feel better.”
You nod, small and pathetic, like a scolded child. Your lip trembles, and before you can stop it, the truth spills out, raw and heavy. “I don’t want to be alone forever.”
Her expression softens instantly. She cups your face in both hands, her voice tender as she says, “Oh, honey. You’re not going to be alone forever. You just… need a time out. Until you sober up.”
You nod again, and for the first time all day, you almost believe her.
When she leaves the room, the silence swallows you whole. You collapse backward onto the bed, shoes still on, the ceiling spinning above you. Before long, the exhaustion wins. You drift into sleep, your chest aching, your body heavy with the kind of sadness that even dreams can’t untangle.
-
Your house looks like the aftermath of a storm that only hit you. Empty mugs and glasses cover the coffee table, snack wrappers crumpled like little paper failures beside them. The TV drones on, another movie flickering across the screen, but you haven’t been watching. You just need the noise, anything to keep the silence from swallowing you whole.
You’re curled up on the sofa under a blanket that’s half sliding to the floor when your phone starts buzzing somewhere between the cushions. It takes effort, too much effort, to hunt it down—shoving your hand deep into the gap until your fingers close around it. You flop back down, dragging the blanket to your chest like armor.
“Hello?”
“Why haven’t you asked me on a second date yet?” Felix’s voice comes through, smooth, self-assured, too bright for the cave you’ve built yourself in.
You groan. “Second date? I don’t even remember the first.”
He ignores that. “Well? What’s the hold up?”
“Fine.” Your voice comes out muffled against the blanket. “You can have your second date if you bring me cheeseburgers and fries. And we’re having it here. At my place. No exceptions.”
There’s a pause. Then Felix sighs dramatically, as if the weight of your demand is unbearable. “Cheeseburgers? Really? I have to stay in shape, you know. I can’t—”
You cut him off with another groan. “Just remember you’re the one turning it down.” And with that, you hang up, dropping the phone onto the coffee table without another thought before burrowing deeper into your blanket cocoon.
You must drift, because the next thing you register is the sharp buzz of your doorbell. You jolt upright, disoriented, heart racing. You weren’t expecting anyone. Felix was just being cheeky. He couldn’t have actually—
But when you open the door, there he is.
Felix, all smug grin and infuriating charm, holding up a grease-stained takeout bag like a trophy. “Miss me?”
The unmistakable smell of burgers and fries hits you, and your stomach betrays you with a loud growl. You narrow your eyes, but he only smirks wider. He knows he’s won.
-
The wrappers are balled up on the table, the smell of burgers still clinging to the air. You sink back into the sofa, feeling heavier and lighter all at once. Felix lounges next to you, too at ease for someone who just witnessed the mess of your life scattered all over your living room.
He’s looking around, that little tilt of his head betraying the questions you know he’s holding back.
“You know what they say,” you murmur, trying to play it off, “if you can’t handle me at my worst…” The words falter, dying in your throat as you take in your blanket nest, the clutter, the exhaustion hanging off you. You don’t even want to finish the sentence.
But Felix doesn’t push. Doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t ask. He just leans forward, plucks the remote from the table, and says, “I’m picking the movie.”
So you let him and the TV flickers to life, as soon as the opening theme plays, your chest tightens. Of all things, he’s chosen a Ghibli film—Han’s favorite. The pastel skies, the swelling music—it pulls you under, dragging up memories you’ve been trying to shove back down. By the time you notice the sting in your eyes, it’s too late.
Felix notices. He tilts his head, feigning confusion. “It’s not even a sad movie.”
“I know,” you whisper, voice wobbling as tears slip free. “I just… it makes me miss someone.”
Silence stretches. Felix shifts, and when he finally speaks, his voice is low. “Do you miss him?”
You nod slowly, your throat aching. “I do.”
Maybe it’s the comfort of the dim light, or maybe you’re too tired to keep holding it in, but the words start spilling out anyway. “I thought when we’re older, it’d be easier. You know? Like… all the heartbreak, the choices. I thought it’d make more sense.”
Felix turns his head, watching you closely. Then, with a faint smirk, he leans in just enough to say, “I’ve got bad news for you—it’s not getting any easier from here.”
You let out a scoff, half laugh, half disbelief.
But he smiles softer this time. “What you will get, though, is stronger. And I know you will. You’ll get through this.”
His hand finds yours, warm and steady, and he squeezes gently. It’s simple, but it cuts through the fog that’s been weighing on you for weeks.
You can’t help but smile—genuine, fragile, grateful. You lean your head back against the sofa, tilt your face toward him with your best puppy eyes, and murmur sweetly, “Can we order tacos now?”
Felix bursts into laughter, the sound filling the room like sunlight. “Only if you’re paying this time.”
-
It’s the first time in your life you’re packing hours before the flight, the anxiety is real as half-zipped suitcases yawning open on the bed, clothes scattered, chargers tangled. You scramble from room to room, muttering under your breath as you shove toiletries into your bag, double-checking your passport and flight tickets like they might disappear if you look away for too long.
Less than three hours before your flight. Your stomach churns with nerves and caffeine as you drag your suitcase out the door and haul it into the backseat. On the drive, your mind races—lists upon lists of what you might have forgotten. You’re halfway to the airport when your phone rings, buzzing against the console. Niamh’s name flashes across the screen.
You fumble to answer, pinning the phone between your ear and shoulder. “Hey! Don’t worry, I’m on my way to the airport. Everything’s fine.”
Her voice comes through bright but edged with stress. “Good. But… uh, you have your dress, right?”
Your heart drops straight into your stomach. “Oh, shit.” You slam your palm against your forehead, groaning.
“You forgot it, didn’t you?”
You’re already swerving toward the nearest turn, checking your mirrors as you reroute. “I had it altered and I forgot to pick it up.”
Niamh groans dramatically.
“I know, I know—but don’t panic, okay? I’m turning around right now. I’ll pick it up, and I’ll still make my flight,” you assure her but even it sounds so doubtful to you.
There’s a beat of silence, then a long exhale from her side. “You’d better. Just hurry up and drive safely.”
You wince, half-laughing, half-panicking. “Noted. Dress, flight, wedding. Got it. I promise.”
You hang up and grip the steering wheel tighter, muttering to yourself as you floor it toward the dry cleaner, praying the universe gives you a break this one time.
-
The dash through the airport feels like an Olympic sprint, suitcase wheels rattling across the floor, dress bag clutched in your free hand like it’s the Holy Grail. By the time you slump into your seat on the plane, hair sticking to your temples and chest heaving, relief washes over you. You did it.
The flight blurs by in a haze of cramped seats and recycled air. Before you know it, you’re dragging your suitcase out to the curb and flagging down a cab, giving the driver the address of the train station. The city rushes past the window—buildings stacked close, roads buzzing with traffic.
The train ride is quieter, a long stretch of countryside opening up on either side as you sink into your seat. You watch the blur of trees, fields, and little towns flash by, your reflection faint against the glass. For the first time in days, you let yourself breathe, headphones in, world muted.
At the last stop, you haul your luggage again, this time toward a rental car parked at the edge of the lot. The keys click in your hand, the engine hums to life, and you’re off.
The road winds narrower as you leave the towns behind, giving way to sprawling fields and rolling hills. Then, suddenly, the lake comes into view—shimmering in the late afternoon sun, surrounded by green that stretches forever. The countryside is almost too beautiful, the kind of place that feels untouched by the mess of your thoughts.
You slow the car as the signs for the wedding venue come into view, your chest tightening with anticipation. Niamh’s choice makes sense now—the place looks like something pulled straight from a dream, the perfect backdrop for vows and forever.
By the time you finally make it up to your hotel room, your body aches in that bone-deep way that comes from nonstop motion. You don’t bother unpacking, you take a shower and as you’re drying your hair with a towel, you head for the window, pulling the curtains aside. Outside, the wedding tent is already up—white canvas gleaming against the lake, strings of lights weaving across the poles. It looks magical even half-finished, like a promise waiting to unfold.
-
The sun filters through the canopy of trees, warm and golden, like even the world itself wants to celebrate Niamh and Josh. The lake behind them sparkles, its surface rippling with the breeze. You stand beside Niamh in your bridesmaid dress, her bouquet carefully cradled in your hands, and try to steady your breathing.
Josh’s voice wavers slightly as he begins his vows, but his eyes never leave hers. There’s so much love in them it’s almost unbearable to witness. And Niamh—she glows. Every word she says carries that certainty, that kind of devotion that fills the air around them like sunlight.
Your throat tightens because you know how that felt once. That electric current between two people, that sense of being tethered by something invisible and unbreakable. You remember the kind of joy that burned so brightly it almost hurt.
And it hurts now too, only differently.
A few feet away, Han stands among the groomsmen, the light blue suit and crisp white shirt making him look polished, untouchable. He’s smiling as Josh and Niamh hold each other’s hands, but when your eyes accidentally find his, your chest clenches. You force yourself to look away before the ache swallows you whole.
Then the words come. The words everyone waits for.
“I do.”
First from Josh, then from Niamh, their voices steady with conviction. The officiant’s announcement follows, clear and ringing across the lawn: “I now pronounce you husband and wife.”
They kiss, and the whole crowd bursts into cheers. Applause, laughter, whistles. You clap too, a wide smile stretching across your face even as tears prick your eyes. Because your heart hurts—but it’s the kind of hurt that feels almost beautiful.
A reminder of what was. A hope, maybe, for what could be again someday.
And as you cheer for them, bouquet clutched in your hands, you let the ache linger, bittersweet in the best way.
-
Flowers decorated every inch of the wedding tent, champagne flutes catching every flicker as laughter and chatter fill the air. You swirl the last sip of bubbly in your glass, only half-listening as Ariel, Niamh’s younger sister, stands at the small stage. She’s radiant in her matching bridesmaid dress, sharing the same blonde hair, freckled cheeks and round nose as her older sister. Her voice trembles slightly, but her words are drenched in sweetness. “To Niamh, my sister, my forever role model…” She goes on, voice thick with sentiment, and though you want to roll your eyes at the cheesiness, you force yourself to smile.
It’s a wedding, after all. They’re supposed to be cheesy. You endured the same when it was your turn, once upon a time.
You drain your champagne, the bubbles prickling your throat when Ariel’s voice cuts into your wandering thoughts. “And now, give it up to Niamh’s best friend in the world—”
Your stomach drops as she calls your name and then applause scatters through the tent as Ariel steps down, handing off the microphone.
Chris, seated next to you, leans over with a crooked grin. “Good luck,” he mutters under his breath, raising his glass in mock salute.
You shoot him a look, but your pulse is already thrumming in your ears. You completely forgot about it. Between the mess of your own heart, the life drama and the endless bridesmaid duties, you hadn’t written a single word for this moment.
Still, you rise, smoothing clammy palms against the fabric of your dress. Each step toward the stage feels heavy, your smile practiced, shaky at the edges. You take the mic, staring at the crowd—faces blurred by nerves and champagne.
“Well,” you start, voice faintly cracking before you clear your throat. “No pressure or anything, right?”
A nervous ripple of laughter, polite but brief. Your chest tightens. Come on, make them laugh.
“So, uh… I was told the trick is to start with a joke.” You pause, then deliver one you’re not even sure makes sense in the haze of panic. Silence stretches—until someone in the very back chuckles, the sound sharp in the quiet.
You point toward them with mock gravity. “Thank you, sir, for the support. I appreciate you.”
That earns you a warmer laugh from the crowd, tension easing just slightly, though your hands still tremble around the mic.
You glance at Niamh and she’s there, sitting close to Josh, the two of them glowing in that unmistakable newlywed light, her bouquet laid on the table, her cheeks flushed pink. She’s watching you, hopeful, expectant, her eyes bright as if she’s waiting for something more than a flimsy joke.
You take in a deep breath, steadying yourself. “So…” you start again, this time softer. “I just came from quite the journey to get here—planes, cabs, trains, rental cars, the whole lot and… I’m pretty sure there was a rickshaw in there with the donkey. I’m honestly surprised I made it in one piece.” A few people chuckle at that, the sound loosening something in your chest.
“The truth is…” you glance at Niamh, “…I’d go anywhere for Niamh. Because she’s my best friend, and I love her. I’m so happy for her.”
Her eyes glimmer at that, and it pushes you to keep going.
You let your mind wander back through years of memories you shared with Niamh until one settles warm in your chest. “When we were in college, we had this tradition. Every Sunday, no matter what, we’d meet at The Bishop—Niamh and Josh, me and Han.” You catch Niamh’s eyes flicker toward Josh, the two of them sharing a soft, fond look, no doubt replaying those Sundays in their heads.
“There was always something there with these two, even back then. Even when they were just friends.” You gesture toward them, smiling despite the ache in your chest. “Just this ease they had with each other. And now—” you glance between them, voice softening, “they’re perfect. And at last, love wins.”
There’s a hush, a pause where it feels like the whole tent is breathing together, before the crowd breaks into warm applause. You smile, lowering the mic—only, something inside you twists, restless.
You lift the mic again, voice trembling just a little. “Niamh and Josh—you guys are lucky. So lucky to be best friends.” The crack in your throat makes your words wobble. “Work hard on that. Respect that. Be patient and… you don’t always have to be right.” You smile faintly, even as tears sting your eyes. “Even if you are, it doesn’t matter anyway. Fight for it. Every single day.”
Your chest squeezes as the last words slip out. “I wish I had.”
For a beat too long, silence stretches over the room, your vulnerability hanging in the air. Then, before it can sour, you force a smile, raise your champagne flute, and mutter, “Cheers.”
The applause comes a second late, hesitant at first, but it grows, the sound wrapping around you as you step off the stage. You keep your head down, back to your table, where you immediately tip the rest of your drink down your throat to burn back the tears threatening to spill.
Chris reaches under the table, his hand finding yours on your thigh. His palm is steady, grounding, and he gives a gentle squeeze. When you look at him, he smiles—no teasing this time. Just warm. “That was a great speech,” he says, easy and certain.
You know he’s only being kind, but you can’t help but smile anyway because it seems like Ariel isn’t the only one who got cheesy tonight.
-
The dessert table is almost too much—towering éclairs, pastel macarons, lemon tarts with glazed tops that glisten under the fairy lights. You hover there, debating which one to choose, when you feel it. That shift in the air, that quiet certainty. You don’t need to look—you know who it is.
“This might be a bad time to talk about it,” Han says in utter seriousness as he picks up a plate, “but at some point, we have to address Josh’s dance moves.”
Your eyes flicker to the dance floor and there he is, Josh, one leg propped against the tent pole, hips thrusting in some over-exaggerated grind that makes half the guests cheer and the other half cover their faces.
You stifle a laugh, lips twitching. “Wow,” you murmur, still looking at Josh, “Niamh really is a lucky girl.”
There’s a pause. You feel it before you hear him again.
You finally turn, catching his gaze. His sincerity makes your chest ache.
“Thank you,” he adds quietly.
You smile, meaning every word as you reply, “I meant it.”
Han gives a small nod, eyes lingering on yours. “I know.”
The silence teeters on the edge of something heavy, and you don’t want it to land there. So you tilt your head, letting playfulness slip in. “You know what else is beautiful?”
His brows rise, curious. “What?”
“Your son.”
The confusion on his face makes you bite back a grin.
“Stellan Koontz-Smith Hanson,” you remind him.
Blank. Then—recognition dawns. “That Swedish robot? How’s he doing?”
You feign a tragic look. “I had to chop him into pieces.”
Han gasps, dramatic as ever. “How dare you?”
“He wasn’t paying rent,” you explain solemnly. “Did absolutely nothing about it.”
“Wow,” Han shakes his head, biting back laughter. “Cold. Even for you.”
You’re laughing, both of you spiraling down into the kind of ridiculousness you haven’t shared in years, when a voice cuts through.
“Who’s Stellan?”
You both glance up to see Isla at Han’s side, her brows arched, amused.
You wave a hand vaguely. “A robot dresser Han assembled one night.”
“It’s a stupid thing,” you add.
Han echoes, chuckling, “Yeah. A stupid robot.”
Isla smiles at the both of you, laying her hand on Han’s arm. “Dinner’s about to be served. We should head back.”
Han nods, his hand sliding into hers. As they turn, Isla glances back at you with a kind smile. “See you on the dance floor.”
You smile, small but genuine, watching them disappear back to their table. It aches, but in a softer way this time.
As the party swells behind you—music, laughter, cheers—you slip out of the tent, a pilfered bottle of champagne dangling from your fingers. You stand just outside, the cool air wrapping around you, watching everyone inside. They look so happy, so alive, twirling under strings of lights. For a moment, you just breathe.
It hurts, yes, but the hurt feels… different now. Softer. Like the bitter has thinned out, leaving only something warm.
And then the fireworks begin, bursting in the sky above the lake. Gold, red, silver—scattering like sparks of possibility. You tilt your head back, smile curling on your lips. For the first time in a long while, you feel it: the bitter part is ending and the sweet part has only just begun.
-
It’s too neat, too clean, too perfect for a place to work but Chris likes it that way, he even organized his record collections alphabetically because that’s just how he is but your focus is locked on the man, not the fact that he probably has a serious case of OCD. He’s leaning back in his chair, twirling a pen, the universal signal that he’s about to shoot your idea down.
“I’m telling you,” you say, leaning over his desk, your voice stubborn but hopeful. “This band isn’t just good—they’re different. Their lyrics are sharp, the sound’s fresh. They’ve got something real.”
Chris sighs dramatically, tilting his head at you. “You know how many people pitch me ‘the next big thing’ every week?”
You roll your eyes, drop into the chair across from him. “Okay, but how many of them have my track record?”
He smirks despite himself. “You mean the one where you fall head over heels for a band, drag me into it, and somehow… annoyingly… end up being right?”
You grin wide, resting your chin in your hand. “Exactly.”
Chris chuckles, shaking his head like he’s lost this round already. Finally, he scribbles his signature on the sponsorship form and slides it across the desk. “Fine. But if they flop, I’m blaming you.”
“They won’t,” you say with absolute certainty, snatching it before he can change his mind. “You’re welcome, by the way.”
Chris mutters something about regretting this already, but you’re practically glowing.
-
It’s the weekend, and for once, you’re having a quiet night in. A book rests half-read on the couch, the TV hums softly in the background, and you’ve convinced yourself that doing nothing is exactly what you need.
Then the doorbell rings.
You frown, not expecting anyone, and pad over to answer it. When you swing the door open, there’s Felix, grinning from ear to ear like he’s been waiting all night for this.
“Felix,” you say, arching a brow. “You can’t just show up at my door unannounced.”
He doesn’t even flinch. Instead, he lifts the bag in his hands and cracks it open just enough for the rich, savory scent of tacos to spill into your hallway. Your stomach betrays you immediately, growling loud enough to make him chuckle.
Without another word, you sigh, step aside, and gesture him in. “Fine. You’re lucky you brought backup.”
Not long after, the two of you are sitting cross-legged on the carpet, tacos demolished, glasses of red wine refilled, Scrabble tiles scattered across the board in front of you.
Felix stares at his tiles with a calculating intensity, tongue poking out just slightly as he rearranges them. Finally, he lays down the word: Z-I-F-T.
You narrow your eyes. “What the hell is that supposed to be?”
Felix casually replies, “It’s a word.”
“You’re a songwriter,” you argue, glaring at the nonsense word he’s just set down. “You should know that is not a word.”
Felix smirks, leaning back on his hands. “It’s a word in my world. Which means it counts.”
“That’s not how it works!” you protest, snatching up your glass for emphasis. “You can’t just make stuff up because you don’t want to lose.”
He doesn’t flinch. Instead, he shifts forward in one fluid movement, closing the space between you before you can catch up to what’s happening. “You talk too much for a loser,” he murmurs, and then, his lips are on yours.
The kiss is sudden, bold, silencing every protest you had on your tongue. For a heartbeat, you freeze—but then the warmth of it, the softness, the way his hand comes up to cup your jaw, pulls you under. The taste of wine and tacos lingers between you, and the kiss deepens, unhurried but certain, like he’s been holding it back for too long.
When he finally pulls back, he’s grinning, eyes alight. “See? That’s a wordless victory.”
You’re breathless, blinking at him, torn between laughing, smacking him, or pulling him back in. Instead, you manage a weak protest, your voice shaky with the smile you can’t hide. “That… doesn’t count either.”
Felix just leans in again, his forehead brushing yours. “Then maybe I should try harder until it does.”
You try to hold your ground, determined to beat him despite that kiss throwing you off your game, but it’s useless. Even without his cheating, Felix racks up points like it’s second nature. By the end, the board is nearly full, and you’re glaring at the final tally.
“Unbelievable,” you mutter, tossing your last tiles back into the pouch. “You didn’t even need to cheat. You just— you crushed me.”
Felix is already leaning back, hands behind his head, smug as ever. “What can I say? Wordsmith by day, Scrabble king by night.”
You sulk, arms crossing as you slump back against the couch. “I hate this. You were supposed to lose. That was the deal.”
He turns his head toward you, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’re actually pouting.”
“I’m not pouting.”
“You are.” He shifts closer, his voice lowering, playful but softer now. “It’s… kinda adorable.”
You shoot him a look, about to argue again, but before you can, Felix dips forward and catches your lips in another kiss. This one isn’t sudden or teasing, he kisses you like he’s trying to erase the sulk right out of you, his hand brushing your knee before sliding higher. Your arms uncross without thinking, hands finding their way into his hair as the kiss deepens.
The board rattles against the carpet when you shift, tiles scattering, but neither of you care. He pulls you onto his lap, your knees bracketing his thighs, the game forgotten as his mouth moves hungrily against yours.
“You’re still a loser,” he murmurs between kisses, grinning against your lips.
“Shut up,” you whisper back, tugging him in closer.
But he doesn’t stop—his hands roam, firm against your waist, pulling you down flush against him. The kiss escalates, no longer playful but needy, and you let yourself get lost in it, your sulk dissolving into laughter, then soft sighs, then nothing but the rush of him everywhere.
Your hands slide under his shirt, tracing the taut muscles of his stomach until he lifts his arms, letting you strip him bare. His skin is warm, smooth, his body lean but defined, and your fingers wander, greedy to touch every inch.
Felix doesn’t give you long before pulling you back into another kiss. His hands roam your sides like he’s memorizing you, tugging gently at the hem of your top until he slips it over your head. He leans back, eyes flicking over you, and the small, dazed smile on his lips is almost enough to undo you right there.
“Still sulking?” he murmurs, thumb brushing over your lower lip as if the pout you had earlier lingers.
“Maybe,” you say, but your voice betrays you—it’s too soft, too needy.
He grins, low and wicked, before kissing you again. “Good. I like it.”
The kiss deepens, turns hungrier. His tongue slides against yours, coaxing a shiver down your spine, and before you realize it, you’re on your back, the carpet warm beneath you as Felix hovers over you, hair falling forward and tickling your cheek. He pauses there, eyes locked on yours, as if asking without words. You answer with your hands, tugging him down to you.
Clothes scatter carelessly—your jeans tugged down, his belt unbuckled, laughter spilling between kisses when you fumble impatiently at a button. His mouth maps you slowly, tracing your throat, your collarbone, lingering at your chest before moving lower, his touch and lips coaxing sounds out of you you can’t hold back.
Felix tilts his head, exposing his neck to you and without the slightest of hesitation, you place kisses on his skin, on the column of his throat, his Adam’s apple, his jaws and then you drag your lips close to his ear.
“Felix—” his name escapes you in a whisper, half-plea, half-sigh, and it makes him groan like he’s been waiting to hear it.
He growls in response before crashing his lips against yours again. His hand wildly roaming around your body as yours is wrapped around his swollen length, throbbing the more you slowly stroke it.
When he finally pushes his cock into you, it’s slow at first—so achingly slow you want to scream. His forehead presses to yours, breath ragged, as though he’s determined to feel every inch, every moment. He kisses you between gasps, messy and desperate, and whispers things against your skin that you barely catch but burn all the same—how good you feel, how much he wants you.
You move together, finding a rhythm, laughter slipping in between the moans when he says something cheeky just to make you roll your eyes even now. But then his lips find that spot at your neck, his pace falters into something rougher, deeper, and the laughter gives way to broken gasps.
The heat builds, wave after wave, until it crashes over you both. You cling to him, nails digging into his shoulders, his name spilling from your lips as he buries his face against your neck, trembling with the force of it.
After, he doesn’t move away—not right away. He stays pressed to you, breath mingling with yours, his thumb stroking absent circles over your hip. Then he chuckles softly, kissing your temple.
“Guess I win at more than scrabble,” he teases, his voice low and wrecked.
Somehow, in the haze of it, you find the energy to protest again. “What the hell is zift anyway? You don’t even know what it means?” You say with an exasperated sigh.
He only laughs again, pulling you closer and in the quiet aftermath, it feels less like losing and more like the sweetest win.
-
You’re back at the office, running through the last checklist for the indie band’s release party when you hear someone call your name. You turn around—and freeze.
Jeongin is standing there, easy smile on his face, like nothing ever happened. “Hey. Wow, I haven’t heard from you since our date.”
The words sting a little, not because of him, but because of how badly that night unraveled. For a moment you think maybe he’s joking—but no, he looks genuinely clueless.
You force a polite smile. “Yeah, uh… I’ve just been… busy.”
It comes out awkward, thin as paper. He nods like he accepts the answer, but the silence that follows is unbearable. You can feel the air tightening around you, your heart itching to get out of there.
“Well,” you stammer, already stepping back, “I should probably… get going. I have a… super important meeting I need to attend.” You emphasize the words as if they’ll somehow make your excuse more believable, even though you’re clutching a clipboard and nowhere near a meeting room.
Before he can say anything else, you pivot on your heels and dart away, tugging Chris’s arm as soon as you reach him. Leaning close, you whisper through clenched teeth, “You didn’t tell me you hired him for the album release party?”
Chris looks over your shoulder toward Jeongin, then back at you, and he bursts out laughing. “What? I thought you’d enjoy the surprise.”
“Chris,” you hiss, still dragging him down the hall, “you knew about that date.”
“Of course I knew,” he says, completely unbothered, “but you two looked cute together! I figured this would be like a fun little reunion.”
“Fun?” You shoot him a sharp glare. “That was not fun. That was mortifying.”
He just grins wider. “Come on, it wasn’t that bad. You made an excuse about a super important meeting. Classic. Very smooth.”
You groan, pressing your forehead against your clipboard. “You’re never going to let me live this down, are you?”
“Not a chance,” Chris says, positively gleeful. “But hey, look at the bright side—at least he doesn’t know you ghosted him. He thinks you’re just busy.”
“That’s… not better!” you protest, but he only laughs harder, clearly enjoying your misery way too much.
-
The bass thunders through the venue, lights flickering over the crowd, when Chris slips out of nowhere and appears at your side. His grin is wide, flushed with excitement and maybe a bit of pride as he leans close to be heard over the music.
“You were right,” he shouts, holding up his phone so you can see the endless stream of notifications flying across the screen. “The magazine’s socials are blowing up—this event is everywhere right now.”
He pulls you into a quick, celebratory hug, his cologne mixing with a hint of alcohol and stage fog. You pat his back lightly, playing it cool even as a smile sneaks onto your lips.
“I’m glad it’s a success,” you say into his shoulder before he lets go.
“Huh?” He narrows his eyes at you. “No, ‘I told you so’ or ‘I’m always right’?”
You scoff a chuckle at that. “I’ve matured, Chris.”
Chris only laughs, shaking his head at your smugness, but there’s a spark in his eyes when he pulls away, that look that says he knows something you don’t.
“What?” you ask, narrowing your eyes at him.
“Nothing,” he says, far too innocently, then leans in. “Just that the event’s also a success because a certain rockstar decided to attend.”
Before you can demand what he means, you feel a shift in the air beside you. A familiar warmth—undeniable even in a crowd this size. You don’t have to look to know, but you do anyway.
Felix in his leather jacket and jeans, blond hair shining under the stage lights, he looks like he was made to belong here. He flashes you a smile that’s both mischievous and earnest, and your chest betrays you by tightening at the sight.
You immediately mask it, schooling your face into feigned indifference. You roll your eyes lightly, acting as if his presence doesn’t spark something in you. “Oh, great. Him.”
Chris only smirks knowingly before excusing himself, leaving the two of you in the middle of the chaos, as though he’d planned this from the start.
As the band starts performing the tracks from their new album, the venue is alive, pulsing with energy, lights sweep across the stage, the crowd wild with excitement. You’re right there in the middle of it, pulled along by Felix’s infectious laugh, his hand finding your waist like it belongs there.
Neither of you know the words, not a single lyric, but it doesn’t matter—you’re screaming nonsense in time with everyone else, dancing like the floor belongs to you. Felix spins you once, badly, making you stumble into his chest, and you both dissolve into laughter before jumping again with the beat.
Then the music shifts, slows down, the electric charge melting into something softer. Without hesitation, Felix slips behind you, his arms resting securely at your waist, his chest pressed lightly against your back. He sways you both side to side, moving with the lazy rhythm.
It’s easy. Too easy. The press of his body is warm, grounding; his cheek brushing against your hair feels almost intimate, almost right. You close your eyes for a moment, letting yourself sink into the comfort of it, the simplicity of just being held in the middle of the crowd.
And yet—there it is again. That lingering knot in your chest, the one that whispers of ghosts you haven’t let go of, of love that once burned so bright it left a scar. You can’t shake it. Even as you sway with Felix, even as he hums tunelessly against your ear, even as you smile because it feels good to smile… the doubt is still there, quiet but unyielding.
Are you ready for this? For him? For a new relationship?
-
Felix insists on walking you to your door, even though his chauffeur waits patiently by the car, engine idling, ready to take him straight to the airport as he’s still in the middle of tour. The two of you are still buzzing from the night—maybe from the cocktails, maybe from the music, maybe from the kiss that still lingers like static in the air.
On the front step, Felix suddenly catches your hand and gives you a playful spin, your skirt fanning out as you laugh in surprise. Before you can steady yourself, he reels you back in, catching you against his chest. There’s no space left between your bodies, no air. Just him, warm and solid, smiling down at you as if this moment is all that matters.
This time, he kisses you slower, deeper. Sweet in a way that aches, as if he’s giving you something fragile and precious. You melt into it without thinking—into him—and for a fleeting second, it feels dangerously easy to let yourself fall.
But then something sharp and real cuts through the haze. The weight of everything you’re carrying crashes back in. Your chest tightens, not from joy this time, but from the truth pressing at the back of your throat.
You pull back, your lips brushing his as you whisper, “I can’t do it.”
His smile falters instantly, confusion replacing it. “What? Are you serious? Why?” His voice isn’t demanding, just careful, searching.
You take a step back, drawing in a shaky breath. “I’m sorry. I’m not ready for… this.”
Felix doesn’t let go right away. His hands linger at your waist as if he wants to keep you grounded. “But… why?” he asks softly, no judgment in it, only curiosity.
“I think I need to be alone,” you say, finally meeting his eyes. “Getting a divorce—it’s something I need to do by myself.”
He tilts his head, eyes narrowing slightly. “Hey, I know you’re getting a divorce and I—”
“I know,” you rush in, shaking your head. “But I think I have to go through that alone. I can’t—” you pause, swallowing, “I can’t skip to something new without getting it done first.”
For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. Just studies you, his expression softening into something quiet, contemplative. And then, he nods. “Okay. I respect that.”
Relief and guilt hit you all at once. You admire him for the way he doesn’t push, for the kindness in the way he looks at you. He’s been nothing but steady, patient, and a comfort you hadn’t realized you’d needed.
“You’re not ready until you’re ready,” Felix says gently. “So don’t force it.”
The sincerity in his voice makes your throat ache. Without thinking, you lean forward and press a heartfelt kiss against his lips. It’s brief, tender, but you hope it carries everything you can’t put into words—thank you, I’m grateful, I wish I were ready.
When you pull away, his lips curve into a small, warm smile. “I like you,” he murmurs, almost sheepishly. “So when you’re ready, you call me, okay?”
You can’t help but smile back, a fragile but genuine curve of your lips. “Okay.”
You share one last long, tight hug, the kind that feels like a promise. When he finally lets you go, he takes a step back, hands lingering as if reluctant to lose contact. Then, with a soft grin, he turns and walks back toward the car.
Just before climbing in, Felix stops, glances over his shoulder, and lifts his hand in a small wave. You wave back, heart aching and full all at once, watching him disappear into the night.
-
The conference room is sterile in a way that matches the mood. You sit across from Han, a long, glossy table between you, each of you flanked by your respective attorneys. Papers are stacked neatly, pens uncapped, the air thick with silence broken only by the occasional rustle of pages.
Your attorney leans in, her voice calm and professional, guiding you through the next step. “Just here,” she says, tapping the page. You grip the pen, press it to paper, and sign your name, your hand trembling only slightly.
When you look up, your gaze lands on Han. He’s dressed properly for the occasion—dark suit, crisp shirt, but it’s his tie that catches your eye. A deep, rich blue that feels unexpectedly bold against all the seriousness of the room.
Before you can stop yourself, the words tumble out. “Love that tie on you.”
Han is rather surprised as if he isn’t sure he heard you right. Then, slowly, his lips twitch into a smile. “Uh… thank you.”
Your attorney looks at you, puzzled, but you’re already pressing on, unable to resist the familiar urge to tease him. “Is it made… out of organic mung beans?”
Han ducks his head, shoulders shaking, trying to smother the laugh that threatens to break through in this suffocatingly formal setup. “No,” he says, voice low with amusement. “I actually found it when I was digging through your trash.”
The two of you break into laughter at the same time—loud and unrestrained, the sound jarring against the eerie quiet of the law firm. The attorneys glance at each other, clearly baffled at how anyone could find something to laugh about in the middle of a divorce proceeding.
And yet, for a fleeting moment, it feels like old times—just you and Han, finding each other in the absurdity of life.
-
When you both step out the law firm, the world feels… strangely the same, though everything has changed. You walk side by side down the steps, neither of you in a hurry to part, neither sure what to say next.
Han glances at you, his mouth quirking into a half-smile before he mutters, almost playfully, “Well… we’re divorced.”
You look back at him, and for the first time in a long while, there’s no sting. No bitterness. Just the truth. “Yep, we did it,” you say, holding up your hand, asking for a high-five
Han stares for a beat, then grins and smacks his hand against yours. The sharp clap echoes between you before both of you break into laughter, the kind that feels a little too loud, too freeing for the moment.
“We nailed that divorce,” Han says, still laughing as he shakes his head.
When the sound dies down, what lingers is a silence that doesn’t feel heavy. You inhale deeply and exhale just as slowly, a sigh that feels like no other—a release, a surrender. Relief. Finality. The end of a chapter, but also the quiet opening of a new one.
Han turns to you, studying your face for a moment. His voice softens, his playfulness giving way to something more careful. “Want to hang out for a bit more?”
The two of you walk aimlessly through the city, the sunset giving way to twilight. Dinner had been simple—nothing grand, just plates half-eaten as you filled the space with stories, laughter, and a kind of ease that only comes with someone who knows you inside out. Afterward, you kept walking, letting the dark settle in like a blanket, the streets glowing with lamplight. It’s when you pass the building—the one you once called ugly—that your feet stop. The light catches it differently now, gold and silver gleaming across the glass, shadows softened by night.
“It’s beautiful,” you murmur, almost to yourself.
Han pauses beside you, eyebrows raised slightly. “Thought you hated it.”
“Never seen it at night,” you answer quietly, still looking up.
You hear him exhale—a sound heavy, tired. When you turn, he’s already sunk down onto a nearby bench, elbows on his knees, his whole body folding under something invisible but weighty. You hesitate before sitting next to him.
“Hey,” you tease gently, nudging his arm. “We just got divorced, but nobody died, right?”
That makes him scoff a laugh, but it doesn’t last. He leans back, stares at the sky as if searching for words. Finally, his voice comes low, broken at the edges. “I keep thinking about how… you were right.” He swallows hard before turning his head toward you. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”
The words land sharp. Not because you wanted this confession. Not because you wanted to be right. But because you recognize it. That same fear—new beginnings, starting over without the other person to lean on.
Instead of unraveling with him, you reach for comfort, offering softly, “Do you love her?”
Han hesitates, his gaze flicking away, as if the answer might hurt you, but you can already see it written in him. Slowly, he nods.
You blink away the ache, forcing a small smile. “Then it’s worth fighting for.”
The silence that follows is heavy, but not cruel. It’s weighted with years of knowing each other, with all the things that can’t be undone. Tears well, pooling until they blur the streetlights, and before you know it, you’re standing, brushing them away. “This is getting too emotional,” you joke, voice breaking slightly.
Han laughs quietly as he gets up too, though it’s tinged with sadness. “Yeah,” he agrees.
You face him, the night folding around you both, and you know this moment—this, right here—is the end of something. So you give him words to carry, words you mean more than anything: “You deserve to be happy. And I want that for you. Always.”
His gaze lingers on yours, tender and soft in a way that twists your insides. His voice is a whisper when he says, “Me too.”
Then, almost trembling, he adds, “I love you.”
The words land differently now—less promise, more memory. But they’re no less true.
Tears spill as you whisper back, “I love you too.”
He leans in, and you let him—one last kiss, slow and lingering, tasting of goodbye and everything you once were. Your heart aches so fiercely it almost feels like breaking all over again.
When he pulls away, he lets out a shaky breath, a faint smile ghosting his lips before he turns to leave. You watch him walk away, and for a moment you think you should too.
But then he stops, pivots back, his smile warmer this time, softer. “It’s late,” he says, voice gentle. “I should walk you to your car.”
Something in you loosens at that—because even now, even after everything, he’s still him. You laugh through your tears and nod, letting him fall into step beside you, the two of you walking together one last time.
-
Your office is quiet, the kind of quiet that only settles when you’re too deep into work to notice the hours passing. The cursor blinks on your screen, the article you’ve been obsessing over finally finished, polished, and sent. You’re still rereading a line for the third time when a knock at your door pulls you back.
“Hey, special one,” Chris cheerfully greets as he leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, grin wide. “Your latest piece is blowing up. Positive responses everywhere. Honestly, you’re making the rest of us look bad.”
You laugh, leaning back in your chair. “It’s literally my job, Chris.”
“Yeah, well, you’re killing it,” he says, pointing at you with mock seriousness. Then his grin tilts sly. “So… any chance you’ll celebrate? Maybe even go on a date? Or are you planning to marry your laptop now that it’s been a while since the divorce?”
You roll your eyes, but don’t bother answering. Chris takes your silence as the win it is, chuckling as he pushes off the doorframe. “Cause I have a plan to set you up with another photographer I know,” he playfully tosses over his shoulder before leaving you alone again.
“Ugh. No, thank you,” you groan as you swivel your chair to face your computer.
The room settles back into quiet, but his words hang there, heavier than you want to admit. You stare at your phone for a long moment before you finally reach for it, thumb hovering over a familiar name.
You know he probably won’t pick up right away—it’s Felix, the rockstar, after all—but still, you press call. When it clicks to voicemail, something about the timing feels right. Almost like the universe is daring you.
You take a breath, smile tugging at your lips. “Hey. I know you’re probably in a hot tub with some naked groupies, but if that doesn’t work out for you…” You pause, your own laughter breaking into the words as warmth spreads through your chest.
“I think I’m ready.”
It’s the first time those words don’t feel heavy, don’t feel wrong. They feel light, honest. True.
And because you can’t resist, you add with a grin, “… to beat you at Scrabble.”
You hang up before you can second-guess yourself. The silence that follows doesn’t feel empty—it feels freeing. For once, you’re not planning ten steps ahead, not gripping so tightly to what comes next. You’re just… letting go.
Maybe Felix will call back. Maybe he won’t. Maybe tomorrow holds something entirely different. For the first time in a long time, you don’t feel the need to control it.
Whatever happens, you’ll be okay and with that thought, you lean back in your chair, close your eyes, and let yourself hope.
-
Please support my writings by kindly reblog, comment or tip me on my ko-fi!
Seems like you read the journal from my last relationship (just without the pregnancy) and wow. I love how you you can write, especially angst. The speech where she goes :
"Fight for it. Every single day.
I wish I had.”
My legs were bouncing, I had tears in my eyes and a knife twisted in my heart. I'll admit I had hope they wouldn't go all the way with the divorce and that at some point Isla would be a bitch and that would be enough reason for him to come back. But as always, life doesn't happen the way we want and we have to live with that.
My biggest wish is to read a full book with your writing so I can highlight quotes and complement it with my thoughts writing on the margins (I'm patient, don't worry) because you're an artist and author. An amazing one, by the way. I got your notifications on so whenever someone compliments your writing I see and I agree 100%, you touch people so deeply with your words that it makes me want to sit on a cafe with you for hours just so I can get a glimpse of your mind.
You can trust when I say I will alway thank you for sharing your brilliant stories and words with us and trust that I will always be here supporting you. 🤍
Synopsis: You and Han were each other’s firsts—first love, first heartbreak, first forever. Even as life pulls you apart, the two of you keep finding your way back, caught between what was and what could be. (12,8k words)
Author's note: Hope you enjoy it and pls don't hate me for making Felix the side chick again 🥹
The elevator doors are about to close when you slip inside, juggling your bag and your coffee. Someone’s already standing there—head to toe in black, shiny leather jacket gleaming under the fluorescent lights, freckles scattered across his cheeks and nose, blond hair tousled just enough to look deliberate. His stance is relaxed but oozing with confidence.
It takes you less than a second to recognize him. Felix. Of course. Chris mentioned that he’ll come to the office for the photoshoot but you don’t expect it to be today — of all days.
You plant your eyes straight ahead, pretending not to notice, not to care, but there’s no escaping as the elevator doors already closed and it’s just the two of you in a steel box, rising floor by floor.
“Hello,” he says.
The voice — low and smooth — startles you. You always thought the deep voice was some kind of act, something forced. Hearing it this close makes you doubt that. Still, you keep your gaze fixed forward.
“Hello,” he says again.
You sigh, finally glancing at him. “Are you talking to me?”
A soft chuckle escapes his small mouth. “Who else could I be talking to?”
Politeness wins. You manage a tight smile, nothing more.
“I know you,” he says.
Your chest stiffens. You tilt your head just enough to feign confusion. “Me? I don’t think you know me.”
His mouth curves, smug and certain. “You’re the one who reviewed my last album.”
Shit.
You curse yourself internally—for that review, for this moment, for being stuck with him now.
“Lee Felix leans so heavily on his deep register it starts to feel like a gimmick, not a gift.”
Felix recites a line, word for word, from your piece. One of the sharper ones, the kind you thought would get buried in the endless internet noise. The line that hinted—no, screamed—that his music didn’t land for you.
Keeping your calm, you turn to him and say, “Impressive. You remember what I wrote.”
“Cause you’re the only one who gave me a review like that,” he easily replies.
Your jaw tightens. “Maybe that’s because I’m the only one not swept up by your looks or the depth of your voice.”
He only laughs, warm and unbothered. “So you agree… that I’m attractive.”
Your blood simmers as he chooses to focus on the other part instead. Mercifully, the elevator dings and you decide that it’s useless to keep talking with him.
The second the doors slide open, you step out without another glance back—though you don’t need to. You can feel his smirk trailing you.
“Have a good day,” he calls cheerfully after you.
-
Chris leans on the frame of your office door, watching you sit motionless in front of your computer screen. The cursor blinks on an untouched document. You don’t blink back, just sitting there merely a vessel and your head is drifting somewhere else.
He raps his knuckles softly against the doorframe to snap you out of your daze. “Hey—”
You slightly jolt on your seat, your knuckle accidentally hits the computer mouse. “Hey, what’s up?”
Chris lets himself into your office, carrying his table to show you about the article on the magazine website that needs a little fixing. “Just want to talk to you about—"
“Breaking news,” you cut him off, eyes still glued to the screen. “Han is having a baby with some girl.”
It takes Chris a beat too long to process. “Oh. Wow.”
He pulls out the chair across from you, and lowers himself into it carefully, like the weight of the words just hit him too. “Did you even know he was seeing someone?”
“No.” The word slices out sharp, almost too fast. You force a bitter laugh, shaking your head. “It’s somebody he slept with once, months ago. And now he’s trying to ‘make it work.’”
Chris flinches at the sarcasm in your voice. His tone softens, almost protective. “I don’t know what to say. I’m so sorry.” He leans forward, studying your face with concern etched on his face. “Are you okay?”
You scoff and wave him off too quickly. “Chris, I’m totally fine.”
“Are you?” he presses, like he can see straight through you.
You laugh again, thinner this time, willing him to believe it. “It’s not like I was going to have his baby. Good for him, right?”
Silence drops between you both, heavy as stone. Finally, you add, a little too brightly, “I’m not in love with him anymore, so it kind of makes things easier actually.”
And before Chris can argue, you tack on, “Besides, I have a date tonight.”
His brows lift as he thinks of a proper reaction to give. Then, he stammers, “That’s—uh, that’s great.”
You smile, small and brittle. “I thought it’d be nice to go out and be admired.”
Chris nods, though his eyes linger on you like he doesn’t quite buy it. “That’s great,” he repeats softly.
You put the computer mouse aside, stacking your hands on your desk as you’re coming back to yourself, and finally ask, “Wait—why did you come to my office in the first place?”
Chris hesitates, fingers tapping against his knee as he studies you. Like he’s rehearsing how you might take it.
“Oh, come on. Spill,” you sigh, bracing yourself.
He exhales and licks his lips before talking. “You’re going to be the one covering Felix’s exclusive.”
The words hit like a brick. You slump back in your chair, groaning loud enough for the whole floor to hear. “Oh, come on, Chris. Why me? Can’t you send literally anyone else?”
“Because you’re the best journalist I’ve got,” he counters smoothly, leaning forward as if sheer conviction might sway you. “You’re my special one.”
You drag your hands through your hair. “Yeah, but I’m also the journalist who gave his last album a one-and-a-half-star review.”
Chris doesn’t flinch. He stands, comes around the desk, and rests his hand briefly on the back of your chair. “Which makes it all the more interesting. And—” he pauses for effect—“Felix specifically asked for you.”
Your groan is long and dramatic, sinking into your chest as you slump further. “Oh, great. So this is punishment. A vendetta. He wants to destroy me slowly.”
Chris chuckles, already halfway to the door. “Call it what you want. I’m setting it up.”
“Chris,” you whine, swiveling your chair away from him like that’ll undo his decision.
But he just waves, utterly unfazed. “Good luck on the date. Go, get admired!”
The door clicks shut behind him.
You let out another groan, long and helpless, before collapsing fully against the chair. Punishment, revenge, or not—this is happening.
-
You move through the house with a rhythm that feels rehearsed—wallet, lipstick, keys. All the small necessities go into your purse, one by one, as though preparing for this date is just another task to check off the day’s list.
As you walk over to check whether you have locked the back door, your eyes flick toward the corner of the living room. The robot dresser still sits there, crooked and ridiculous, arms sticking out like it’s ready to wave at you. It’s not even close to resembling furniture, more like some broken guard on duty. The sight of it drags you back—to the laughter, the wine, to Han sitting on the floor with screws scattered at his knees, his gummy smile daring you to name the damn thing. And worse: to the heat of his body on yours, to his kisses, to the way he said your name like it still belonged to him.
Your chest tightens, your stomach twists and you can feel yourself teetering on the edge of that spiral, the one that always drags you down to what-ifs and what-shouldn’t-have-beens.
So you snap your purse shut, spin on your heel, and head for the door before the memories swallow you whole.
-
Seungmin is a gentleman in every sense of the word. He dressed for the occasion – black blazer and a crisp light blue shirt underneath. He listens—really listens—when you talk, his chin resting on his hand, his eyes steady on yours as you ramble about your job. It’s easy, too, finding common ground in music. He even asks questions that make you laugh because they’re the exact kind of questions only someone who actually cares would ask.
For the first time in a long while, you let yourself relax — until you don’t. Because from across the room, you catch it. The posture. The gait. The walk. You’d recognize it anywhere. Han.
Your words falter mid-sentence. Your breath sticks in your throat. You mutter under your breath, “Oh, my god. Oh, my god. My ex is here.”
Seungmin’s brows knit as he throw a quick glance over his shoulder. “It’s okay,” he says softly, leaning closer, his voice grounding. “It’s not a big deal.”
But your pulse is already racing. You duck slightly, as though leaning into the shadows might hide you, but it’s useless. “I think we should go,” you nervously mutter as you uselessly covering your face with your hand.
Han’s eyes lift, and in a second, he sees you. Recognition flashes across his face.
“Oh, no. Too late now. We made eye contact,” you whisper, gripping the edge of the table.
Seungmin shakes his head. “We don’t have to go. It’s okay.” His calm is infuriatingly steady, like he doesn’t feel the air tighten the way you do.
And then Han is there, standing right by your table. “Hey,” he greets, voice low but direct.
“Hey!” You force a smile, the kind that feels carved into stone. “Han, this is Seungmin. Seungmin, Han.”
“Nice to meet you,” Seungmin offers politely.
A beat of silence stretches and before it gets awkward, you clear your throat and blurt out, “We’re just eating. We’re on uh… we’re on a date.”
Han’s gaze flickers between you two before he nods slowly. “That’s nice.” Then he looks at Seungmin and says casually, “If you’re into cocktails, you should try the Old Fashioned here. It’s good.”
“What are you doing here?” you ask, trying to sound neutral.
“Meeting someone from the gallery over drinks.” He shrugs, like it’s nothing, like his presence isn’t cracking you down the middle.
You nod stiffly, and Han takes a step back. “Well… enjoy your evening.” His eyes linger a second longer than they should before he turns and disappears into the crowd.
Seungmin smiles after him. “He’s nice.”
You force a laugh and stuff food into your mouth, chewing too quickly, hoping it hides how shaken you are, but your hand trembles around your fork.
“Are you okay?” Seungmin asks quietly.
You nod, smiling again, lying through your teeth. “Yeah. Totally fine.”
But inside, you’re anything but.
-
The night air is cool as you and Seungmin step out of the restaurant, the warmth of wine still buzzing faintly in your system. You hug your coat tighter around yourself, forcing a smile as you say, “That was nice.”
You try to sound casual, hopeful even as you add, “We should… do it again sometime.”
Seungmin stops right outside the door, his hands sliding into his pockets. His expression is calm, unreadable, the kind of steady that makes your chest tighten. He holds your gaze and says, softly but firmly, “I don’t think we should.”
The words hit sharper than you expect. Your smile falters. “Was it bad? Did I do something—”
“No,” he cuts you off immediately, shaking his head. “No, not at all. You were… great.” He exhales, his voice lowering into something gentle. “I just think you might need a little more time. To get over your divorce.”
Your throat closes around the word. Divorce. He says it like it’s a wound, still fresh and bleeding. Maybe it is but you don’t want to admit it.
You laugh, but it comes out brittle. “I appreciate your concern, but I’m fine.”
The defensiveness slips out before you can stop it. You sigh, trying to reel it back in, but the damage is done. “Maybe… maybe you’re right. Or maybe we’re just not a match.”
Seungmin nods once, steady as ever. No anger, no judgment. Just a quiet understanding as he smiles at you. “Okay, then… have a good night. And good luck.”
And just like that, he turns and walks toward his car.
You stand there on the sidewalk, arms crossed against the chill, watching his taillights vanish down the street. You blow out a heavy breath, muttering under your breath, “Whatever.”
Yet the hollow in your chest doesn’t listen.
-
You trail behind Niamh as she inspects a row of lamps, her finger brushing over different shades like she’s weighing life-or-death choices. She glances at you sideways and asks, “So… how are you doing?”
“I’ve been busy with work,” you answer quickly, a little too easily. “Swamped, actually.”
Niamh nods, approving. “It’s good that you’re busy.”
You hum in agreement, pretending to study a table lamp shaped like a bird.
But then she adds, “Have you spoken to Han?”
Your stomach dips but you keep your face neutral, eyes still on the lamp. “I ran into him a few nights back.” You pause, then let the words slip out with a small, sharp edge: “Seems like he’s been gaining some… weight.”
Niamh’s brows shoot up. “Really? When I saw him, he actually looked kind of fit.”
That makes you whip your head toward her. “Wait—you’ve seen him?”
“Yeah,” she says easily, as if it’s nothing.
You swallow, forcing your voice steady. “Does that mean you’ve met… whats-her-name?” You feign a casual shrug, like you’ve forgotten her name.
Niamh doesn’t hesitate. “You mean Isla?”
You nod, gripping your purse strap tighter.
“Yes, I have.” And just like that, she turns away, flagging down a staff member to ask about other lampshade colors.
You take a breath, keeping your tone light. “And what do you think?”
Niamh looks back. “Of Isla?”
You don’t answer, but she does anyway. “Isla is simple.”
You blink. “Simple as in… she’s dumb?”
Niamh shakes her head. “She’s simple in an… elegant way.”
You scoff under your breath. “Elegant, huh?”
The staff brings over more lampshade samples, and Niamh studies them before turning back to you. “I thought you’d be happy for Han.”
“I am,” you say quickly, almost too quickly. “I just… don’t know if I’d call Isla elegant.”
“Mm.” Niamh hums, still examining the shades. Just when you think she’s done, she adds, “Honestly? I think you’ll really like her.”
You bark out a short, bitter laugh as you walk a few steps away. “Yeah, sure.”
But Niamh follows, curious now. “Are you having regrets about Han?”
“No,” you snap back immediately. “Not even one.”
The firmness in your tone makes Niamh’s brows rise, but she doesn’t push. Instead, she turns back to the staff and calmly chooses a color for the lampshade, leaving you to chew on the taste of your own too-fast denial.
After a long consideration, Niamh settles on a lampshade and turns back to you with an easy smile. “Do you want to spend the weekend together? We could do a little movie marathon, wine, food.”
You shake your head gently. “I’d love to, but I can’t. I have to do this coverage at a concert.”
Her brows lift. “Who?”
You sigh, almost reluctant to say it. “Some musician. This rocker guy… Felix.”
Niamh gasps so loudly the sales assistant glances over. “No way! Felix? The one with the deep voice, right?”
“Yeah,” you mutter, far less impressed.
She grabs your arm, eyes bright. “God, he’s so hot.”
You scoff under your breath, choosing not to dignify that with a reply.
Niamh, of course, notices your silence. A teasing smile spreads across her face. “You know,” she says, leaning in conspiratorially, “he’d be the perfect rebound. The right guy to move on with.”
You gently yank your arm out of her grip, rolling your eyes and choosing not to respond to that.
Niamh only laughs, the sound echoing through the store. “I’m just saying,” she adds, still grinning.
-
The thrum of bass rattles through the empty venue as you stand at the edge of the stage, notebook in hand. Felix is in the middle of soundcheck, mic in one hand, his other resting against his thigh as he lets out a low, drawn-out note. The sound is so deep it vibrates in your chest, startling in a way that makes you clutch your pen tighter.
He’s not just rehearsing, he’s commanding the stage, even with rows of empty seats stretching out before him. His head bobs lightly to the beat, blond hair tousled under the stage lights, leather jacket draped carelessly over his frame.
You jot something down, more out of habit than intention: confident, annoyingly magnetic presence.
When he’s satisfied, he hops down from the stage and walks past you like you’re invisible, only to smirk at the last second. “Taking notes on me already?”
“I’m working,” you reply flatly, flipping a page.
He chuckles, low and amused, before someone calls him back for one last check.
Later, in his green room, you sit cross-legged on the sofa, pen poised above your notebook, though your attention keeps straying around the room. For a “rockstar” green room, it’s shockingly… normal. The mini fridge hums softly in the corner, stuffed with Red Bulls instead of vodka. The coffee table is lined with neatly stacked water bottles, a bowl of gummy bears, and a half-open pack of chocolate chip cookies. The only thing that feels remotely on brand is the sleek game console tucked beneath the TV, controllers piled messily beside it.
It feels less like stepping into the lair of a rock god and more like sitting in a very cozy college dorm room.
Felix’s reflection shifts in the vanity mirror as the makeup artist finishes brushing powder over his cheekbones. When he stands and shrugs out of the cape, he catches you looking—not at him, but at everything else. His mouth quirks, the corner of it tugging upward like he’s just uncovered something amusing.
“Why?” His voice is rich, teasing. “You expect bottles of whiskey and a bunch of groupies sprawled out on the carpet?”
The words fall out of your mouth before you can stop them. “Honestly? At least one half-naked girl in the bathtub.”
The sound he makes is a chuckle at first, then full-on laughter, deep and warm, echoing through the small room. He runs a hand through his blond hair as he crosses to the sofa and drops down beside you, the cushions dipping under his weight.
“I like your version of me,” he says, his knee brushing against yours as he stretches out comfortably. “Tragic, messy, and cliché. Very… rock and roll.”
You arch a brow, flipping to a fresh page in your notebook to hide how close he’s sitting. “Maybe I just have a good imagination.”
Felix leans back, draping his arm across the back of the sofa. His eyes glitter with amusement as he watches you, as if your sarcasm is something he plans to collect piece by piece.
“Well,” he says, his voice dipping softer, more deliberate, “I hope you’re ready to find out how wrong you are.”
The pen twirls between your fingers as you finally angle your body toward him, notebook open. Felix doesn’t fidget or brace himself like most artists do before interviews—he just leans into the sofa, his arm still stretched lazily across the back, as if you’re just having a casual chat.
“So,” you begin, professional tone slipping into place, “your last album explored darker themes—loss, identity, isolation. What can fans expect from your new material?”
Felix tilts his head, considering. “It’s… brighter, I think. Still raw, but with more hope woven in. Less about losing yourself and more about finding where you belong.”
It’s eloquent, genuine. You jot down a note, nodding. “And musically, are you pushing for a new sound?”
“Always,” he says with an easy smile. “I’d get bored if I didn’t. You’ll hear a lot more experimentation—different textures, layered vocals. Still me, just… grown up, maybe.”
The interview flows like that—steady, seamless. He answers with a clarity that surprises you, his words painting vivid pictures instead of vague soundbites. Until you push just slightly past the edge of professionalism.
“And what about inspiration?” you ask, glancing up from your notes. “Where do you pull from when you’re writing these songs?”
His eyes flicker with mischief. “You.”
Your pen stills mid-word. “Excuse me?”
“You,” he repeats, leaning in just enough that you can see the freckles dusting his skin, the playful curl of his mouth. “Well—not yet.” He lets the pause drag out, relishing it. “But soon. Give me time.”
Heat creeps up your neck, but you clamp down on it with a scoff. “That’s a very rockstar answer.”
Felix chuckles, low and amused. “You asked a personal question. I’m just giving you a personal answer.”
You try again, determined not to let him steer this off course. “So you’re saying your songs are about people in your life? Relationships?”
His gaze doesn’t waver, and that teasing smirk stays put. “Sometimes. But the best ones…” His eyes dip to your notebook, then back to you. “Haven’t been written yet.”
You exhale sharply, forcing your focus back to the page. “Right. Very profound.”
“Very true,” he counters, voice laced with amusement.
The game continues like that, your professional armor tested at every turn by his sharp wit and deliberate charm. You steady yourself with the next question, refusing to let him catch you off guard again.
“Alright, last one. What do you want your fans to take away from your music this time?”
Felix doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he leans back, his gaze fixed on you in a way that makes you suddenly hyperaware of every inch of space between you. His smirk softens, but not the intensity of his stare.
“That it’s okay to be seen,” he finally says. His voice is lower, steadier, no trace of the playful teasing he’d been throwing at you. “Even when it’s uncomfortable. Even when you’d rather hide.”
You blink, caught off guard. It doesn’t sound like a rehearsed answer, not even a clever one. It sounds like he’s speaking directly to you.
You clear your throat, scribble something down you won’t be able to read later, and snap the notebook shut. “That’s… good. Thanks.”
Felix smiles knowingly, as though he can see right through your attempt to brush past it. He pushes himself off the sofa, stretching lazily as someone tells him to start doing vocal warm-up.
“Guess we’re done here,” he says lightly. But then, he glances back over his shoulder at you.
“And don’t forget what I said.”
He’s leaving you with nothing but the echo of his words, and the unwelcome realization that they’ve lodged somewhere deep, refusing to let go.
-
Felix’s voice fills the room, clean and steady as he matches the piano’s notes, his chest rising and falling in rhythm. You’re perched on a chair against the wall, pretending to scroll through your notes but really just watching. When he switches from scales to humming, you can feel it low in your bones—deeper, richer than you ever expected in such an intimate space.
Then he stretches, rolling his shoulders, twisting his torso like a cat shaking off sleep. Without the slightest of hesitation, he peels off his t-shirt, leaving his skin bare under the bright dressing room lights. His stylist swoops in with the stage outfit, and while she fusses with the pants, Felix glances at you in the mirror, catching your eyes locked on him.
“Enjoying the view?” he teases, the smirk tugging his lips making him look even younger, sharper.
You don’t blink. You don’t look away. Instead, you tilt your head, smile sugar-sweet, and say, “Very.”
That pulls an actual laugh from him, surprised and delighted, as though he hadn’t expected you to bite back. “Noted,” he says, rolling the word off his tongue like a secret.
Minutes later, you’re trailing behind him as the energy in the arena thickens. He makes his way to the back of the stage, conferring with his band, leaning down to listen to a tech, always in motion. Someone dusts his cheekbones with powder, another runs fingers through his blond hair for last adjustments, and then he pulls the whole crew into a huddle.
You stand off to the side, watching him with his team, his hand stacked on theirs, his voice carrying over the noise: “Let’s kill it tonight.”
And then he’s gone, striding onstage, swallowed by the roar of more than ten thousand fans. Their voices rise to meet his as he sings, a tidal wave of sound crashing back at him.
From your spot in the shadows, you watch him transform—every movement deliberate, every lyric spat with conviction, his deep voice booming through the stadium. The same man who teased you over pants and mirror reflections is now commanding a sea of people who worship his every word.
And something inside you shifts, a quiet realization settling in your chest: maybe you’d judged him too quickly. Maybe he’s not the arrogant caricature you’ve built in your head. And yeah, okay, maybe you were wrong about Felix.
-
The office is quiet at night, just the hum of your desk lamp and the soft clacking of your keyboard filling the air. You’re bent over your screen, weaving sentences together when a voice cuts through your focus.
“Hey, special one.”
You don’t bother looking up to know who it is. Your fingers still flying as you mutter, “Don’t call me that.”
Chris leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, a grin tugging at his mouth. When you don’t acknowledge him, he strolls inside and drops into the chair across from you. “I read your coverage on Felix’s concert,” he says, his tone mock-serious, like he’s about to deliver a verdict. “And I loved it. Really. Some of your best work.”
Finally, you glance at him. “Is that why you came in here? To flatter me?”
“To point out the suspiciously glowing words you wrote about a certain blond, deep-voiced rockstar, yes.” His eyes narrow playfully. “Concert transformed you, didn’t it?”
You roll your eyes, leaning back. “I have to write nice things about Felix if I want to keep this job. You know, since you two went to the same school.”
Chris groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Ah, damn, you caught me.” He laughs, the sound bouncing easily off the walls, before falling quiet again, watching you with a steadier gaze.
A beat passes. Then: “Hey, what happened to that date you told me about?”
Your sigh comes heavier than expected as you sink deeper into your chair. “It didn’t work out.”
Chris frowns, the kind of frown that says he wants to ask why but decides against it. Instead, he leans back and shifts gears. “Do you know Jeongin? The photographer I hired like two issues ago?”
Memory surfacing—a tall frame, fox-like eyes, dimples on his cheeks, camera slung casually over his shoulder. Slowly, you nod.
Chris perks up. “Good. I’m going to set you up with him.”
“What?” Your voice pitches higher as your arms fold tightly across your chest. “He’s younger, isn’t he? I don’t know, Chris. I’m not sure about this.”
“Just a couple years. That’s nothing.” Chris waves you off like your concern is dust in the air. “And who knows, he might be good for you.”
You huff, exhaling through your nose. “I feel uncomfortable with… dating.”
“Trust me,” Chris says, already standing, brushing invisible lint from his shirt. “You’ll like him.”
“Chris—”
But he’s halfway out the door, tossing you a grin over his shoulder. “I’m setting it up. No backing out. Goodnight, special one.”
The door shuts behind him, leaving you in the silence again. You stare at your screen, words blurring, and press your palms over your face. You don’t even know if you’re ready for another date—if you’re ready for any of it.
-
The bar is dim, jazz music playing softly above the low murmur of conversations and clinking glasses. You’re perched on a stool across from Jeongin, a cocktail in hand, while he nurses a whiskey neat like he’s older than he is.
“So there I was,” Jeongin says, a grin tugging at his lips as he leans back, dimples flashing, “halfway across the world, crouched behind an amp onstage just to get a clean shot of the guitarist mid-solo. And of course, the bassist decides to jump in front of me—ruined the frame, but the photo ended up being one of their most shared.”
You gasp, leaning forward with your chin resting on your hand. “That’s insane. Covering a world tour? That’s… so cool. You make it sound easy, but I know it’s not.”
He shrugs modestly, sharp fox-like eyes glinting in the low light. “It’s exhausting, but worth it. You learn to move with the music, anticipate the chaos. The adrenaline makes you forget how heavy the camera feels after ten hours.”
You laugh, shaking your head. “And here I was thinking I was hardcore for staying up until four a.m. to finish a deadline. Meanwhile, you’re halfway around the globe chasing rockstars.”
His smile widens, dimples deepening, and you feel it—the way charm rolls off him effortlessly, no force, no arrogance. Just calm confidence. For someone younger, Jeongin knows himself far too well, and it’s magnetic.
You sip your drink, your gaze lingering on him a beat longer than you mean to. His posture is easy, but there’s something in the way he listens, sharp and attentive, that makes you feel… seen. And you can’t lie about it—he’s hot. The dimples. The sharp eyes. The way he looks at you like he’s already memorizing your angles for a photograph. All of it.
The night is still young but you start to think that Chris might be right about this.
-
Jeongin’s mouth is on yours the second your back hits the couch, his weight hovering above you as if he can’t bear to be apart. His kiss is firm, insistent, the kind that makes your pulse race in your throat. His hands roam—over your sides, your thighs, your waist—like he’s trying to map every inch of you at once. When he buries his face in your neck, kissing hot trails against your skin, your chest tightens with something you almost forgot you could feel.
It’s been so long since you’ve been held like this—admired, cherished. Every brush of his lips makes you ache with a mix of want and relief. And when he captures your mouth again, the kiss is so good you lose yourself in it, like maybe, just maybe, you’ve stumbled onto something right.
Until the rhythm changes, and you feel it—the press of his hips moving against you, harder, faster. At first, you think you’re imagining it, but then your eyes flick down and there he is, already palming himself, a hand shoved down his jeans, pumping with a quiet urgency that startles you.
You pull back, your voice breaking the spell. “No, no, no, don’t do that—we’re barely started.”
But Jeongin only smirks, lips slick from your kisses. “You can watch,” he says, tone low, almost daring.
Your head falls back onto the cushion with a groan, frustration slipping out in a mutter. “But it was going so well.”
And just like that, the night twists sideways, ending nothing like you hoped it would. In the end, you’re always right.
-
The sun has just started to appear on the horizon when your feet hit the pavement in steady rhythm, breath puffing into the crisp morning air. The run clears your head—or at least, it’s supposed to. After last night, all you want is silence, no strange guys, no dates or hands moving too fast. Just you, the road, and the pounding in your chest that has nothing to do with kissing and everything to do with distance.
Halfway through your loop, your phone buzzes in your pocket. You slow, tugging it out with sweaty fingers.
Han: Hey. Can we meet later?
You stop altogether, staring at the screen, the words blurring for a moment. Your first instinct is to type no, to tell him you’re busy, that you don’t have time. But deep down, you know you can’t dodge him forever. He’s not just anyone—you share too much history for that.
Your thumb hovers before you finally type back: Okay. When?
You hit send and tuck the phone away again, forcing your legs to move, but your pace feels heavier now, like every step is dragging you closer to a conversation you’re not sure you want to have.
-
The address leads you across town, past a stretch of shops you’ve never really paid attention to before. You almost expect him to pick someplace familiar, neutral ground, but when you pull into the small lot and see the clean green sign above the door, your brows shoot up.
A vegan restaurant?
You park, kill the engine, and sit there for a moment with your hands still on the wheel. He even texted call me if you get lost, like you’d need him to guide you through a simple map app. You almost roll your eyes just thinking about it, but instead, you grab your bag, sling it over your shoulder, and head inside.
The place is airy, full of soft light and plants hanging in macramé pots. Couples and small groups murmur over bowls of things that look too green to be anything you’d ever crave. You pause near the entrance, scanning the tables, and there he is—Han—sitting by the window. He’s already spotted you, half-risen from his seat with that same crooked grin that used to undo you.
You slide into the chair across from Han, setting your bag down at your side. The greeting is simple—just a quiet “hey” exchanged between you both—but it carries the weight of years and an invisible wall of everything unsaid.
The waiter comes over with her polite smile and asks what you’d like. “Coffee,” you say immediately, the word ready on your tongue, but she explains they don’t serve that here and suggests a list of vegan drinks instead. You glance at her menu, then shake your head. “Just water’s fine.”
The waiter nods and turns to Han. He rattles off his order like he’s reciting from memory, choosing a vegan grain bowl with so much ease that you sit there, staring. The way he leans forward to ask about sauce options, the casual warmth in his voice, it makes you want to ask who are you?
Once she leaves, Han’s eyes find yours again. He smiles, soft but sure. “You look good.”
The automatic response slips out of you before you even think. “You look good too.”
That grin you know so well spreads across his face, and he flexes his arm a little, showing off the toned muscle there. “Isla’s a Pilates instructor and she has the equipment in the house so I had no choice but to get on it.”
The words hit you strangely, like déjà vu but off-key. He’s the same person sitting across from you, same smile, same posture—but inside, something’s been replaced.
His grin fades, replaced by a careful seriousness. “I know this has been really weird.”
You shake your head too quickly, too brightly. “It’s only weird if you think it’s weird.”
He gives you a faint smile, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Then he exhales, bracing himself as if what he’s going to say next takes a lot in him. “Apparently there’s a holdup on the divorce papers. On your end. I need to sort it out soon because… Isla isn’t a citizen.”
Your brow furrows. “Where is she from?”
“England,” he answers.
The word lands harder than you expect. “England, huh? That explains why she’s elegant.” The bitterness slips out under your breath before you can reel it in.
“What?” Han asks, confused.
You force a smile, covering. “Nothing. Just—guess you’ll finally get that British accent you’ve always wanted.”
He doesn’t laugh but his gaze hardens a little. “We need this settled because Isla and I… we need to get married. I’m sorry to bother you with it, but I need you to sign those papers.”
It’s too much, too fast—marriage, citizenship, Isla, all tumbling down on you at once. Your chest tightens, and defensiveness spikes before you can stop it. “I’ve been busy with work, Han. Some of us have work to do. I don’t have time to—” your voice edges with sarcasm “—focus on getting you all set for your shiny new life.”
And then, sharper than you meant: “What makes you think you’re even suitable to be a dad? We never even talked about kids.”
Han’s jaw tenses. “That’s because you never wanted to talk about it with me.”
“Because you never initiated it!” you shoot back.
His voice cuts through yours, firm, final: “And I think Isla is going to be an amazing mother.”
The words sink in like a blade. You flinch inside, but you school your expression, forcing calm. “That’s a low blow, Han.”
The anger buzzing under your skin tips over. You snatch your bag, your car keys clattering against the table before you grab them too. “This is fucking ridiculous. This place is ridiculous.” You stand, glaring down at him.
“You’re a vegan now, huh? You fucking love cheesecake.”
With that, you storm out, leaving him—and the too-bright restaurant—behind.
The second you peel out of the parking lot, the words start spilling out of you, jagged and hot, filling the car the way his voice had filled the restaurant. Your hands grip the steering wheel so tight your knuckles pale against the leather.
“An amazing mother,” you scoff, your voice shaking with disbelief. “Really, Han? You had to say that?”
The traffic light blares red above you, and you slam your foot down on the brake, chest heaving. Your reflection in the rearview mirror stares back, furious and hollow-eyed.
“Like I wasn’t enough. Like I didn’t try.” You shake your head, hitting the steering wheel with the heel of your hand. “Pilates? Vegan menus? Who the fuck are you? You love cheesecake, for God’s sake.”
The light turns green, and you floor it, as if speed could burn off the anger threading through your veins. The windshield blurs for a second before you blink the sting away. You shake your head, gripping tighter, the anger still burning hot enough to mask what’s underneath—hurt, sharp and aching, the kind that no amount of sarcasm can cover.
-
The driveway is already full so you have to park the car a block away from the house. Luke exhales a slow plume of smoke, the faint scent of weed wrapping around him like another layer of his Bowie getup as you walk toward the house. Glitter clings to his cheekbones, eyeliner smudged just enough to look intentional. He looks like a painting, and you look like a bitter witch in a Slytherin tie.
“He’s a vegan, he’s into Pilates, he looks fucking fit…” The words tumble out sharp, your fingers fiddling with the tie like it personally offends you.
“His artworks are being displayed at the MESA gallery,” Luke adds with the joint hanging between his teeth.
“What?!” You shriek in disbelief as MESA gallery is one of the best art galleries in the city. You groan as you yank at your tie too hard, loosening it around the collar. “Man, Han is on fire.”
Luke nods, dragging again. “Yeah, he’s on fire.”
You turn to him, incredulous. “Don’t agree with me, you’re supposed to disagree. Say he looks bad. Say Pilates is a cult.”
Luke shrugs, unfazed. “Pilates is a cult. But a hot cult.”
You groan again, burying your face in your hands. “Breaking up with me was the best thing he ever did.” Your voice dips quieter, cracking at the edges. “I should break up with me too.”
For the first time, Luke sets the joint down, his glittery hand resting on your shoulder. His voice softens, cutting through the haze. “Don’t say that. You’re smart. Cool. Successful. You’re just… you know… spiraling.”
You huff out something between a laugh and a sigh. “Spiraling in my Slytherin costume. Cute.”
He smirks, leaning back. “I’m not looking for relationships right now, but—” He pauses, the corner of his mouth curling. “I can offer you special friendship.”
A sad chuckle escapes you, unsteady but real. “Why do we even need to put on costumes? We’re not eight-year-olds,” you grumble, stepping out into the cool night air. The bass from Chris’s house pulses down the block, loud enough to rattle in your chest.
Luke shrugs as he follows, glitter catching the streetlight. “Because Chris loves a theme.”
The closer you get to the house, the louder the noise, the thicker the crowd spilling out onto the porch. People in vampire capes, fake blood, angel wings, latex catsuits—chaos everywhere.
You take a deep breath, tie still crooked around your neck. “Here goes nothing.”
The house is a kaleidoscope of colors and noise—strobe lights bouncing across fake cobwebs, the bass rattling the floors, the sharp mix of sweat, perfume, and liquor heavy in the air. You’re still adjusting when a familiar voice cuts through the crowd.
“Hey, special one.”
You spin around and find Chris grinning at you in full Captain America regalia—shield, spandex, and all. The sight pulls a laugh out of you before you can stop it. “It’s the wrong Chris.”
He laughs, warm and easy, before pulling you into a quick hug. “Glad you made it.”
When he pulls back, his eyes flick over your shoulder. You don’t miss the way they land on Luke, who’s standing half a step behind you, twirling his empty plastic cup like he’s already bored.
“Oh,” you say quickly, waving between them. “I brought Luke. He’s—uh—my plus one.”
Chris nods once, tight-lipped, but doesn’t say anything. The air shifts enough for you to pick up on it, so you barrel past the awkward pause. “So. Where’s the drink?”
“In the kitchen,” he says, but there’s a hesitation in his voice.
“Perfect.” You don’t waste another second.
“Wait—maybe you should—” Chris starts, hand lifting as if he can physically stop you, but the rest of his warning is lost under the music.
It’s too late anyway. You’re already weaving through the crowd, your robe swaying behind you, the promise of alcohol pulling you like a lifeline toward the kitchen.
Around the island, a couple of strangers scrape their cups and shout something about “one more,” the kitchen a small, pulsing island of chaos. One of them starts making concoction, pouring a mix of liquors into the cups. You shove the shot down like it’s a dare and the burn scrapes your throat. A rough laugh bubbles up as you fan your tongue, the bitter aftertaste already dimming under the warmth of the booze.
Someone steps into the scene and the room tilts for a second, and you register him: Felix, hair dark and spiked this time, leather collar up. For a beat you can’t place who he’s dressed as until the look clicks into place.
You grin, bold and sloppy. “Sid Vicious, huh? I’d gladly be your Nancy.”
He smirks and grabs a fresh cup. “At least buy me dinner first.”
You snort, hiccup-laughing. “No. I want you to do me a favor and skip to the part where you stab me to death.”
It comes out more ridiculous than cutting. He laughs, a low sound that slides under your ribs. He pours vodka and soda, watches the bubbles rise, then says, amused, “You’re even funnier when you’re drunk.”
Something in his face looks… different in this half-light. Dark hair suits him; the freckled cheekbones and the crooked grin still make your stomach do that stupid little flip. On a nonsense impulse you blurt, “Hey—do you smoke?”
He pretends to be scandalized, playing the straight man. “I’m a singer. Obviously, I have to take care of my vocal cords and—”
Before his sentence finishes you’ve grabbed his wrist. “Oh, come on.” You yank him toward the back door like a child dragging someone into trouble.
-
The city sprawls in lights beyond Chris’s backyard, the kind of view that makes you ache in ways you can’t quite name. You flick the lighter, shielding the flame against the night breeze until the joint Luke shoved into your hand earlier finally burns. Two puffs later, the haze curls down your throat, loosening the tight coil inside your chest. You pass it to Felix without looking, muttering bitterly,
“Of course Chris has a house like this. Perfect house, perfect view, perfect life.”
Felix takes it, chuckles low in his chest, and inhales. The ember flares, then dims as he exhales slow streams of smoke toward the stars. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you,” he teases, passing it back.
You smirk, take another drag, and then he suddenly says, almost out of nowhere, “‘There’s a rawness in Felix’s performance, a refusal to polish away the rough edges, and that’s what makes him magnetic on stage.’”
You blink, caught off guard, then smile despite yourself. “Oh, wow. You can read.”
He’s snagging the joint from your fingers. He inhales again, then eyes you, sly. “So… what’s the deal with you and me now? Is this happening, or what?”
You laugh, a harsh, tipsy sound. “The deal with you and me is that my husband of six years wants a divorce because he wants to marry the girl carrying his child. That’s… the deal with me.”
Felix stills as the faint smirk slowly fades from his face. He exhales slowly, smoke trailing like a sigh. “That’s tough.”
Something in you cracks open—maybe the alcohol, maybe the weed, maybe just the way he said it. “He barely knows her. And I think he’s just… lost. Everything about it is wrong.”
Felix tilts his head, calm, almost gentle. “And you’re right about everything?”
Your brow furrows, sharp with defense. “What do you mean by that?”
“I mean,” he says simply, “do you want to be right… or do you want to be happy?”
The question steals your words. For a moment, you just stand there, joint smoldering between your fingers. Finally, you mutter, “I know I’m right. People will eventually let you down. So it’s hard to be happy when you get into it already knowing that. But at least—I’m real about it.”
Felix lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head.
“What?” you snap, though it’s softened by curiosity.
“You think I’d take words from a Slytherin?”
You glance down at your costume like something’s wrong. “What house are you, then?”
“Hufflepuff,” he says, smug.
You snort. “Figures. This is why we aren’t a match.”
That sends both of you into laughter, loud and ridiculous, the sound spilling into the October air until the joint burns down to nothing but ash.
When it’s gone, Felix turns to you, extending a hand like it’s some old-fashioned gesture. “Want to get inside and have one more drink?”
You look at his hand, then at him, and finally slip your fingers into his. “Take me away.”
Inside, the air is thick with heat, music, and too many bodies pressed together. Strobe lights pulse over faces painted and masked, and someone hands you a cup you don’t bother asking what’s in before drinking it.
Felix stays close, his dark hair sticking up like he just walked out of bed, his smirk sharp under the dim glow. He dances with you, not pushy, not clingy—just there, matching your rhythm, laughing when you laugh, leaning down to hear you over the music. At some point, Luke drifts by in a haze of glitter and smoke, throwing you a lazy salute before vanishing again.
For tonight, you let it all go. The bitterness, the anger, the weight of divorce papers and everything tied to Han—it all dissolves under the bass thrum in your chest. You let yourself move, laugh, and drink too much. Felix twirls you once like it’s nothing, your Slytherin robes flaring as you spin, and you find yourself grinning so wide it almost hurts.
For tonight, you don’t care about anything else. You just have fun.
-
By the time you finish your morning run, sweat still cooling on your skin when you enter your house and then your eyes land on it—the robot dresser. Still perched in the living room like some smug reminder, its metal grin throwing you not to that night where you and Han laughed about the name you gave to the robot dresser, but right back into that day at the restaurant, into Han’s voice telling you Isla was going to be an amazing mother.
You don’t even let yourself think. You just tear into it, ripping screws and panels apart until its hollow shell collapses into a heap of useless junk. It feels violent, but it feels good. Cathartic.
Once you start, you can’t stop. You storm through the house, hunting down anything left of him: a hoodie stuffed in the back of a closet, old records on the shelf, his mug tucked behind your cups in the kitchen. You pile it all into a box until it’s brimming with his life bleeding into yours.
You don’t even wait for him to pick up. Your hands shake as you leave a voicemail, spitting out the words—“I’m dropping all your shit at your house.”
The plan feels solid until you’re actually there. The street is quiet, no car in the driveway, no lights inside. You drop the box by the door and step back, brushing your hands together like you’re ridding yourself of him for good.
But there, sitting right on top: his old sketchbook. The one he never went anywhere without. You pick it up without meaning to, the worn spine cracking gently as you flip it open.
The pages greet you with familiar faces—the comic characters you both created the night you first met, when laughter came easy and the world felt infinite. Panel by panel, you relive the inside jokes, the stories spun late at night under blankets, the universes you built together.
And then, the page where the character, his avatar, drops to one knee. The panel you remember glancing up from, only to find reality mirroring the fiction—Han in front of you, a ring in his trembling hand, eyes wide and hopeful. The joy you felt then surges back so vividly it steals your breath. For one suspended moment, it felt like pain didn’t exist in the world. Looking at it now, it reminds you that pain does exist.
You press the sketchbook to your chest, eyes stinging, knowing this story never got its happy ending, but you can’t leave it here. Not this.
So you hug the sketchbook tighter to your chest as you head back toward your car, the weight of it both comforting and suffocating. Just when you think you’ve made a clean exit, your eyes catch the trash can sitting at the edge of their driveway, its lid pushed up by torn cardboard spilling out.
You know you shouldn’t, but curiosity wins. You lift the lid, half-expecting nothing, only to find packaging boxes—breast pump. Baby crib. White noise machine. And many other newborn necessities.
You scoff under your breath, bitter sarcasm dripping out before you can stop it. “Who knew a freelance artist could afford all of that?”
But before you can close the lid, the low hum of an engine cuts through the quiet. A car pulls into the driveway. Panic flares—you think of hiding, ducking behind something, but it’s too late as the car rolls halfway in before stopping.
You plaster on a strained smile, trying to act casual as the driver’s door swings open. Han steps out, his familiar silhouette tightening something sharp in your chest.
“Hey,” you say quickly, beating him to it so you don’t look caught.
“Hey,” he echoes, shutting the door behind him. His eyes flick to the box you left at the door, then back to you. “What are you doing here?”
“Dropping your things,” you answer smoothly, holding steady.
His gaze drops to the trash can, lid still tilted open. “And… what are you doing at my trash can?”
Heat pricks your face. You blurt the first thing that comes to mind. “Oh—uh, raccoon. I saw it tearing through your trash. I shooed it away.”
Han lifts an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced, but before he can press further, the passenger door opens. Isla steps out gracefully, her hand resting instinctively on her belly. She smiles warmly when her eyes land on you.
“Hi,” she greets softly.
“Hi,” you reply, forcing your tone lighter and your gaze drops—unbidden—to the curve of her baby bump. The words slip out before you can catch them. “Oh, and you’re… very pregnant.”
The air thickens instantly. You scramble to patch it, fumbling out, “I mean—it looks good on you. Pregnancy looks good on you.”
But the fix only makes it worse, awkwardness hanging like fog. You clear your throat, desperate for an out. “I should go. I, uh—have something to attend to.”
Isla tilts her head, still sweet despite the stumble. “Are you sure? Why don’t you come in for tea?”
You shake your head quickly. “No, no, I can’t. But thank you.”
You step back, already angling toward your car when Han’s voice stops you. “Is that… my sketchbook?”
You glance down at the book you’ve been clutching, caught red-handed and there’s no way out of it. With a practiced nonchalance you don’t feel, you quickly hand it over. “Yeah, here. I don’t know why I’m holding it.”
You act like you hadn’t planned to keep it, like you hadn’t just been holding it to your chest as though it were keeping you alive.
“Bye,” you mutter quickly, forcing a polite smile at both of them before jogging the rest of the way to your car. You fumble with your keys, slide in, and start the engine, every part of you screaming to get away as fast as possible.
The road stretches ahead, but your mind is still back there, replaying the awkward blur of Isla’s gentle voice, Han’s quiet watchfulness, the way your own words tumbled out like broken glass.
“You’re very pregnant.”
You groan, slamming the heel of your hand lightly against the steering wheel. “God, what the fuck is wrong with me?”
-
The living room is hazy, smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling. You’re slouched on the couch, joint balanced between your fingers, while Luke is sprawled on the carpet like it’s the most natural place to be. Sometimes you wonder how you even got close with him, but then you realize it’s simple—misery loves company, and Luke always has something to take the edge off.
Out of nowhere, curiosity slips out of your mouth. “How are things over there?”
Luke tilts his head, lazy eyes cutting toward you. “Over there?”
You hesitate, unwilling to put names to it, like saying them out loud will sting more. “How are they… together?”
“Oh, you mean Han and Isla?” he asks, a puff of smoke escaping his lips as he says it.
You nod, bringing your joint to your mouth to keep yourself occupied.
Luke scratches at his jaw, words half-slurred. “Well, they’re good. But it’s not always rainbows and unicorns, you know?”
You exhale slowly, smoke drifting out in a thin stream. “So… they’re not happy?”
He shakes his head, rolling onto his back. “I wouldn’t say it like that either.”
You hate yourself a little for asking, for prodding at a wound you know hasn’t healed, but before you can spiral too far, Luke shifts the mood. He lifts his joint in the air, grinning at you. “The special friends offer is still open, you know.”
You let out a chuckle, low and weary, shaking your head. Before you can reply, your phone buzzes beside you on the couch. You glance at the screen, it’s a text from Felix.
I’ve got time tomorrow if you want to take me on a date 😉
You snort, muttering under your breath, “As if…”
Pretentious as always, but then again, a bad date is better than another night drowning in smoke and misery. Your thumbs hover, then type out a quick reply: ok, see you tomorrow.
You lock your phone, toss it back on the couch, and turn to Luke with a crooked smile. “I have to turn down the special friendship, ’cause I’ve got a date.”
Luke huffs out a long sigh, blowing smoke toward the ceiling before shrugging. “Well, worth a try.”
-
The dim light of the spa room is warm, soft music humming low in the background. You’re face-down on your massage bed, cheek smushed into the pillow, the smell of lavender oil heavy in the air. Across from you, Felix is in the same position, a towel draped over his hips as the masseuse works on the knots along his shoulders.
It feels oddly intimate—both of you stripped down, nothing but low voices filling the space between muffled groans and the sound of knuckles pressing into muscle.
“So,” you mumble, your voice half-smothered by the pillow, “how’d you get back to blond so fast?”
Felix lets out a soft laugh, his accent thicker when he’s relaxed. “Didn’t really. I sprayed it dark for the Halloween party. Washes right out.”
You groan as the masseuse finding a brutal knot in your lower back, pushing into it until your whole body tenses. “Oh my god,” you mutter, voice strained, and Felix only chuckles like he’s enjoying the sound of your suffering.
A beat passes, then his voice cuts through the quiet. “So—how’s ‘being right about everything’ going for you?”
Your eyes flutter closed, sinking into the press of hands kneading your back. “Honestly?” you sigh. “Not that well.”
The masseuse pulls both your arms back, a swift crack running through your spine as your back pops. You gasp, then melt into the bed again, dazed but loose. “Actually, I’m on a winning streak,” you add slyly. “That’s why I’m on a date with you.”
Felix laughs under his breath, a throaty sound muffled by his own pillow. “Love the positive attitude,” he teases, and you can hear the smirk in his voice without even looking at him.
By the time you step out of the spa, both of you a little dazed, like your bones have turned to jelly. You let out a short laugh, hugging your arms loosely around yourself. “This is a weird place to take someone on a date, you know.”
Felix turns his head toward you, his hair catching under the lights, blond and almost glowy. His lips quirk as he asks, “Okay, but how do you feel?”
You don’t want to give him the satisfaction, but you can’t lie either. Your body feels looser, lighter—like someone untied all the knots inside you. With a reluctant smile, you admit, “I feel really good actually.”
His grin spreads wide and triumphant, almost boyish. “Knew it. You’re only the second person I’ve brought here.”
You raise your brows, firing back with dry sarcasm. “Wow, I feel very special.”
Felix doesn’t miss a beat. “The other person is my manager, by the way.”
You freeze mid-step, processing that. He catches the flicker of hesitation in your face, and like he’s been waiting for it, he flashes you a quick, cheeky wink. The sound of his car unlocking with a beep fills the pause as he points the fob at it, smug and unbothered.
“So…” you tilt your head, giving him a half-smirk. “Where are you taking me next?”
Felix pauses mid-step, narrowing his eyes at you with playful suspicion. “Don’t try to control everything. You need to let go.”
You huff a small laugh, rolling your eyes. “I just want to know.”
He stops in front of the driver’s side door, glancing at you over the roof of the car. His voice softens, threaded with something more assured. “Trust that I’ll take you somewhere for a good time.”
You sigh, feigning reluctance but unable to hide the tiny tug of curiosity in your chest. With that, you duck into the car, still hugging the warmth of relaxation as you pull the door shut beside you.
-
Felix leads you through a narrow hallway, past the chatter of strangers who smile, clap his back, and greet him like an old friend. Their warmth only adds to your confusion—you’re convinced you’re trespassing in someone’s apartment.
You tug at his sleeve, lowering your voice. “Where are you taking me, really?”
Felix only flashes you a sly grin and keeps walking, pulling you with him. Down a flight of stairs, the air shifts cooler, the muffled hum of something—music, maybe—echoing faintly. He pushes through a heavy door, pulls aside a curtain, and suddenly you’re not in someone’s basement at all.
The space opens into a dim, atmospheric ballroom turned speakeasy, its chandeliers casting a golden glow over couples swaying to salsa on the dance floor. Velvet-draped walls, mismatched furniture, and the low hum of conversation add to the secret magic of the place.
Felix watches your expression closely, his lips curling. “You look surprised.”
“I am surprised,” you admit, still wide-eyed.
He takes your hand without hesitation, guiding you through the crowd, through the rhythm of couples gliding past, until you’re perched at the bar. A drink appears in your hand and a few sips in, you’re starting to melt into the atmosphere—half-buzzed by the novelty of it all.
That’s when Felix tugs you again. “Come on.”
The music pulses through the floorboards, pulling you along as he leads you onto the dance floor. Panic sparks—your dancing skills are nothing to brag about. “Your hips are too good at this,” you tease despite the nerves bubbling up from your lack of hands and feet coordination, but Felix steadily holding you by the waist, swaying you with him until your body finds the rhythm.
“This is why I asked where you were taking me,” you joke, trying to mask the heat climbing your face. “If I knew, I’d have worn my ballroom dress and dancing shoes.”
Felix doesn’t buy it. He grins, spins you unexpectedly, and you can’t stop the surprised laugh that tumbles out of you before he reels you back in. This time, closer. Too close. Your chest brushes his, your hips fall into his lead, and suddenly the space between you doesn’t exist at all. His eyes lock with yours, dark, teasing but something else flickering underneath. Without meaning to hesitate, without giving yourself time to talk yourself out of it, you lean forward and press your lips to his.
Felix stills, caught completely off guard. His eyes widen, and for a split second you’re sure he hadn’t expected you to be the one to cross that line first. But when you pull away, his surprise melts quickly, a slow grin spreading across his face as his hand slips to cradle the back of your head. Then he leans in, capturing your mouth in a kiss that’s slower, deeper—lingering in a way that makes you forget where you are until the roar of the crowd filters back into your awareness.
When you finally break apart, both of you breathing harder than before, you grin at him, teasing, “Now, move those hips again.”
Felix laughs, his forehead still pressed to yours, before pulling you back into the rhythm of the music, hips rolling smoothly against yours as if nothing—and everything—had changed.
-
The second the door clicks shut, Felix crowds you against it, kissing you like he’s been starving for this. His mouth is hot, urgent, tongue sliding against yours as his hands grip your hips, tugging you tight against the hard line of him. You moan into his mouth, fingers diving into his hair and pulling until he groans.
He doesn’t waste time. His hands slip under your shirt, palms skimming your stomach before pushing it up, up—until he yanks it over your head and tosses it across the room. He curses under his breath as his mouth latches onto your neck, biting and sucking marks there while his fingers fumble with your bra clasp. The snap comes undone, and he strips it from you, tossing it aside before filling his hands with your breasts. His thumbs circle your nipples, making you gasp into his mouth.
You tug at his jacket, shoving it off his shoulders in one rough motion, then drag his shirt up to expose his stomach, the defined lines of muscle making your mouth water. You can’t resist, leaning down to press wet, open-mouthed kisses against his chest, but he’s too impatient to let you linger—he rips the shirt over his head and crushes his mouth back to yours.
Your hands fumble with his belt buckle, desperate, until you finally shove it open and push his jeans down his hips. He groans into the kiss when your palm brushes over him through his briefs.
“Fuck—” he hisses, breaking the kiss just long enough to bite down on your lower lip.
He’s no gentler with you—his hands slide down, shoving your skirt past your thighs, your panties dragged down in the same rough motion. You step out of them quickly, kicking them away, and the both of you are suddenly bare and pressing skin-to-skin, the heat between your bodies almost unbearable.
Felix pulls back for just a second, pupils blown, chest heaving. His lips are wet and swollen when he rasps, “Do you want to do this?”
And you can’t help but grin wickedly, pressing your body into his as you teasingly say his words back to him, “You need to let go, bro. Don’t try to control everything.”
That makes him laugh, low and dark, before he pushes you onto the bed and crashes his mouth to yours again, hungrier, his hands already roaming down your body with intent. His laugh is still buzzing against your lips as he pushes you down onto the bed, climbing over you, the mattress dipping with his weight. His mouth finds yours again in a deep, messy kiss, his tongue tangling with yours while his hand slides between your thighs, teasing over your folds with feather-light touches that make you squirm.
You moan, arching into his hand, but he pulls back just enough to smirk down at you. “Already so wet for me?” His voice is gravelly, teasing, like he already knows the answer.
“Shut up,” you gasp, dragging his mouth back to yours.
His fingers dip lower, sliding through your slick before pushing one inside, slow and deliberate. The stretch makes you gasp, your nails digging into his shoulders. He watches your reaction closely, eyes dark, before sliding in a second finger, pumping them steadily as his thumb circles your clit.
Your moans spill freely now, filling the hotel room as he works you open, each thrust of his fingers hitting deeper. He leans down, sucking your nipple into his mouth, flicking his tongue over it while his fingers fuck you harder, faster. You’re writhing under him, legs falling apart shamelessly, and when his teeth graze your nipple, you cry out.
“Felix—fuck—”
“You sound so pretty like this,” he murmurs against your skin, fingers curling inside you just right. “Bet I could make you come before I even get inside you.”
But you’re too far gone for patience. You grab his wrist, panting, “I want you. Now.”
That snaps something in him. He pulls his fingers out and you watch him bring them to his lips, licking them clean with a low groan that makes your stomach twist with heat. Then he shoves his briefs down, freeing himself—and your mouth waters at the sight of his cock, hard and thick, tip glistening.
He strokes himself once, twice, before lining up against your entrance, pausing just long enough to look you in the eye. “Last chance—”
“Stop talking,” you cut him off, legs wrapping around his waist to pull him in.
Felix groans as he pushes forward, the head stretching you, then sinking deeper inch by inch until he’s buried inside you completely. The stretch is intense, almost too much, but it makes you moan loud, clinging to him as he stills to let you adjust.
“Fuck, you feel so good,” he growls into your neck, his hips rocking shallowly. “So tight—like you were made for me.”
You meet his thrusts eagerly, nails dragging down his back, each snap of his hips hitting deeper, rougher. The pace builds quickly, the bed creaking under the rhythm of his thrusts as he fucks you hard, your moans muffled only when his mouth crashes against yours.
“Felix—harder—” you whimper, and he obliges, pounding into you until stars burst behind your eyelids. His hand snakes between your bodies, fingers circling your clit with practiced precision, and it’s too much—you’re unraveling, body shaking as you come around him with a loud, broken cry.
He groans at the way you clench around him, thrusts becoming erratic as he chases his own release. His lips crash onto yours again, swallowing your moans, and with a final deep thrust, he spills inside you, hips jerking as he groans your name into your mouth.
For a moment, the only sounds in the room are your heavy breaths, tangled bodies pressed together in the afterglow. Felix kisses you softer now, lazy and lingering, before collapsing beside you, pulling you against his chest with an arm wrapped tight around your waist. You’re pressed against him, skin damp with sweat, the scent of sex hanging in the air.
For a while, neither of you speaks. You just stare up at the ceiling, catching your breath, mind racing in ways you can’t put into words.
Felix shifts, rolling his head on the pillow to look at you. “What are you thinking?”
You smirk faintly, still gazing upward. “Sleeping with a rockstar in a hotel room… does that make me a groupie?”
He lets out a low chuckle, the sound vibrating against your bare shoulder as he leans in to kiss it. “Don’t be dramatic, you only came to my concert once.”
You finally glance at him, catching the way his messy blond hair sticks to his forehead, the sweat shining along his collarbone. He looks good like this—softened, unguarded. Far from his fame and on-stage persona.
Felix’s thumb starts tracing slow circles against your hip. “You don’t regret it, do you?”
You tilt your head toward him, eyes narrowing just slightly, and reply in a teasing tone, “Depends… are you going to write a song about me?”
His lips curl into a grin. “Already thinking of words that rhymes with your name.”
The joke hangs between you, light but tinged with something else—something real and for once, lying there in the hotel sheets, you let yourself just breathe and be, without needing to decide what it all means.
-
In your office, you’re hunched over your desk as usual, eyes glued to the computer screen as you try to string together a halfway-decent opening paragraph, when Chris’s voice breaks your focus.
“Hey, special one.”
You look up just in time to see him leaning against the doorframe, his Captain America smile still lingering from Halloween, but there’s a certain weight behind his eyes, like he’s carrying a thought he’s debating whether to unload. Instead of asking him to spill it, you wait him out while spinning your pen between your fingers.
Eventually, he exhales and steps into your office. “So… I heard you went on a date with Felix the other day.”
You groan and lean back in your chair, pinching the bridge of your nose. “This is why you shouldn’t date a friend of your boss. Zero privacy.”
Chris just grins, unfazed. “What? I think it’s great.” He drops into the chair across from your desk, elbows on his knees. “You don’t have to be ashamed about it.”
You swivel your chair to the side with a scoff. “Ashamed? Try mortified. I mean, come on, Chris. Dating a rockstar? Could I be any more of a cliché?” You throw your hands up dramatically before adding, “And not just any rockstar—the same one I trashed in an article not too long ago.”
That gets a laugh out of him, full-bodied and warm. “Okay, yeah, that’s pretty funny. But hey, sometimes cliché is cliché for a reason. Maybe it’s not as bad as you think.”
“Tell that to my dignity.” You cross your arms, frowning at your monitor as if it can save you from the conversation.
But Chris just smirks knowingly. “You know, I saw you two at my party.”
You blink, wary. “And?”
“And…” He draws it out just to make you squirm. “You looked happy. Like, actually happy. Don’t deny it.”
You roll your eyes, trying for indifference. “It was the alcohol. And the weed. And the terrible EDM music.”
Chris chuckles, shaking his head. “Sure. Blame my party playlist. But honestly? I think Felix might be good for you.”
You open your mouth, ready with a sarcastic comeback—but it never makes it past your lips. Because somewhere deep down, a flicker of something warms in your chest. Maybe it’s wishful thinking, or maybe it’s just the memory of Felix’s hand slipping into yours on the dance floor, but for a brief, fleeting second, you feel it: the faintest assurance that Chris might be right.
And yet, as soon as he leaves your office and the silence settles back in, doubt creeps up your spine. Are you really ready to start something new? To let someone in again? The cursor blinks on the empty page in front of you, waiting, and you wonder if maybe you’re still too tangled in the past to write a new beginning.
-
The drive home is uneventful, the kind of routine commute where your brain drifts, already halfway into what you’ll cook for dinner or whether you’ll just DoorDash something. But the moment you turn into your street, your grip tightens around the steering wheel.
Your heart lurches into your throat as you see Han sitting on the steps that lead up to your front door. His posture is slouched, his elbows resting on his knees, his face tilted down just enough that the streetlight shadows his features. Even from the car, you can tell something’s wrong. He doesn’t look like himself.
Luke said he and Isla were doing good. So why does he look like someone’s dimmed his light?
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” you repeatedly curse under your breath, pulse hammering, before pulling the car slowly into the driveway. The engine dies with a soft rumble. You grab your bag from the passenger seat, stalling for just a second longer before stepping out.
Han lifts his head as you walk toward him. There’s a faint smile tugging at his lips, but it’s weak, like it’s all he can manage. His eyes are tired, dulled, and his entire presence feels… drained.
“Hey,” he says softly, the word falling flat.
“Hey,” you answer, your own voice equally tentative.
A silence stretches between you. He exhales, long and heavy, his shoulders sagging as if the weight he’s carrying is too much to contain. His gaze finally meets yours, raw and unguarded.
“I don’t know what the rules are,” he says quietly, almost to himself, “but I’m sure I’m breaking them.”
He inhales sharply, like bracing himself for the leap. His lips twitch in the ghost of a chuckle, strained and pained, before he finally lets the words out.
“But I really—” He breaks off, the sound rough, like it costs him everything just to keep going.
When his eyes lock with yours again, they’re glistening with something that makes your chest tighten.
“I really miss you.”
-
✨ FOREVER: FINAL CHAPTER is available on Patreon ✨
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Girl, this made me cry on the subway but I was SO happy in the end, I’m afraid she’s going to mess it up again on the next chapter and I got hopes for nothing…
I can’t even have an explosive reaction like the last one, I kept only thinking about different things that would have happened in my life if I made other decisions.
Synopsis: You and Han were each other’s firsts—first love, first heartbreak, first forever. Even as life pulls you apart, the two of you keep finding your way back, caught between what was and what could be. (13,2 k words)
Author's note: So guys, I watched this really sad movie and I was like "lemme make it into a fic" so you can experience the angst. Please enjoy this one too 🥹
The story doesn’t begin with the end. It begins with laughter, loud music, and the glow of cheap string lights at a college party. You remember squeezing through a crowd of strangers with a plastic cup in hand, rolling your eyes at the noise, ready to leave—until you stumbled into Han Jisung.
He wasn’t trying to be the life of the party. He was perched on the arm of a couch, sketchbook balanced on his knee, doodling instead of drinking. His hair fell into his eyes when he looked up at you, startled, as if he’d been caught doing something embarrassing.
“You draw at parties?” you asked, half amused, half curious.
“Only when they’re boring,” he replied, holding the page out like proof.
On it were a pair of cartoon characters—lopsided, messy, full of charm. A boy with wide eyes and messy hair, a girl rolling her eyes at him with affection. You laughed, because somehow, they already looked like the two of you.
“What’s their story?” you asked.
And just like that, the night stopped belonging to the party. You and Han sat in the corner, spinning backstories for his characters: the boy was a dreamer who always ran late, the girl the realist who kept him grounded. They fought about what to eat for dinner, shared umbrellas in the rain, argued over silly things, but never went to bed angry.
Han’s pen flew across the paper while you talked. By the time the night ended, he had already turned your words into panels, rough sketches capturing your laughter.
That was how it started—your story told through his ink.
-
From there, the two of you created these little moments:
Late-night study sessions that turned into takeout dinners on the dorm floor. You reading aloud half-serious reviews of albums while he filled the margins of his sketchbook with doodles of the two of you. His grin when you teased him for never finishing assignments until the last second, the way he stole fries from your plate like it was his birthright.
There are coffee dates where you’re buried under piles of notes for an interview, and he distracts you by drawing faces in the foam of your latte.
There are nights when he insists on cooking, only to set off the fire alarm, and you end up sitting on the kitchen floor with burnt noodles but laughter so big your stomach hurts.
There are quiet afternoons spent on park benches—your hand holding a book, his head resting against your shoulder. He doesn’t read a word, but he hums while you turn the pages, content just to exist there with you.
One night, you hunched over your laptop, typing furiously, while Han sprawls on the couch behind you with his sketchbook. Every so often, he leans over your shoulder to read what you’re writing—half-annoying, half-endearing—before you swat him away with a laugh.
“Don’t you have your own work to do?” you ask.
“Already doing it.” He shows you a page full of doodles of the two of you in ridiculous scenarios: you chasing him with a frying pan, him hiding under a desk.
Later, when you flip through the pages of his notebook, you see the real story taking shape.
You became his favorite character. He became yours.
-
A little after graduating college, he showed you something different. A comic, inked and bound in his careful handwriting.
You remember curling up on the couch, knees tucked to your chest, flipping through page after page of the two characters you’d created together. They argued, they loved, they stumbled their way into adulthood, all with a tenderness that mirrored the two of you.
And then you turned the page.
There it was: the boy, down on one knee, ring in hand. The girl, wide-eyed and stunned.
Your heart caught. Your hands trembled.
“Keep reading,” Han whispered, nervous in a way you’d never seen him before.
You did and when you looked up from the page, he was mirroring the panel—kneeling in front of you with a real ring.
“Marry me?” he asked, soft, hopeful, eyes shining.
You laughed and cried all at once, and when you said yes, he sketched the moment into his memory with a grin that never faded.
From there, it was a thousand little pieces of happiness stitched together into a life:
Sunday mornings with tangled hair and pancakes that never came out quite right. Long walks where he held your hand in his pocket because yours was always cold. Your playlists and his doodles colliding into shared creations, silly and sincere all at once. Falling asleep with the TV still on, your legs tangled, his sketchbook on the coffee table.
A life built from ordinary things, the kind that don’t make headlines but feel infinite when you’re living them.
A happy life, once.
-
SIX YEARS LATER
The memories fade like sunlight through glass, and suddenly it’s the present—Han is driving the car, windows cracked open, the late morning air rushing in. Your favorite song comes on the radio, and before either of you can stop yourselves, you’re both singing at the top of your lungs.
“—and I don’t mind if we take our time!” Han belts out, voice off-key but unbothered, his hands drumming on the steering wheel like a makeshift drum kit.
You laugh so hard you almost forget the words, clutching your seatbelt with one hand and pointing at him with the other. “You’re so flat!”
“It’s called style,” he insists, turning the volume up even louder. “It’s called artistic freedom!”
You shake your head, but you join in anyway, the two of you shouting the chorus together so loudly the windows tremble. For a moment, it feels like nothing has changed like you’re still the same couple who once stayed up until 3 a.m. harmonizing with each other on dorm room floors, your laughter echoing through thin walls.
The last note of the chorus fades, and you’re still catching your breath when your phone buzzes in the cup holder. The caller ID flashes—work. You sigh, turning the volume down and answering.
“Hello? Yeah, this is she,” you say, your voice slipping into its professional register as you balance the phone between your ear and shoulder.
Beside you, Han makes a face, mouthing exaggerated words like he’s part of the call. His lips form silent blah, blah, blahs, his brows scrunched in mock seriousness. When that doesn’t break you, he starts mouthing along to the faint music still playing under your conversation, his head bobbing as if he’s performing for an invisible audience.
You angle your body away from him, fighting the smile tugging at your lips, but he only leans closer, rolling his eyes dramatically like you’re the most boring thing in the world. Finally, he goes for it—crosses his eyes, sticks out his tongue, and lip-syncs the bridge with full conviction.
Your hand shoots out automatically, swatting his arm and he yelps, clutching the spot as though you’ve mortally wounded him.
“Abuse! I’m a victim!” he cries, though no sound leaves his lips because you’re still mid-call. His shoulders shake with suppressed laughter anyway.
You cover your mouth with your hand, trying not to snort into the receiver, finishing your sentence as quickly as you can. When you hang up, you turn to glare at him, but the sparkle in his eyes makes it impossible to be mad.
“You’re an idiot,” you mutter.
“And yet, you married this idiot,” he shoots back with a grin, as if the words don’t sting just a little now.
You laugh despite yourself, shaking your head as the car rolls to a stoplight. Your gaze drifts out the window and there, at the end of the block, a building catches your eye—sharp angles jutting out in odd directions, all glass and steel stacked like someone gave up halfway through playing Jenga.
“Who built such a thing?” you mutter, almost to yourself. “It looks like… like a spaceship crashed into an office block and they just left it that way.”
Han snorts, glancing at it only briefly before smirking at you. “That’s modern architecture, babe. Very high concept. It says, ‘I have money, but I’m confused about it.’”
You laugh, shaking your head. “That’s just stupid.”
“No, no,” Han insists, nodding seriously as he turns down your street. “See, those windows up top? That’s where the rich aliens live. And the bottom part? That’s their attempt at blending in with humans. Total giveaway, though.”
You roll your eyes but can’t stop your smile. “You should really pitch that story to Netflix.”
“Already did,” he deadpans. “They said it was too realistic.”
You swat at his arm, and he yelps dramatically before both of you dissolve into laughter, the strange building shrinking behind you in the mirror. For a few seconds, it’s quiet except for the hum of the engine and then you slip the question in casually, almost too casually.
“So… how’s that job application going?”
Han’s fingers tighten on the steering wheel. He doesn’t meet your eyes, just shrugs. “Still in process, I think. Haven’t heard back yet.”
You glance at him. He’s vague, evasive—like he always is when the subject makes him squirm. You bite your tongue, then pivot. “Well, at least there’s the project I gave you. The artwork for the company website? Deadline’s Friday by the way”
That gets his attention. He finally glances at you, eyes twinkling again. “Yes, ma’am. I’m on it.” He even throws in a mock salute, grinning like a kid.
“Not funny,” you warn, though your voice softens.
“Very funny,” he counters, tapping the steering wheel like it’s the rimshot of a drum. “You’re lucky I work well under pressure. It’ll be my best piece yet.”
“You say that every time.”
“And every time, it’s true.”
You roll your eyes, but your chest warms in spite of yourself and the car hums along as the conversation drifts back into something lighter.
“That café this morning wasn’t bad,” you say, leaning against the window. “Coffee was decent.”
“Decent?” Han throws you a look, scandalized. “That croissant was life-changing.”
“Life-changing? You said that about the one diner, remember? The one with the watery eggs.”
He gasps, pressing a hand to his chest as if betrayed. “Those eggs were charming in their own way. And don’t act like you didn’t steal half my toast.”
“That was because your toast was the only edible thing on the plate,” you shoot back, grinning.
He groans dramatically, shaking his head. “First you disrespect my artistic vocals, now my culinary adventures.”
You’re still laughing as the car turns into the driveway. The moment feels effortless, almost too easy, as though none of the cracks exist.
Han parks, fingers drumming on the steering wheel. You pop your seatbelt off and open the door, stepping out into the fading light. He stays in the driver’s seat, engine still running.
“I need to borrow the car to run a few errands,” he says, putting his head out of the car window. “Won’t be long.”
You narrow your eyes, pointing at him with mock severity. “Be back before six. And showered.”
“Showered?” His brows shoot up. “Why?”
“Because Niamh and Josh invited us for dinner tonight, remember?”
He groans, sinking lower into his seat. “Right. The perfect couple.”
“Don’t be dramatic.”
“Too late.” But then he sighs, sitting back up. “Fine, fine. Back before six. Clean and sparkling.”
“Good.”
You step away, shutting the door. He puts the car in reverse, and just before he pulls out, you lean down toward the window one last time.
“Back at six,” you remind him firmly.
He just nods, flashing a grin as he raises his hand in a lazy wave. “Bye, babe. Love you.”
“Love you,” you reflexively shout back.
And then he’s gone, taillights glowing as he disappears down the street, leaving you standing in the quiet driveway with a smile you don’t quite realize has slipped.
-
By the time six o’clock rolls around, Han does show up—hair damp from a quick shower, shirt only half tucked in like he got distracted midway. You give him a once-over and bite back a comment, choosing to be satisfied that he at least listened.
Dinner at Niamh and Josh’s is warm and buzzing with chatter. Their apartment smells like roasted chicken and fresh bread, candles flickering on the dining table. Niamh greets you at the door with a tight hug, her eyes sparkling.
“Finally! We thought you two got lost,” she teases, ushering you inside.
Josh claps Han on the back as he slips off his shoes. “Man, it’s been forever. Glad you made it.”
You all gather around the table, plates passed, glasses filled. It feels easy and familiar because the four of you have been friends since college — until the conversation drifts where it always does lately.
“So,” Niamh says, eyes bright as she glances at Josh, “we finally picked a venue for our wedding.”
Josh’s grin widens. “By the lake, just outside the city. You guys will love it—it’s perfect.”
You smile politely, nodding. “That sounds beautiful.”
“It is,” Niamh says, practically glowing. “We’re going to do the ceremony outdoors, under those big oak trees. And Josh’s cousin is handling the music—remember Daniel, Han? The guy who used to DJ at those college parties?”
Han chuckles, leaning back in his chair. “Oh yeah. I remember him trying to scratch records while drunk. Brave choice for a wedding.”
Josh laughs, shaking his head. “He’s actually good now, I swear.”
The conversation spirals into details—flowers, seating charts, cake flavors. You nod along, chiming in when asked, but there’s a weight under your ribs. Watching them, it’s impossible not to feel the contrast. The way they lean into each other unconsciously, the ease of planning a future together. Meanwhile, you and Han are here—still laughing, still close—but with no future left to plan.
By the time dessert rolls around—Niamh’s homemade berry tart, still warm from the oven—the conversation drifts from wedding plans to nostalgia, old stories about college days, late-night parties, and the kinds of things you laugh about only with people who’ve known you for years.
It’s light, comfortable… until Niamh sets her fork down with a decisive little clink.
“So,” she begins, eyes darting between you and Han. “Can I ask you something?”
You glance up, tart halfway to your mouth. “Sure.”
She hesitates for half a beat, then blurts, “What are you two doing?”
The question hangs in the air, heavy. Josh clears his throat, shifting uncomfortably, but Niamh barrels on. “I mean, you guys have been separated for six months, you’re getting divorced yet you still act like—like nothing’s changed. You’re laughing, singing, inside jokes every two seconds… it’s confusing. Honestly, it drives me crazy.”
You exchange a quick glance with Han, then plaster on a practiced smile. “We’re fine,” you say, a little too brightly. “We’re just… really good friends.”
“Best friends,” Han adds, leaning back in his chair with a grin. “Forever and ever. Right, babe?”
You swat his arm under the table, trying not to laugh. “Don’t call me that.”
But he does, stretching out the word just to annoy you: “Baaabe.”
Josh tries to chuckle, but it comes out thin. Niamh, however, doesn’t even try to hide her frustration.
“That’s exactly what I mean,” she says sharply. “You’re still so good together. You still are together, whether you admit it or not. And it just—it kills me that you’re not. You’re sitting here pretending like this is normal when it’s not. It’s not normal, it’s… it’s heartbreaking.”
Her voice wavers, and suddenly the table is too quiet, the weight of her words pressing down on all four of you.
You glance at Han, expecting him to say something, but he’s looking back at you with the same expression you feel etched across your own face: a mix of confusion and discomfort, like neither of you quite knows how you got here or how to answer the question that no one wants to ask out loud.
The silence stretches, and the taste of berry tart turns bitter on your tongue. You shift in your seat when Han suddenly clears his throat.
“Well…” he begins, eyes darting around the table. “At least if we ever get back together, we won’t need a wedding planner. Niamh’s got it covered.”
He lifts his fork like it’s a microphone, flashing a boyish grin. “And Josh, you can DJ. Full circle.”
Josh huffs out a laugh, though it sounds more like relief than amusement. Niamh, however, shoots him a glare sharp enough to slice through the tart.
“Han—” she warns, but he only holds his hands up in mock surrender, chuckling.
“Hey, I’m just saying,” he insists, leaning back in his chair with a smirk. “Save money, recycle the old wedding playlist… boom, instant party.”
You roll your eyes, kicking his shin under the table. He yelps dramatically, nearly dropping his fork. “Ow! See? Domestic abuse! Everyone saw it!”
Despite yourself, you snort, trying to smother the laugh bubbling up. The tension cracks, just a little. Even Josh smiles, shaking his head.
Niamh, though, doesn’t laugh. She looks down at her plate, lips pressed into a thin line and then suddenly, she gets up and leaves the dining table. The awkwardness doesn’t fully leave the room—it just lingers, quieter now, tucked between the four of you.
And once again, when you catch Han’s gaze across the table, all you can do is trade the same bewildered look.
-
The drive back is quieter than usual. You’ve taken the wheel, eyes fixed on the stretch of empty road ahead, the glow of passing streetlights slipping over the windshield in waves.
Han sits slouched in the passenger seat, uncharacteristically subdued, fiddling with his phone. Then, without warning, music fills the car—the opening chords of one of his favorite songs. You glance sideways, and he shoots you an innocent smile, already mouthing along.
Except he doesn’t actually sing. He butchers it. Purposefully. Loud, off-key, dragging every note so horribly you nearly choke on a laugh.
“Oh, my god. My ears!” you groan, tightening your grip on the steering wheel as he howls through the chorus like a dying cat.
“What?!” He clutches his chest, feigning offense. “You don’t understand true talent.”
“You sound like a drunk karaoke machine.”
He cranks the volume higher and leans closer, practically singing in your ear now. It’s so ridiculous you finally crack, laughing until your stomach hurts. The knot of tension from dinner loosens, replaced by that familiar, maddening warmth only he knows how to pull from you.
When the song ends, the laughter fades into a softer quiet and the hum of the tires against the asphalt fills the space between you.
“So,” Han says finally, his voice low but not heavy. “That thing Niamh said…”
You sigh, fingers drumming lightly on the steering wheel. “Yeah. That was… a lot.”
“Mm.” He leans his head against the window, watching the blur of streetlights. “But she’s wrong, you know. It’s not weird.”
You glance at him. “You don’t think so?”
“Nope.” He turns to look at you, a small, stubborn smile tugging at his lips. “We’re just us. Always have been. People don’t get it, but that’s fine. We get it.”
For a moment, you let yourself believe that. That it really is that simple. That the two of you can keep this balance forever, no matter how messy it looks from the outside. You don’t answer, but when he reaches over to nudge your arm playfully, you don’t pull away either.
“Okay, but… tell me the berry tart wasn’t the best part of the night,” he says.
You nod, smiling despite yourself. “The tart? Hands down.”
“Mm.” He closes his eyes dramatically, as though tasting it all over again. “Flaky crust, perfect berries, not too sweet, not too tart. A masterpiece.”
You laugh, shaking your head. “Trust you to give a food review.”
“Hey, I take dessert very seriously.”
The conversation fizzles into a comfortable quiet after that, the hum of the car filling the silence as you pull into the driveway. Neither of you rush to fill it. By the time you kill the engine, the night feels heavy, the quiet stretching thin.
You both climb out of the car without a word, footsteps crunching softly on the gravel. You turn, offering him a small smile as you murmur, “Goodnight.”
“’Night.”
You’re halfway up the steps when he calls after you. “Hey.”
You turn back and he’s still standing by the car, shoulders hunched, hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets. For once, the grin is gone, replaced with something more serious, more fragile.
“Thanks,” he says, voice quiet. “For… letting me stay out back. In the studio.”
You blink, then soften. “Hey, don’t thank me. You can stay as long as you want—it’s your studio anyway.”
Something in his face shifts, loosens, though he doesn’t quite smile.
“And…” you hesitate, then add, “it’s nice having you around.”
His eyes flick up to meet yours. “Me too.”
The corner of your mouth lifts, small but sincere. “Goodnight.”
He nods, then turns toward the side path that leads to the guesthouse. You’re about to head inside when you hear him mumble, almost absently, “Goodnight. I love you.”
Without thinking, you toss the words back over your shoulder: “Love you too.”
It isn’t until the door clicks shut behind you that you realize the weight of what you’ve said—and the way it still slips out so easily.
-
Morning slides in soft and golden, the kind that makes the whole world feel washed clean. You slip into your sneakers, earbuds in, and hit the pavement before the neighborhood fully wakes. The run clears your head, the rhythmic thud of your steps syncing with the pulse of the music in your ears.
Back home, it’s the usual rhythm: shower, hair towel-dried as you crack eggs into a pan, sip coffee while scrolling through work emails. The kitchen hums with a quiet efficiency, your every move practiced, deliberate. You dress for work, crisp and neat, slipping into shoes with one hand while typing a quick reply to your boss with the other.
By the time you’re juggling your keys and bag, ready to head out the door, you feel steady. Composed. Exactly the way you’re supposed to be.
Stepping into the driveway, you spot movement out of the corner of your eye.
Han emerges from the studio out back, yawning wide enough to crack his jaw. His hair sticks up in every direction, yesterday’s hoodie still clinging to his frame, drawstrings uneven. He rubs at his eyes, squinting against the morning light like a kid dragged out of bed for school.
When he notices you by the car, he lifts one hand in a lazy wave, a lopsided grin tugging at his lips.
“Morning, babe,” he croaks, voice still heavy with sleep.
You smile. The kind of small, unthinking smile that feels automatic around him. You lift your hand in return, a quick wave, before sliding into the driver’s seat. As the engine purrs to life, you catch one last glimpse of him in the rearview mirror: standing there barefoot in the driveway, messy and blinking, watching you go.
And somehow, despite everything, it feels like the most natural thing in the world.
-
Work greets you with the usual chaos: the hum of phones, the shuffle of papers, and the faint smell of burnt coffee drifting through the office. You drop your bag onto your chair and open your laptop, half-expecting the day to swallow you whole.
But Chris, the head editor of the magazine you’re working for, already perched across from your desk, raises an eyebrow as soon as you sit. “So,” he says, drawing out the word, “how was dinner last night?”
You pause mid-sip of coffee. “Oh, you don’t want to know.”
He leans forward, grinning. “That bad?”
You sigh, setting your mug down. “Let’s just say Niamh broke down halfway through dessert. She basically accused Han and me of still being together is weird. It got… awkward.”
Chris winces in sympathy, then tilts his head. “Well, to be fair, you two do seem like you’re not ready to let go of each other yet.”
You shoot him a look. “We’re fine. Han and I—we’re good. We know what we’re doing.”
“I don’t doubt that.” Chris shrugs, spinning a pen between his fingers. “I just don’t think there’s anything wrong with it either. Sometimes people don’t have to let go right away. Doesn’t mean it’s bad.”
You study him, his calm tone gnawing at you. “…So what do you really think?”
Instead of answering, he smirks and swivels his laptop around, sliding it across your desk. A headline glares up at you: EXCLUSIVE: Our Coverage of Felix’s Record-Breaking Concert.
You groan, dragging a hand over your face. “Why on earth are we doing exclusive coverage of Felix’s concert? His lyrics are corny. And obnoxious. He rhymes ‘heart’ with ‘start’ in every other song.”
Chris chuckles. “Doesn’t matter. He’s huge right now. The fact that the magazine landed this coverage is a jackpot.”
You groan louder, pushing the laptop back toward him like the sight alone makes you nauseous. “Ugh. He’s huge because the ladies love his deep voice.”
Chris only shrugs, unfazed.
You rise from your chair, brushing off your skirt as if to physically rid yourself of Felix’s presence. You’re halfway to the door before you stop, remembering. “You never answered me. What do you really think about Han and me?”
Chris looks up from his screen, deadpan. “I think you need to start dating again.”
You groan, throwing your hands up. “Unbelievable.”
He just smirks, already back to typing.
As you walk away, his words stick like burrs. Start dating again. As if it’s that easy. As if you aren’t too busy, too buried in deadlines and responsibilities. You tell yourself it’s fine—you have plenty of more important things to do. And yet, the thought lingers, trailing you down the hall like an unwelcome shadow.
-
Han stabs at his scrambled eggs, the corner booth bathed in the late-morning glow. Across from him, Luke nurses a coffee like it’s his lifeline as he rambles about his latest idea.
“I’m telling you, man, the dispensary thing could work,” Luke says between sips. “Clean branding, cool space, good atmosphere. Not some sketchy corner shop. Like, a place people want to be in. Chill, welcoming.”
Luke stops talking as his eyes are fixed on the counter, where a girl in a sundress is waiting for her latte. “You should ask her out.”
Han blinks, thrown off. “What?”
“That girl.” Luke jerks his chin subtly toward her. “Cute, right? Get her number. Go on a date.”
Han doesn’t even look. He just shakes his head. “Nah. I think… it’s not over.”
Luke finally drags his attention back to him. “What’s not over?”
“Me and her,” Han says simply, as if it’s obvious. He shrugs, pushing his eggs around. “She’s just overwhelmed right now, confused. She’ll come around.”
Luke frowns. “Han, it’s been a while. You can’t keep hanging onto this fantasy. At some point you have to accept it’s done and move on.”
Han smirks without humor. “Says the guy who dates like he’s speedrunning Tinder.”
“Yeah, well.” Luke leans back, sipping his coffee. “Maybe you should call Isla again.”
That makes Han freeze. He shoots him a sharp look. “That was a one-time thing. And don’t ever mention it again. Especially not to her.”
Luke raises his hands in mock surrender. “Fine. I won’t. But does that mean you didn’t even like Isla?”
Han sighs, finally glancing at the girl at the counter, though his gaze slides past her. “She was cool. Just… she’s not her.”
Luke groans, dragging a hand down his face. “God, you’re hopeless. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to remind her you can still pull, you know? Make her sweat a little.”
Han snorts, but the sound lacks conviction. “Yeah, I guess.” He leans back, staring at the condensation sliding down his water glass, voice softening almost to himself. “I just… don’t want to start all over again.”
Luke doesn’t answer, just drums his fingers against his mug, the silence thick with everything he isn’t saying.
Han shifts in his seat, glancing once more toward the girl at the counter. She’s laughing at something the barista said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, and for the first time, he actually looks. Really looks.
He imagines what it would be like to walk up, ask her name, maybe get her number. Start something new. Prove Luke right—that he can still pull, that he isn’t stuck. That he could move on, if he wanted to. But even as the thought forms, it feels heavy, wrong. Like shoes that don’t fit.
Han sighs, dragging a hand through his messy hair. “Maybe,” he says finally, the word tasting uncertain on his tongue. “Maybe I’ll try.”
Luke grins, satisfied, but Han looks back down at his plate, untouched eggs gone cold. His chest aches with the truth he can’t quite shake: the only person he wants to start and end with is you.
-
The bell above the café door chimes softly as you step inside, scanning the room until you spot Niamh already seated by the window. She waves, tentative, as though she isn’t sure you’ll wave back.
You cross the room, set your bag down, and slide into the chair across from her. For a moment, neither of you speaks. The clink of cups, the hiss of the espresso machine, and the hum of chatter around you fill the silence between you like static.
Finally, Niamh exhales, fiddling with her napkin. She looks at you as if words are fighting to leave her mouth but she’s holding them hostage.
You sigh, exasperated. “Just say it, Niamh.”
Her eyes meet yours. “I just… need to say something. First off, I’m sorry. About dinner. I shouldn’t have lost it like that.”
You nod, letting the apology settle. “Okay.”
“But,” she presses on, “I still think it’s stupid. You and Han not being together. You’re best friends—that’s the hardest part to find. And you already have it.”
You let out a long exhale, the weight of the truth pressing on your chest. “I do love Han,” you admit, voice low. “But love isn’t enough. He’s not… a father material. He doesn’t even have a car. Heck! He doesn’t even own dress shoes. And if the father of my future children can’t hold a steady job…” You trail off, shaking your head. “I just can’t. But one thing I know for sure—Han will always be my best friend.”
Niamh studies you for a moment, then gives a small nod. “That’s what I had to say. I won’t bring it up again.”
Relieved, you flag down the waiter, ready to shift the mood. “So—should we order?”
But before the waiter even reaches your table, Niamh leans forward, lowering her voice. “It’s a huge mistake, you know. Letting him live in your guest house. You’re slowly breaking his heart by doing that.”
You stiffen, forcing a polite smile for the waiter as you order your meal. When he leaves, you meet Niamh’s gaze squarely. “Han is fine. We’re fine. The two of us—we’re fine.”
-
You pull into the driveway, mailbox tucked under one arm, flipping absently through the pile. Bills, junk flyers, glossy postcards, and a handful of envelopes with Han’s name scrawled across the front. You pause, staring at them a beat too long before deciding to carry them out back.
From the faint sounds leaking through the sliding door—soft strings and whimsical dialogue—you know instantly: a Ghibli movie. Han’s comfort food for his soul.
You push the door open and step into the chaos. Easels and canvases lean haphazardly against the wall, tubes of paint oozing color onto stained rags. Dirty laundry nests in the corner. You try to ignore it, setting the mail down on the nearest table.
And there he is—Han sprawled on his bed, eyes glued to the TV screen, fork in hand as he demolishes an entire cheesecake. No plate, no shame. Just him and dessert.
“Hey, you’re not working?” you carefully ask, arching a brow.
Without missing a beat, he recites a line from the movie, voice pitched like the character’s, as if that’s an answer.
“Han,” you press, stepping closer. “Did you finish the artwork for the website yet?”
He finally glances at you, fork dangling lazily in his hand. “Not yet. But you’re gonna like it, I promise.”
You cross your arms, trying not to sound like you’re nagging. “Deadline’s today. Can you finish it tonight?”
That finally makes him pause. He switches off the TV, shoves the half-eaten cheesecake aside, and sits up straighter. His tone shifts, softer. “Hey… do you have a second? I need to tell you something. It’s important.”
He pats the empty space beside him, and after a moment’s hesitation, you sit. “If this is about the work you owe me—”
You look at him, expecting another excuse for the late artwork. Instead, he goes quiet, his fingers drumming restlessly against his knee before he blurts, “I’m going on a date tonight.”
For a moment, everything inside you stills. The faint sugar smell from the cheesecake, the mess of canvases and clothes around you—it all blurs into background noise. A date. The word rattles inside your chest like something foreign.
It takes you a beat too long, but you finally nod. “That’s… great.” Your voice comes out steady, even though your stomach feels like it’s been tugged down a few notches.
Han squints at you, almost disbelieving. “It is?”
You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding and force a small laugh. “Yeah. I don’t know why you had to psych yourself up with a Ghibli movie to tell me that, but… good for you.”
He chuckles, though it sounds strained. “It doesn’t bother you?”
The question hangs between you, sharp and testing. For a second, your honesty teeters dangerously close to the surface—you want to tell him that of course it bothers you, that you hate the idea of him smiling at someone else the way he smiles at you. But you pull yourself back, clamp down on the words. You promised yourself you’d be the adult in this, the one who handles it gracefully.
So you shake your head. “No. I think that’s great.”
Han’s shoulders relax, and he leans back against the pillows. “Luke set it up. Some girl he knows.”
You roll your eyes, trying to lighten the air. “Please tell me it’s not one of his stoner friends.”
That makes him laugh, real this time, his gummy smile breaking through. “Relax. Just a normal girl. It’s just a date.”
“Good,” you say, trying to keep it light. “But it’s not like you’re out shopping for wife number two.”
He snorts, and for a moment, the air shifts easier between you. But something in your chest softens at the sight, even though it aches. You reach up before you can stop yourself, cupping his jaw with your hand, your thumb brushing the corner of his smile. “That’s a big move. I’m proud of you.”
His eyes flicker, caught off guard by the tenderness, but he smiles into it.
For a moment, you sit in that soft silence, the kind that feels too familiar, too dangerous. Then you clear your throat, pulling your hand back. “Okay, so… are we done with the talk?”
Han nods.
“it’s going to be great,” you mutter but it sounds more like you convincing yourself instead of him. You stand, heading toward the door, but glance back at him over your shoulder. “Tell me all about it when you get back.”
“Ew, no,” he groans, flopping dramatically onto the bed.
But as you walk back across the yard, the truth gnaws at your chest: you knew one of you would have to move on eventually. You just didn’t think it would be him. Or that it would be this soon.
And you still don’t know how to feel about it.
-
Han smooths down his shirt in the cracked mirror above his desk, tugging at the collar until it sits just right. The studio around him is still a mess—canvases leaning against the walls, laundry piling in the corner—but at least he looks presentable. Sort of.
He grabs his keys, then pauses at the back door. Through the glass, he spots you moving around the kitchen, coffee mug in hand. For a moment, he just watches. The shape of you in your work clothes, the way you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear as you scroll on your phone—it makes his chest ache with something unspoken.
When you finally glance up, he forces a smile and raises a hand in a wave. You wave back, easy, like it’s nothing. Like it doesn’t twist him up inside.
He mouths a silent “bye,” then steps out, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets.
The date is at a bar Luke insisted on—dim lights, too-loud music, sticky tables. Han slides into the booth across from her, a girl with glossy hair and a bright smile. She can’t be more than a few years out of school.
Almost immediately, she launches into stories about her job, her friends, the classes she hated in college. Her voice is cheerful, animated, bouncing from one detail to the next without pause. Han nods when it feels right, sips his drink, lets her words wash over him.
But his mind isn’t here. Not really.
It drifts back to earlier, to the way you smiled at him in the studio, the way your hand cupped his jaw, warm and sure, when you told him you were proud of him. And then, the way you said—so easily—that it didn’t bother you at all that he was going on a date. That you thought it was great.
Great.
The word stings every time it circles through his head.
He forces another polite smile as the girl keeps talking about herself, about her plans for the weekend, her favorite cocktail, the shoes she bought on sale. Han tries to listen, but all he can think is that this isn’t you. And no matter how many times he tells himself this is good, that it’s what moving on is supposed to look like, the truth sits heavy in his chest.
It doesn’t feel good at all.
-
Later that night, you sit cross-legged on your bed, laptop balanced against your thighs. The glow from the screen paints your room in cool blue light, the silence broken only by the tap of your keys. You try to focus—emails, drafts, schedules. Work. Something to anchor yourself.
The crunch of footsteps in the driveway, muffled laughter floating in through the thin walls. His laugh—bright, boyish, familiar—followed by a girl’s higher, softer tone.
The sounds shatter your focus but you don’t move, you keep your eyes glued to the half-written sentence on your screen, blinking hard as if staring at it long enough will make the sound outside fade away.
A door clicks, then shuts. More laughter. You grip the edge of your laptop a little too tightly, knuckles pale.
You tell yourself to ignore it because this is what you agreed to. This is what moving on looks like. He’s allowed this and you… you’re supposed to be happy for him.
So you inhale slowly, force your fingers back onto the keys, and type another line, but your mind doesn’t follow. It lingers outside, with him and the girl whose name you don’t know, wondering what she looks like, what she said to make him laugh like that.
You blink at your screen, realizing the words you just typed don’t make sense at all. With a groan, you backspace until the page is blank again, the cursor blinking like it’s mocking you.
In the end, you close the laptop, set it aside, and crawl under the covers. Eyes wide open in the dark, you press your face into the pillow, willing yourself to pretend you didn’t hear any of it.
-
The morning air still clings to your skin when you return from your run, a sheen of sweat coated your skin. As you stretch by the kitchen counter, your gaze slips toward the studio at the back of the house. The curtains are drawn tight, no sound leaking through the walls. No sign of him.
You shake it off, pour yourself a glass of water, and start breakfast. Still, while the toast is browning, your eyes drift back. Nothing.
Later, hunched over your laptop, typing replies to emails with a fork in hand, you catch yourself staring through the window once more, toward that silent space. It’s as if you expect movement—a shadow across the blinds, the muffled thump of music—but the quiet holds.
You huff a laugh at yourself, shaking your head. “Ridiculous,” you mutter to yourself.
You need a distraction so you open a new tab and pull up Felix’s latest songs. Just out of curiosity and who knows you’d change your mind on the second listen?
The track begins with that infamous low, throaty voice he’s known for, dripping in drama. You freeze, spoon halfway to your mouth.
“Bleurgh!” you groan, and hit pause immediately, groaning into your hands. Corny. So corny. The kind of faux-deep that makes your teeth ache.
You slam the laptop shut, deciding that you’d refuse to do the coverage than torture yourself any further. Instead, you head upstairs, shower, and pull on your work clothes, brushing the thought of both Felix and the quiet studio from your mind.
At least, you try.
-
Han’s halfway through a bowl of cereal when the studio door flies open. You stand there, flushed from the morning air, hair a little windswept, eyes alight with purpose.
“Come with me,” you announce.
Han blinks, spoon still in his mouth. “Uh—what?”
“Just come. You’re not doing anything, right?”
He looks around at the mess of sketchbooks and unfinished canvases. Nothing pressing. Nothing urgent. He shrugs, sets the bowl aside, and grabs his jacket. “Fine. But if this ends up being a pyramid scheme, I’m telling your mom.”
You roll your eyes and tug him out the door.
Minutes later, you’re dragging him through the aisles of a bookstore, straight to the newsstand. Han shoves his hands into his pockets, bemused. “You know, considering you literally work at a magazine, you could just, I don’t know—ask for a copy?”
You shoot him a look over your shoulder, eyes glinting. “Yeah, but where’s the fun in that?”
Before he can answer, you grab a fresh issue off the shelf, tear through the plastic, and toss a quick smile at the staff giving you a glare. “I’ll pay for it,” you assure her, then flip through the pages, searching.
Han watches as your fingers pause, then spread the magazine open. His eyes catch on the artwork immediately—his artwork—printed in crisp color, taking up half a page. He chuckles under his breath, shaking his head. “You dragged me out here for this?”
You grin, smug. “Told you you wouldn’t regret it.” With that, you hand the magazine to him and wander down the aisle to browse the other racks.
Han stays where he is, staring at the page. His drawings, yes—but your words wrapped around them, alive with that way you have of writing about music like it can be held, touched, breathed in. Like it’s more than sound—it’s something human, something real.
His chest tightens as he reads, memory tugging him backward: nights when the two of you sat side by side, the glow of your laptop screen next to the scratch of his pencils. You tapping away at an article, him sketching until his fingers smudged gray, the quiet broken only by your absentminded humming or his half-baked commentary. The easy companionship of working in parallel, lost in your own worlds but still together.
He runs a thumb over the glossy paper, tracing the curve of a line he drew, then lingers on the words you chose to frame it. Pride swells, but so does something else—something warmer, heavier.
A light tap on his shoulder snaps him out of it. He immediately turns, startled, to find a familiar face smiling back at him. Isla.
“Han,” she says warmly, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear.
“Oh—Hey, hi.” He blinks, caught off guard. “Wow, how are you doing?”
Isla sweetly smiles as she presses the book she’s holding to her chest. “I’m good. How about you?”
“I’m good, yeah,” Han scratches the back of his head, suddenly flustered. “So uh… what are you doing here?”
“Just looking for something new to read.” She lifts the book in her hand with a small shrug. “And you?”
Han hesitates, then turns the magazine around, showing her the page. “This.”
Her face lights up. “That’s your work?”
He nods, a little sheepish.
“You’re still working on your drawing series, then? It’s called The Bottlemen, am I right?” she asks, suddenly flustered.
The question surprises him almost as much as running into her. “You… remember that?”
“Of course,” she says easily. “You should keep going with it. It’s unique. Beautiful, really.”
Her words hang in the air a beat too long before she laughs nervously. “Sorry. That probably sounds corny.”
Han shakes his head, smiling despite himself. “No. I think—That’s very sweet of you.”
The compliment makes something twist in his chest, a pang of guilt. He hadn’t called her back after their date—not because it wasn’t good, but because it was easier to retreat into the comfort of you. Now, standing here, he feels the weight of it.
“I, uh…” He clears his throat. “I had fun that night. I’m sorry I didn’t call.”
Isla’s smile softens, kind and forgiving. “Me too. And it’s okay. I get it.”
Before Han can say more, your voice cuts through the aisle. “Are you just gonna stand there getting sentimental, or are you coming to pay for that?”
He flinches, snapping the magazine closed. Then you appear at the end of the row, curiosity sparking in your eyes as you take in the scene. You look at him before looking at Isla and back to him.
“Ah—this is Isla,” Han blurts, stepping slightly aside. “We, uh… we met a while back.”
To his surprise, Isla’s gaze shifts to you, recognition flickering. “Wait—you’re the one who writes those music reviews, right? I love the way you write. The way you describe sound—it’s incredible.”
You blink, startled, then smile warmly. “Thank you. That’s… really nice of you to say.”
Isla nods, shooting Han another quick smile before stepping back. “Well, I should get going. It was nice seeing you both. Bye.”
“Bye,” you echo, waving as she disappears around the corner.
The moment she’s gone, you turn to Han with raised brows. “Who was that?”
He shrugs, forcing nonchalance. “Well, I just introduced her to you.”
You huff a laugh, tilting your head. “I mean, yeah, but I need story.”
Han scratches the back of his neck, eyes darting to the “New Releases” table like it holds the answer. “She’s just… someone I met a while ago. That’s all.”
You nod easily, your grin quick and playful. “She’s pretty. Like a young me.”
Han chuckles under his breath, watching you walk off toward the register with the magazine tucked under your arm. He exhales slowly, the words he doesn’t say sitting heavy on his tongue, and follows after you.
From the end of the aisle, he pauses just long enough to see you plunk five copies of the same magazine onto the counter. The cashier raises a brow, and you beam proudly.
“I’m sharing it with my friends,” you announce, not caring who hears. “The music issue is excellent.”
The volume of your voice turns a couple of heads in the quiet bookstore, but you don’t seem to mind as long as you can freely promote your article. Han stays hidden half-behind a bookshelf, watching the way you chatter with the cashier, absolutely unbothered. His lips curve into a quiet chuckle he doesn’t even realize he’s holding back.
-
Han feels the bass still buzzing in his chest as the band wraps up, the noise of the crowd spilling into the night when he and Luke stumble out of the bar. The warm air hits them like a blanket, and they’re both lightheaded, laughing too loudly as they belt the chorus of some song completely off-key.
Luke throws an arm around Han’s shoulders, swaying with him like they’re college kids again. “After-party, bro!” Luke slurs, making exaggerated smoking gestures with his fingers. “C’mon, I got the good stuff.”
Han is about to nod, lips forming a half-drunk why not, when his phone buzzes in his jacket pocket. He fumbles it out, sees your name lighting up the screen, and without a second thought presses accept.
“Hey,” his voice is still rough from singing, but his tone softens instantly.
“Where are you right now?” you ask.
“Just got out of the bar,” Han answers, weaving a little on his feet. “It was great—band killed it tonight.”
You pause a beat, then ask, “Are you busy?”
Han doesn’t even hesitate. “Nope, not busy.”
Luke smacks his chest with the back of his hand, mouthing a dramatic what the hell, man?! but Han ignores him, straining to hear your voice over the city noise.
“I, um… I bought this dresser,” you say. “And I can’t do it alone. I need you.”
Those last words slip into him like a match catching flame. “Yeah,” Han blurts out, maybe too quickly. “Yeah, of course. I’m coming.”
He hangs up, tucks the phone back in his pocket, and turns to Luke, who’s staring at him in disbelief.
“Gotta head home,” Han explains, still stumbling as he starts walking away.
“What about the after-party?!” Luke protests, throwing his arms out.
“She’s alone,” Han says, his hands rising to make big, exaggerated quotation marks in the air, “and she needs me to ‘build’ a dresser.”
Luke squints at him, then bursts into laughter, pointing an accusing finger. “Ooh… someone getting some tonight. You’re getting some.”
Han grins, half-slurring his words, stumbling but walking with a strange confidence. “I told you, man. She only needs more time. I’ve got this.”
-
Han stumbles up your driveway, humming the last chorus of the song he and Luke were screaming at the bar. By the time he pushes open your front door, the tune has devolved into a full-blown off-key performance.
“I said ooooh, I’m blinded by the liiights—”
The sight that greets him makes him lose his place: you, sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, an open bottle of wine half-empty beside you, surrounded by boards, screws, and crumpled instruction papers. The so-called dresser looks more like a collapsed tent than a piece of furniture.
You look up at him, cheeks flushed, lips in a dramatic pout. “This thing hates me. I swear it’d be easier to build the London Bridge.”
You pour more wine into your glass and lean against the couch. “Fuck Sweden, man!”
Han can’t help but laugh, his gummy smile breaking across his face. He kicks off his shoes and crouches down beside the wreckage, eyeing the mess of mismatched boards and lopsided screws.
“It’s just a dresser,” he says, waving your words away with drunken bravado. “I’ve got this.”
Your eyes narrow, though amusement curls at the edges. “Famous last words.”
Han grabs the instruction manual, flips it upside down, then right-side up again, pretending to study it with utter seriousness. His head is still buzzing from the bar, but the warmth of your wine-flushed face and the way you’re watching him makes his chest thrum harder than the alcohol ever could.
It doesn’t take long until Han experiences your struggle. He squints at the half-folded manual in his hands, the tiny diagrams swimming in front of his eyes. “Why do they even sell furniture that requires a college degree to assemble?” he mutters, tossing the booklet over his shoulder like it personally offended him.
From the couch, you burst out laughing, clutching your glass of wine as you watch him struggle with two identical boards that don’t seem to belong anywhere. “Because they want to test your patience. And clearly, you’re failing.”
“Failing?” Han scoffs, wobbling a little as he tries to line up two screws with the wrong holes. “No, no, no. I’m innovating. This dresser… is about to be the Tesla of furniture.”
You howl at that, nearly spilling your wine, and the sound makes Han grin even wider. He abandons the screws, grabs a random board, and props it up like a makeshift wing. “See? It doesn’t need drawers. It needs… imagination.”
Another glass of wine disappears into you, and Han starts humming again as he works, only now he’s building something entirely different—more abstract sculpture than dresser. “Look at this beauty,” he declares proudly, holding up what looks suspiciously like a crooked shelf balanced on uneven legs.
You’re laughing so hard you’ve curled onto your side on the couch, glass raised in mock toast. “To the world’s first anti-dresser.”
Han bows, dramatically, wiping fake sweat from his brow. He can feel the dizziness of the bar mixing with the cozy haze of wine, but more than that, he feels the warmth of this—your laughter, the easy glow of the lamp, the way it feels like nothing has changed and so he keeps going, determined to finish his masterpiece.
A long moment later, Han stretches his arms wide as if presenting a masterpiece at an exhibition. The "dresser" now stands in front of you both—a lopsided structure with extra panels sticking out, screws poking at odd angles, and a top piece that looks suspiciously like a head.
“It’s not a dresser,” Han declares proudly, wine glass raised in salute. “It’s a robot. My son.”
You nearly spit out your sip of wine, giggling as you scoot closer on the couch. “Your son looks like he’s been through war.”
Han gasps dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest. “How dare you! He’s sensitive.”
You grin at him, cheeks warm from the wine. “What’s his name?”
Together, you sit there tossing out increasingly ridiculous suggestions—Mr. Wobbly, Sir Screwsalot, Captain Collapse—until finally, you say one that makes Han freeze.
“He’s from Sweden so he needs a Swedish name,” you suggest, bringing your wine glass close to your lips as you think hard. “How about Stellan Koontz-smith… Hanson?”
He repeats it softly before cooing, “Aww… I think that’s cute.”
You laugh, leaning toward him, and with a playful smile you reach out and gently poke his cheek. “No,” you counter, voice dropping just a little, “you’re much much cuter.”
Han blinks at you, suddenly very aware of the warmth of your finger against his skin, of how close you’re sitting. His chest tightens, though he doesn’t move—doesn’t even breathe.
Your eyes meet his, and for a heartbeat, neither of you look away. The world narrows down to your flushed cheeks, your lips parted like you’re on the verge of saying something—or maybe not saying anything at all.
Han doesn’t know who leans in first. All he knows is the soft press of your mouth against his, hesitant, testing, sweet. His pulse skips, and before he can stop himself, a chuckle tumbles out of him against your lips.
You laugh too, your forehead brushing his, both of you tasting of wine and nostalgia. For a moment, it feels like the kind of kiss two kids would share behind a school gym, shy and giddy.
Then your eyes lock again, breath mingling, and without thinking, you both lean in once more. The kiss this time is hungrier, needier, colliding with more urgency, as though months—years—of holding back are cracking open at once.
Han’s glass slips from his hand onto the rug as his fingers instinctively find your waist, pulling you closer. Your laughter melts into a hum against his mouth, and suddenly the makeshift robot isn’t the only thing in the room about to fall apart.
-
The kiss deepens, but this time it doesn’t stumble. It lingers. Your mouths fit together like they never stopped knowing how, and for the first time in a long time, Han lets himself stop pretending that this isn’t what he’s wanted.
You climb into his lap with a soft, surprised laugh, your wine glass abandoned on the coffee table. His hands slip under your blouse, palms splaying over your waist like he’s relearning you, tracing every familiar curve.
When you tug his sweater off, Han doesn’t resist. It lands somewhere on the floor, and he finds himself staring at you in the low light, chest rising and falling too fast. He should say something. He should stop this. Instead, his fingers hook in the hem of your shirt, pausing just long enough for your small nod before he pulls it over your head.
You sit there, bare from the waist up, hair mussed, lips swollen, eyes hazy from wine and want. Han swallows hard. It’s not just desire—it’s reverence. It hits him all over again how much he’s missed this. Missed you.
“You’re staring,” you whisper, a shy smile tugging at your mouth.
“Yeah,” Han murmurs back, almost dazed. “I forgot how beautiful you are.”
Your smile falters into something softer. You cup his jaw, thumb brushing over his cheek, and he leans into it like he’s starving. Then you lean down, kissing him slow, tender, deliberate.
The rest of your clothes come off piece by piece, each one tugged away with quiet urgency but also hesitation—as if both of you need to admire the other again, to remember. Han drags his fingers down your sides, memorizing skin he never really forgot, while you unbuckle his belt, pausing to look up at him, waiting. He nods, breathless, and you slide it free, exposing his cock that is already swollen, the tip glistening with precum.
By the time you’re both bare, neither of you are laughing anymore. The air feels heavy, weighted with years of love and loss and something that never quite burned out. You straddle him again, and Han’s hands grip your thighs, his eyes locked on yours.
“Are we really doing this?” he playfully asks but he can’t mask the trembling in his voice.
Instead of answering, you lean down, kissing him with a tenderness that breaks him open. Slow. Deep. Certain.
Han can’t stop kissing you either. Your lips, your jaw, your throat, on each swell of your breasts—everywhere he can reach. Each kiss grows hotter, deeper, until he’s no longer content with you hovering above him. With a sudden shift, he grips your waist and flips you onto your back, pressing you down into the couch cushions with his weight. You gasp, half surprised, half thrilled, your fingers instinctively curling into his hair.
Han hovers above you, his forehead against yours, his breath ragged. “Is this okay?” he murmurs, his voice low, trembling with restraint.
The way you nod, the way your thighs part just enough to pull him in closer—it wrecks him.
“Fuck,” Han groans, kissing you again, slower this time, savoring it. His hands slide down your sides, spreading your legs wider until he settles between them, his hips pressing against yours.
He rubs his length between your slick folds, slow and deliberate, and your soft moan nearly undoes him.
“Missed that sound,” he mutters against your skin before trailing kisses down your throat, his tongue teasing, his teeth nipping just enough to make you shiver.
When he finally pushing his cock into you, the both of you gasp, clutching each other as though to anchor yourselves. Han stills, pressing his face into your neck, overwhelmed by how right it feels, how easily your body still remembers his.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes searching your face. Searching for you permission. Instead of answering him with words, you pull him down for another kiss, desperate and deep.
That’s all the permission he needs.
Han starts moving slowly, rolling his hips with careful precision, making sure you feel every inch of him. Each thrust is unhurried but heavy, pulling quiet gasps and whimpers from your lips. He holds your wrists above your head with one hand, the other roaming over your body, tracing curves like he’s memorizing you all over again.
Your back arches, pressing your chest against his, and he ducks down to take your nipple into his mouth, teasing with his tongue until you writhe beneath him. He grins against your skin, breathless.
“Still sensitive here,” he murmurs, voice rough, before trailing back up to kiss you again.
The pace builds, slow but sure, the kind of rhythm that makes every thrust linger. Your moans mix with his groans, filling the room with heat and history and something dangerously close to love.
“Look at me,” Han whispers, his forehead pressed to yours, his thrusts deep and steady. When your eyes meet his, it feels like the years apart vanish. You’re his again, even if just for this moment.
Your climax builds slowly, winding tight, until you’re trembling beneath him, gasping his name like a prayer. He doesn’t let up, doesn’t let you look away, thrusting harder as he chases his own release.
When it finally hits, it’s overwhelming—your walls clenching around him, his groan muffled against your lips as he spills into you, holding you impossibly close as though afraid you’ll disappear the second it ends.
And afterward, when you collapse against his chest, sweaty and trembling, Han presses a kiss to your temple, his voice raw when he whispers against your hair:
“God, I missed you.”
-
You wake slowly, a heavy ache pressing behind your eyes, your body sore in ways that only remind you of last night. Before you can fully stir, you feel it—Han’s lips ghosting soft, lazy kisses along your chest, your collarbone, the curve of your neck. A quiet hum slips from him, like he’s content in this private little ritual.
Your lashes flutter open, vision hazy, and in a sleepy voice you murmur, “Hey, what are you doing?”
Han’s grin is playful, his lips brushing your skin again. “Trying not to wake you with my kisses.”
And just like that, it all comes rushing back—the wine, the laughter, the robot dresser, the way his body felt pressed against yours, inside you.
You scramble upright, clutching the blanket to your chest, realizing with a jolt that you’re both completely naked under it. The air feels too sharp, too real. You run a hand through your tangled hair, your heart racing with the weight of regret.
“That was a bad idea,” you mutter, the words heavy, sharp with guilt. “I’m so sorry.”
Han doesn’t flinch. He only shifts closer, burrowing against your side, his arm draped lazily across your waist. He presses a kiss to your bare shoulder as though nothing’s wrong.
“Don’t be sorry,” he murmurs. “This is nice.”
Then he tilts his face up to steal another kiss from your lips.
You push at his chest gently, breaking the contact, your voice low but firm. “Han, come on. We were drinking, the dresser and… you’re seeing other people.”
That finally makes him pause. He leans back just enough to study you, the playfulness fading. For a moment, it looks like he’s about to say something—some excuse, some denial. But then he exhales sharply, runs his hand roughly through his hair, and groans.
“Oh, yeah, I’m an idiot.”
Before you can respond, he’s pushing away, standing, fumbling for his clothes scattered on the floor. You stay curled under the blanket, clutching it tighter against your chest, your pulse hammering as you watch him yank on his jeans like every movement is fueled by frustration.
“I wasn’t clearly thinking,” you explain, your voice softer, desperate. “And if I was, I wouldn’t let that happen… and you know, I didn’t even think we were getting back together.”
The words hit him like a slap. His jaw tightens, and he doesn’t look at you as he pulls on his shirt, movements rough and clipped.
“You know, there’s an Ikea guy you can call,” he snaps, shoving his arms into his jacket. “He’ll help you build the dresser—and he’d probably fuck you too.”
“Han—” You reach out, your voice a plea, trying to calm the storm in his tone, but he’s already moving.
“Fucking. Fuck… fucking idiot!” He curses under his breath, grabs his jacket fully, and heads for the door without glancing back.
“Han, come on. Just wait—”
But it’s useless. The door shuts hard behind him, leaving you alone on the couch, clutching the blanket to shield yourself from the cold morning air and the sudden, aching emptiness he’s left behind.
-
Work feels like a blur. You sit at your desk with your laptop open, eyes fixed on the glowing screen, but nothing sticks. Every line of text you read shifts into fragments of last night—Han’s mouth on yours, his laugh as he tossed the instruction manual aside, the way he kissed your shoulder this morning, soft and gentle.
And then — the way he looked at you after. The sharp edge in his voice. The door slamming behind him.
You rub at your temple, trying to will it away, but the uneasiness clings stubbornly to your chest.
A knock at the side of your cubicle snaps you back. Chris stands there, his hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket. His expression is light but laced with that older-brother kind of concern.
“Your flight’s in four hours,” he reminds you. “You should head home, pack, shower, whatever you need. Don’t cut it too close.”
You blink at him, your mouth opening like you might say something else—like you might unload everything swirling in your head right now. About Han. About the night you wish you could rewind and undo. But the clock is ticking, and there’s no space for long confessions.
So instead, you swallow the words and just nod. “Right. Thanks, Chris.”
He gives you a small smile, one that lingers like he knows you’re not okay, but he doesn’t press. “Safe flight,” he says simply, and disappears down the hall.
When you get home, the house feels too quiet. You set your bag down, tugging at the zipper of your suitcase, but something compels you to move—your feet carrying you straight out the back door.
You push the door open to Han’s studio, expecting to see the familiar chaos: sketchbooks piled on the table, pens scattered, the faint smell of coffee that always clung to the air.
Except that it’s empty. The walls are bare, the table cleared, every trace of him gone.
Your throat tightens as you grip the doorframe, staring at the hollow space where his life once spilled out in color and paper. He didn’t tell you. He just… left.
On the ride to the airport, you can’t stop yourself—you pull out your phone, tapping his contact. The call doesn’t even ring; it goes straight to voicemail. You press the phone closer to your ear anyway, your voice trembling with the weight of what you don’t know how to say.
“Hey, um… I’m on my way to the airport,” you start. “I wanted to talk to you. I don’t know what happened last night, but uh… I hope you’re okay.”
You hesitate, biting down on your lip, wishing you could take more time, find the right words. But the car rolls on, the city blurring outside your window.
“Please call me,” you add quietly, before hanging up.
Unease curls deep in your chest, heavy and suffocating, as you stare out at the skyline slipping away behind you. The farther you get, the worse it feels, like you’re leaving something unfinished—something fragile you can’t patch once it’s broken.
-
It’s been five days of moving from meeting to meeting, smiling, nodding, working—at least on the surface. But underneath, Han has been there the whole time, lingering in the corners of your mind.
You try calling him between appointments, thumbing his name on your phone screen as if the sheer repetition might finally make him pick up, but each time it’s the same—straight to voicemail.
By the time night falls, you’re back in your hotel room, shoes kicked off, hair undone, the silence pressing in too close. You sit on the edge of the bed, phone in hand, debating whether to try again.
You do and when voicemail picks up, you let out a small laugh, one that’s more hollow than amused. “Hey. It’s me again.” You pause, biting your lip. “I’m coming home tomorrow. I… I miss you. Call me, okay?”
You hang up, your thumb hovering over the screen as if you could undo it, but it’s done. The message is floating somewhere in the digital void now, waiting for him.
With a sigh, you set the phone aside and glance out at the skyline. Cars snake through the streets far below, people moving about their lives with no idea how your heart feels split open.
And your head—God, your head won’t stop replaying everything. The way you pushed him away that morning. The sharpness in his voice as he dressed. The anger in his eyes when he left. And your own words—careless, defensive—echoing back at you now, sounding so much worse than they did in the moment.
You bury your face in your hands, groaning softly. You should’ve handled it differently, shouldn’t have let the wine blur your judgment, should’ve told him the truth—that it scared you, not that it was a mistake.
But still, a stubborn part of you clings to hope. You and Han, you’ve always found a way back to each other. Through college, through fights, through every stumble and pause in between. You convince yourself this is no different. You’ll go home tomorrow. You’ll talk. You’ll fix it. You always do.
And yet, as you lie back against the stiff hotel pillows, staring up at the ceiling, the uneasiness lingers—like maybe this time, you’re not so sure.
-
The taxi pulls away, leaving you with your suitcase at your feet and the familiar sight of your house in front of you. You’re bone-tired from the trip, but the second your phone buzzes in your pocket, everything in you jolts awake. His name lights up the screen and your heart leaps to your throat as you swipe to answer. “Han?”
“Hey, heard you came home today,” his voice comes through, rough but steady.
For the first time in a week, the tension in your chest eases. A wave of relief washes over you so strong you almost laugh. “God, finally. Yeah—it’s me. I just got back. Literally just stepped out of the taxi.” You push your suitcase up the walkway with one hand, balancing the phone against your ear.
“Are you home now?” he asks. There’s something weighted in his tone, but you’re too caught up in the joy of hearing him to press it just yet.
“Yeah, just walking inside,” you say, juggling your keys, dragging your bag over the threshold. The house smells faintly of dust, the quiet pressing in around you. “I missed you, Han. I wanted to—”
He cuts in, not unkindly. “I need to talk to you.”
Your breath catches, but you don’t hesitate. “Good. Because I need to talk to you too. It’s been a week, and I… I have so much to share with you.” You drop your suitcase by the wall and sink onto the arm of the couch, clinging to the phone as if it’s tethering you to him.
There’s a beat of silence before he says, “I’m on the way to your house right now.”
The words land like sunlight breaking through. You close your eyes, the corner of your lips tugging upward despite everything. “Okay,” you whisper, then stronger, warmer, “I’ll be waiting.”
And as the call ends, you sit there for a long moment, staring at the phone in your hand, heart thudding with a mix of nerves and hope.
-
The groceries you ordered came around the same time Han steps into the house. You line up jars, tuck vegetables into drawers, fill the fridge like you’ve done a thousand times, talking the whole while about the events you covered on your trip—the bands, the late nights, the energy of it all.
Han leans against the kitchen island, quiet, letting you ramble. That’s his thing—always listening, always soaking in your words like they matter.
Until he interrupts, saying. “I really got something to tell you.”
You freeze, cereal box in hand, and glance at him. His face is too serious. Too still.
Setting the box down, you cross your arms and stand across from him with the kitchen island between you. The distance feels sharper than it should. “Okay. You have my full attention now.” You reach out across the counter, grab his hands, trying to soften the moment. “Wait. Are you gay? Please tell me you’re gay, cause that’d be funny.”
His lips twitch in a quick chuckle, but it fades fast. “Nah. Not gay.”
The heaviness returns to his features, his eyes dropping before lifting to yours again. “This is going to be hard to believe…”
You cut in without thinking. “That… you’re going on another date?”
But the answer that comes isn’t even on your list of possibilities.
“I’m having a baby.”
The laugh that spills out of you is sharp, nervous, meant to break the tension—but it falters, empties out of your chest the second you see he isn’t joking. “Huh?”
Han inhales air before he says it again. “I’m having a baby.”
The floor tilts beneath you. You grip the edge of the counter to steady yourself. “What—What do you mean?”
“I’m having a child.”
It’s like ice water pouring down your spine. Your voice cracks as you spit out the obvious question. “With uh… with another person?”
He nods. “Yes. With another person.”
You stumble back a step, heart hammering, vision narrowing around him. “Wait, what? What the fuck?!”
The words echo too loud in the kitchen. You can’t stop them, can’t stop the way your chest tightens until it hurts to breathe. You push air out of your lungs, force yourself to think, to connect the dots. “With who?”
Han’s voice is careful, apologetic. “You actually met her the other day. At the bookstore.”
Your mind reels. The bookstore? Two weeks ago. Isla. The name slams into you like a blow.
“But that was two weeks ago,” you choke out, confusion and betrayal tangling together. “That’s not possible.”
“I—The truth is…” Han stammers, scratching the back of his neck, eyes darting anywhere but you. “I slept with her like three months ago.”
Three months. Your ears ring. All you can remember is the night he told you about the date—the one you thought was recent, harmless. Your stomach flips violently.
“Shit, I don’t know about that but—fuck, that’s not important right now.” Your hand presses to your forehead, trying to keep the pressure from caving you in. You suck in a sharp breath, force yourself to focus. “What do you need me to do?”
His brow furrows, genuine confusion on his face. “Oh, no. You don’t have to do anything.”
For a second, hope stirs—maybe he needs advice, support, maybe this is still fixable. But then his eyes meet yours, and his voice drops like a weight:
“I really want to make it work with her.”
Your chest caves in on itself as if all of the air disappears from your lungs. You blink, hard, but the sting behind your eyes rises anyway. The world is crumbling beneath your feet, and the one person who’s always caught you before is the one letting you fall this time.
You force the words out, barely above a whisper. “Excuse me for a second.”
And before he can see your face crack open, before he can watch the dam burst, you spin on your heel and walk away as fast as your legs will carry you.
The second you’re hidden from his sight, the sob breaks free. It tears through your throat, unstoppable. You press your fist to your mouth to muffle it, but the tears spill hot and fast, your chest heaving as the ache inside you turns unbearable.
Han’s voice still lingers in your ears—I really want to make it work with her—and it feels like every beat of your heart is breaking itself against those words.
You lean against the wall, pressing your hands to your eyes, trying to steady yourself, trying to find something—anything—to anchor you. But every memory you touch burns: the car rides, the quiet mornings, the laughter that used to fill this house like sunlight. And now, the silence feels cruel, as if the walls themselves are mocking you for believing things could ever be simple.
It hits you, sharper than before, that you don’t just love Han. You’ve built pieces of yourself around him—your routines, your memories, your sense of home. And now, in one breath, he’s carved a canyon between you, filling it with a future that doesn’t have you in it.
Tears blur your vision until you can’t see the outlines of the room. You swipe them away, angry at yourself for crying but unable to stop. You stay there until your body is too tired to keep trembling, until your breaths slow into shallow hiccups, until the wet patches on your sleeves dry against your skin.
Even when you finally stop crying and calm yourself down. Your chest still aches and the thought clings to you, bitter and small:
We were supposed to be forever.
And for the first time, you’re terrified that forever really is over.
-
✨ FOREVER: CHAPTER TWO is available on Patreon ✨
Please support my writings by kindly reblog, comment or tip me on my ko-fi!
I WAS OFF OF TUMBLR FOR ONE WEEKEND AND YOU DECIDED YOU’D CRUSH MY SOUL??????
ANOTHER WOMAN IS PREGNANT?????
I can’t put up in words how that’s a betrayal like, if they loved each each other so much, they want to see how much their love would be melted into a new human being BUT NOOOOOOOOO
GOT FUNCKING ISLA PREGNANT, I don’t even remember her name right now, me heart is broken AMD HE WANTS TO MAKE IT WORK WITH HER?!?!?!?
I got that “y/n” was very cruel, won’t defend her, but
MY SOUL IS SHATTERED!!!
I’m so ready for chap 2!
*breathing deeply*
Thank you for always sharing your write with us. I absolutely love how you get the readers involved. I swear, it’s not because I love SKZ and it’s fanfiction, you could have any name instead of Han and I would still read your work religiously. 🤍
gracieabrams
2087
romaincrisis
origamiaround
izzy806
tangentwithtanner
jimmyeatworldofficial
germansingergirl
